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Madame Flirt

by Charles Edward Pearce · English · Gutenberg #18547 · 445,057 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Madame Flirt

Author: Charles Edward Pearce


        
Release date: June 10, 2006 [eBook #18547]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18547

Credits: Produced by Michael Ciesielski, Martin Pettit and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADAME FLIRT ***




Produced by Michael Ciesielski, Martin Pettit and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






                          MADAME FLIRT


                          A ROMANCE OF
                      "THE BEGGAR'S OPERA"

                               BY

                        CHARLES E. PEARCE

                _"Why how now Madam Flirt"--Lucy._


                            AUTHOR OF

   "STIRRING DEEDS IN THE GREAT WAR," "A QUEEN OF THE PADDOCK,"
                     "CORINTHIAN JACK," ETC.

                             LONDON
                       STANLEY PAUL & CO.
                31, ESSEX STREET, STRAND, W.C.2.

_Printed in Great Britain at the Athenæum Printing Works, Redhill_

                     FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1922.




CHAPTER I

"IF YOUR NAME ISN'T POLLY IT OUGHT TO BE"


"As pretty a wench as man ever clapped eyes on. Wake up, Lance, and look
at her."

The portly man of genial aspect sitting in the corner of the bow window
of the Maiden Head Inn at the High Street end of Dyott Street in the
very heart of St. Giles, clapped his sleeping friend on the shoulder and
shook him. The sleeper, a young man whose finely drawn features were
clouded with the dregs of wine, muttered something incoherently, and
with an impatient twist shifted his body in the capacious arm-chair.

"Let him alone, Mr. Gay. When a man's in his cups he's best by himself.
'Twill take him a day's snoring to get rid of his bout. The landlord
here tells me he walked with the mob from Newgate to Tyburn and back and
refreshed himself at every tavern on the way, not forgetting, I warrant
you, to fling away a guinea at the Bowl, the Lamb, and the 'Black Jack'
over yonder, and drink to the long life of the daring rogue in the cart
and the health of the hangman to boot."

"Long life indeed, my lord. A couple of hours at most. Not that the
length of life is to be measured by years. I don't know but what it's
possible to cram one's whole existence into a few hours, thanks to that
thief of time," rejoined John Gay pointing to the bottle on the table.

The poet's placid face saddened. John Gay had always taken life as a
pleasure, but there is no pleasure without pain as he had come to
discover. Maybe at that moment a recollection of his follies gave his
conscience a tinge. Of Gay it might be said that he had no enemies other
than himself.

"Oh, the passing hour is the best doubtless, since we never know whether
the next may not be the worst," laughed Henry St. John, Lord
Bolingbroke. "I'll wager Jack Sheppard's best was when the noose was
round his neck. The rascal will trouble nervous folks no more. After all
he was of some use. See that drunken rabble. But for the brave show he
made at Tyburn yesterday, would those ladies and gentlemen be merry
making, think you, and would the tavern keepers and the gin sellers be
putting money in their pockets?"

Gay turned his eyes to the open window.

"I don't want to think of the rascally knave or the rabble either. My
thoughts are on yonder pretty little jade. Look for yourself,
Bolingbroke. You're not so insensible to beauty as Lance Vane is at this
moment."

"Faith, I hope not. Where's the charmer?" said Bolingbroke walking to
the window.

"Stay. She's going to sing. She has the voice of a nightingale. I've
heard her before. Lord! to think she has to do it for a living!"

"Humph. She has courage. Most girls would die rather than rub shoulders
with that frousy, bestial, drunken mob."

"Aye, but that little witch subdues them all with her voice. What says
Will Congreve? Music has charms to soothe a savage breast? Listen."

A girl slight in figure but harmoniously proportioned had placed herself
about two yards from the bow window. She fixed her eyes on Gay and her
pretty mouth curved into a smile. Then she sang. The ditty was "Cold and
Raw," a ballad that two hundred years ago or so, never failed to delight
everybody from the highest to the lowest. She gave it with natural
feeling and without any attempt at display. The voice was untrained but
this did not matter. It was like the trill of a bird, sweet, flexible
and pure toned.

"A voice like that ought not to be battered about. It's meant for
something better than bawling to a mob. What says your lordship?"

Bolingbroke's face had become grave, almost stern. His high, somewhat
narrow, slightly retreating forehead, long nose and piercing eyes lent
themselves readily to severity. Twenty-five years before it was not so.
He was then the gayest of the gay and in the heyday of his career. Much
had happened since then. Disappointed political ambitions and political
flirtations with the Jacobite party had ended in exile in France, from
which, having been pardoned, he had not long returned.

Meeting Gay, the latter suggested a prowl in St. Giles, where life was
in more than its usual turmoil consequent upon the execution of Jack
Sheppard; so Viscount Bolingbroke revisited the slums of St. Giles,
which had been the scene of many an orgy in his hot youth.

The nobleman returned no answer to Gay's question. His thoughts had gone
back to his early manhood when he took his pleasure wherever he found
it. In some of his mad moods St. Giles was more to his taste than St.
James's. So long as the face was beautiful, and the tongue given to
piquant raillery, any girl was good enough for him. He was of the time
when a love intrigue was a necessary part of a man's life, and not
infrequently of a woman's too.

Successful lover though he had been he was not all conquering. The
ballad singer's tender liquid tones carried his memory back to the
low-born girl with the laughing eyes who had captured his heart. She
sold oranges about the door of the Court of Requests, she sang ballads
in the street, she was a little better than a light of love, yet
Bolingbroke could never claim her as his own. It angered him sorely
that she had a smile for others. But he bore her no malice, or he would
hardly have written his poetical tribute commencing:--


     "Dear, thoughtless Clara, to my verse attend,
      Believe for once the lover and the friend."


So Gay's words were unheeded. A heavy step sounded on the sanded floor.
A big man with features formed on an ample mould had entered. Gay was
entranced by the singer and did not hear him. The newcomer stood
silently behind the poet. He too, was listening intently.

The girl's voice died into a cadence. Gay beckoned to her and she came
up to the window.

"Finely sung, Polly," cried Gay. "Who taught thee, child?"

"I taught myself, sir," said she dropping a curtsey.

"Then you had a good teacher. There's a crown for you."

"Oh sir ... it's too much."

"Nay, Polly--if your name isn't Polly it ought to be. What does your
mother call you?"

"Mostly an idle slut, sir."

Her face remained unmoved save her eyes, which danced with sly
merriment.


The men at the window burst into a roar of laughter. He who had entered
last laughed the loudest and deepest, and loud and deep as was that
laugh it was full of music. At its sound Gay turned sharply.

"What? Dick Leveridge? You've come at the right moment. We need someone
who knows good music when he hears it. What of this pretty child's
voice. Is it good?"

"Is it good? I'll answer your question, Mr. Gay, by asking you another.
Are you good at verses?"

"'Tis said my 'Fables' will be pretty well. The young Prince William
will have the dedication of it and if his mother, the Princess of Wales
approves, methinks my fortune's made," cried Gay buoyantly.

"Glad to hear it," replied Leveridge, dryly. "If I know anything about
His Royal Highness you'll gain a fortune sooner by writing a ballad or
two for this pretty songster. Make her famous as you made me with 'All
in the Downs' and 'T'was when the seas were roaring.'"

Gay's face brightened.

"Faith, Dick, you've set my brain working. I'll think on't, but that
means I must keep my eye on the wench."

"Oh, I'll trust you for that," rejoined Leveridge, the ghost of a smile
flitting across his solemn visage.

Meanwhile the girl had retreated a yard or two from the window, her gaze
fixed wistfully on Gay and Leveridge. She knew from their looks that she
was the subject of their talk.

Gay turned from his friend Richard Leveridge, the great bass singer of
the day, and rested his hands on the window sill. Bolingbroke had sunk
into his chair, and buried in his thoughts, was slowly sipping his wine.
Lancelot Vane continued to breathe heavily.

"Come here, child," said Gay through the open window and sinking his
voice. The crowd had pressed round her and were clamourous for her to
sing again. Some had thrown her a few pence for which a couple of
urchins were groping on the ground.

The girl approached.

"Now Polly----"

"My name's Lavinia--Lavinia Fenton, sir," she interrupted.

"Too fine--too fine. I like Polly better. Never mind. If it's Lavinia,
Lavinia it must be. What's your mother? Where does she live?"

"At the coffee house in Bedfordbury."

"Does she keep it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what do _you_ do?"

"Wait on the customers--sometimes."

"And sometimes you sing in the streets--round the taverns, eh?"

"Only when mother drives me out."

"Oh. She ill treats you, does she? That bruise on your shoulder--was it
her work?"

The girl nodded.

"You wouldn't mind if you left your mother and did nothing but sing?"

"Oh, that would be joy," cried the girl squeezing her hands tightly
together to stifle her emotions. "But how can I?"

"It may be managed, perhaps. I must see your mother----"

He was interrupted by a deafening roar--hoarse, shrill, raucous,
unmistakably drunken. A huge, ragged multitude had poured into the High
Street from St. Martin's Lane, jostling, fighting, cursing, eager for
devilment, no matter what. They rushed to the hostelries, they
surrounded the street sellers of gin, demanding the fiery poisonous
stuff for which they had no intention of paying.

The landlord of the "Maiden Head" hurried into the room somewhat
perturbed.

"Best shut the window, gentlemen," said he. "This vile scum's none too
nice. Anything it wants it'll take without so much as by your leave, or
with your leave."

"What does it mean, landlord?" asked Bolingbroke.

"Oh's all over Jack Sheppard. The people are mad about the rascal just
because the turnkeys couldn't hold him, nor prison walls for the matter
o' that. He was clever in slipping out o' prison I grant ye. Well, sirs,
his body was to be handed over to the surgeons like the rest o' the
Tyburn gentry, but his friends would have none of it. A bailiff somehow
got hold of the corpse to make money out of it--trust them sharks for
_that_ when they see a chance--an' smuggled it to his house in Long
Acre. It got wind afore many hours was past and the mob broke into the
place, the Foot Guards was called out an' there's been no end of a
rumpus."

"Faith, my poor Gay," said Bolingbroke with a sardonic smile, "the
people make more fuss over a burglar than over a ballad maker. And
what's become of the noble Sheppard's body, landlord?"

"It's hidden somewhere. They say as it'll be buried to-night in St.
Martin's Churchyard. So the people'll get their way after all."

"As they mostly do if they make noise enough," rejoined Bolingbroke
refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff.

"Yes, your honour, and----"

The sound of a loud high pitched, strident voice floated into the room
through the open window. Gay, whose eyes had never shifted from the girl
outside, saw her cheeks suddenly blanch. She looked round hurriedly like
a frightened rabbit seeking a way of escape.

"Bring the girl in, landlord," exclaimed the poet hastily. "She'll come
to harm else. Lord! Look at those drunken beasts. No--no"--the landlord
was about to shut the latticed windows--"run to the door, child. Quick."

A howling sottish mob mad with drink, clamouring, gesticulating, men and
women jostling each other, embracing vulgarly, their eyes glassy, their
faces flushed, was approaching the inn.

The mob was headed by a handsome woman. She was in the plenitude of
fleshly charms. Her dress, disordered, showed her round solidly built
shoulders, her ample bust. Some day unless her tastes and her manner of
life altered she would end in a bloway drab, every vestige of beauty
gone in masses of fat. But at that moment she was the model of a
reckless Bacchante, born for the amusement and aggravation of man.

Her maddening eyes were directed on the Maiden Head inn. Her full lips
were parted in a harsh boisterous laugh; her white teeth gleamed; the
blood ran riot in her veins; she was the embodiment of exuberant,
semi-savage, animal life. She danced up to the open window. The sight of
the sleeping Lance Vane had drawn her thither.

Up to that moment Lavinia Fenton's back was towards the woman. Lavinia
tried to get away without notice, but the Bacchante's escort was too
numerous, too aggressive, too closely packed. They hoped for some fun
after their own tastes.

"Mercy on me," muttered Gay apprehensively, "that impudent hussy, Sally
Salisbury. And drunk too. This means trouble. Dick," he whispered
hurriedly to Leveridge, "you can use your fists if need be. I've seen
you have a set-to in Figg's boxing shed. That girl's in danger. Sally's
bent on mischief. There's murder in her eyes. Come with me."

Leveridge nodded and followed his friend out of the room.

Gay's action was none too prompt. No sooner had Sally
Salisbury--destined to be, a few years later, the most notorious woman
of her class--set eyes on the girl than her brows were knitted and her
lips and nostrils went white. Her cheeks on the other hand blazed with
fury. She gripped the shrinking girl and twisted her round. Then she
thrust her face within a few inches of Lavinia's.

"What do you mean by coming here, you squalling trollop?" she screamed.
"How dare you poach on my ground, you----"

How Sally finished the sentence can be very well left to take care of
itself.

Lavinia despite her terror of the beautiful virago never lost her
self-control.

"You're welcome to this ground every inch of it, but I suppose I've as
much right to walk on it as you have," said she.

"Don't talk to me, you little trull, or you'll drive me to tear your
eyes out. Take that."

With the back of her disengaged hand she struck the girl's cheek.




CHAPTER II

"GO YOUR OWN WAY YOU UNGRATEFUL MINX"


The mob roared approval at the prospect of a fight, and though the
combatants were unfairly matched some of the ruffians urged the girl to
retaliate.

"Go for her hair, little un," one shouted. "There's plenty of it. Once
you get a fair hold and tear out a handful she'll squeak, I'll warrant."

The advice was not taken and maybe nobody expected it would be. Anyway,
before Sally could renew the attack her arm was seized by a man, slight
in stature and with a naturally humorous expression on his lean narrow
face and in his bright twinkling eyes.

"Enough of this brawling, mistress. If you _must_ fight choose someone
as big and as strong as yourself, not a lambkin."

The crowd knew him and whispers went round. "That's Spiller--Jemmy
Spiller the famous play actor." "No, is it though. Lord, he can make
folks laugh--ah, split their sides a'most. I see him last Saturday at
Master Rich's theayter in the Fields, and I thought I should ha' died."

Spiller was better at making people laugh than at holding an infuriated
woman. But he had two friends with him, stalwart butchers from Clare
Market, and he turned the task over to them with the remark that they
were used to handling mad cattle.

At this point Gay and Leveridge forced their way through the crowd. Gay
saw the red angry mark on the girl's pallid face and guessed the cause.
He drew her gently to him.

"Run inside the house. I'll join you presently," he whispered.

She thanked him with her eyes and vanished. Gay turned to Spiller.

"You deserve a double benefit at Drury Lane, Jemmy, for what you did
just now. That wild cat was about to use her claws," said he.

"Aye, and her teeth too, Mr. Gay."

"You'll need a mouthful of mountain port after that tussle. And your
friends as well, when they've disposed of Mistress Salisbury."

The butchers had removed her out of harm's way. Some of her lady friends
and sympathisers had joined her; and a couple of young "bloods" who had
come to see the fun of an execution, with money burning holes in their
pockets, being captured, the party subsided into the "Bowl" where a
bottle of wine washed away the remembrance of Sally Salisbury's
grievance. But she vowed vengeance on the "squalling chit" sooner or
later.

Meanwhile the object of Sally Salisbury's hoped for revenge was sitting
in a dark corner of the coffee room of the Maiden Head tavern. She felt
terribly embarrassed and answered Bolingbroke's compliments in
monosyllables. He pressed her to take some wine but she refused. To her
great relief he did not trouble her with attentions.

Then Gay entering with Spiller and his butcher friends, and Leveridge,
as soon as he could, approached her.

"Tell me, Polly,--my tongue refuses to say Lavinia--how you have
offended that vulgar passionate woman?"

"I don't know. Jealousy, I suppose. She's burning to sing but she can't.
Sing, why she sets one's teeth on edge! It might be the sharpening of a
knife on a grindstone. She would be a play actress, and Mrs. Barry at
Drury Lane promised to help her, but they quarrelled. Sally wanted to be
a great actress all at once, but you can't be, can you, sir?"

She looked at the poet earnestly. Her large grey eyes were wonderfully
expressive, and Gay did not at once answer. He was thinking how sweet
was the face, and how musical and appealing the voice.

"True, child, and that you should say it shows your good sense. Wait
here a few minutes and then you shall take me to your mother."

Gay crossed the room to his friends, and they talked together in low
voices. Spiller and Leveridge had much to say--indeed it was to these
two, who had practical knowledge of the theatre, to whom he appealed.
Bolingbroke sat silently listening.

Gay's project concerning his new found protégée was such as would only
have entered into the brain of a dreamy and impecunious poet. He saw in
Lavinia Fenton the making of a fine actress--not in tragedy but in
comedy--and of an enchanting singer. But to be proficient she must be
taught not only music, but how to pronounce the English language
properly. She had to a certain extent picked up the accent of the
vulgar. It was impossible, considering her surroundings and
associations, to be otherwise. But proper treatment and proper
companions would soon rid her of this defect.

Both Spiller and Leveridge agreed she was fitted for the stage. But how
was she to be educated? And what was the use of education while she was
living in a Bedfordbury coffee house!

"She must be sent to a boarding school and be among gentlefolk,"
declared Gay energetically.

"Excellent," said Bolingbroke, speaking for the first time, "and may I
ask who will pay for the inestimable privilege of placing her among the
quality?"

The irony in St. John's voice did not go unnoticed by Gay, but he
continued bravely.

"I will, if her mother won't."

"You? My good friend, you can scarce keep yourself. But 'tis like you to
add to the burden of debt round your neck rather than reduce it. Have
you been left a fortune? Have your dead South Sea Shares come back to
life?"

"Nay, Bolingbroke, don't remind me of my folly," rejoined Gay, a little
piqued. "We can't always be wise. Thou thyself--but let that pass, the
future is the foundation of hope. Before long I shall be in funds. The
'Fables' will be in the booksellers' hands ere the month is out."

"Oh, that's well. But the booksellers, though eager enough to sell their
wares, are not so ready to pay the writer his due. Moreover if I know
anything of John Gay, of a certainty all the money he puts in his pocket
will go out of the hole at the other end."

"I know--I know," rejoined the poet hastily. "But I'm not thinking alone
of the booksellers. It is a 'place' I shall have and an annual income
that will sweep away all my anxieties."

"Then you're in favour with the Princess and her obedient servant Sir
Robert--or is Walpole her master? What will the Dean of St. Patrick and
Mr. Pope say to your surrender?"

"No, no. I will never write a word in praise of either. There's not a
word in the 'Fables' that can be twisted into bolstering up the
Government."

"And you think to receive your comfortable 'place' out of pure
admiration of your poetical gifts? My poor Gay!"

"No. Friendship."

"Well, well, you must go your own way or you wouldn't be a poet. I leave
you to your commendable work of rescuing damsels in distress."

And after refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff Bolingbroke with a
wave of the hand to Gay and his friends strode from the room leaving the
poet with his pleasant face somewhat overcast.

But his chagrin did not last long. His natural buoyancy asserted itself
and he beckoned to Lavinia who was sitting primly on the edge of the
hard chair, her folded hands resting on her lap. Before she could cross
the room Spiller and Leveridge took up Bolingbroke's argument, and urged
Gay not to meddle further in the matter.

"Nay, why should I not? It would be a shame and a pity that so much good
talent should be wasted on the groundlings of St. Giles. Besides, there
is the girl herself," Gay lowered his voice. "You wouldn't have her be
like Sally Salisbury, Jemmy, would you? She has a good and innocent
nature. It will be torn to tatters if she be not looked after now. No.
Neither you nor Dick Leveridge will talk me out of my intent. Do you see
what misguided youth may easily come to? Look at your friend Vane."

Gay pointed to the sleeping young man.

"I know--I know. The young fool," returned Spiller a little angrily.
"Wine is Lancelot Vane's only weakness--well, not the only one, any
pretty face turns his head."

"He's not the worse for that provided a good heart goes with the pretty
face."

"Aye, _if_."

"Look after him then. When he awakens from his drunken fit he'll be like
clay in the hands of the potters."

"Faith, you're right, Mr. Gay, but there's one thing that'll protect
him--his empty purse. I doubt if he has a stiver left. I know he drew
some money from the _Craftsman_ yesterday."

"What, does he write for that scurrilous, venomous print?" cried Gay,
visibly disturbed.

"Not of his own will. He hates the paper and he hates Amherst, who owns
it. But what is a man to do when poverty knocks at the door?"

"That may be. Still--I wish he had nothing to do with that abusive
fellow, Nicholas Amherst, who calls himself 'Caleb D'Anvers,' why I know
not, unless he's ashamed of the name his father gave him. Do you know
that the _Craftsman_ is always attacking my friends, Mr. Pope, Dr.
Swift, Dr. Arbuthnot? As for myself--but that's no matter."

"Oh, Amherst's a gadfly, no doubt. But your friends can take care of
themselves. For every blow they get they can if it so pleases them, give
two in return."

"That's true, and I'll say nothing more. I wish your friend well rid of
the rascally D'Anvers. Look after him, Jemmy. Come Polly--let us to your
mother."

Both Spiller and Leveridge saw that Gay was not to be turned from his
resolution to help the girl, and presently she and her new found friend
were threading their way through a network of courts and alleys finally
emerging into the squalid thoroughfare between New Street and Chandos
Street.

The dirt and the poverty-stricken aspect of the locality did not deter
the poet from his intention. Bedfordbury was not worse than St. Giles.
The girl led him to a shabby coffee shop from the interior of which
issued a hot and sickly air.

"That's mother," she whispered when they were in the doorway.

A buxom woman not too neatly dressed, whose apron bore traces of
miscellaneous kitchen work, scowled when her eyes lighted on her
daughter.

"So you've come home, you lazy good-for-nothing hussy," she screamed.
"Where have you been? You don't care how hard I have to work so long as
you can go a pleasuring. There's plenty for you to do here. Set about
washing these plates if you don't want a trouncing."

Mrs. Fenton was in a vile temper and Gay's heart somewhat failed at the
sight of her. Then he glanced at the girl and her frightened face gave
him courage.

"Madame," said he advancing with a polite bow, "I should like with your
permission to have a few words with you in private. My business here
concerns your daughter in whom I take an interest."

"Oh, and who may you be?" asked the woman ungraciously.

"My name is Gay--John Gay--but I'll tell you more when we're alone."

He cast a look around at the rough Covent Garden porters with which the
place was fairly full. One of the boxes was empty and Mrs. Fenton
pointed to it, at the same time ordering her daughter to go into the
kitchen and make herself useful. Then she flopped down opposite Gay,
separated from him by a table marked by innumerable rings left by coffee
mugs.

Gay put forward his ideas and painted a glorious future for Lavinia. Her
mother did not seem particularly impressed. It was doubtful indeed if
she believed him.

"You'll find the wench a handful. She's been no good to me. I'd as lieve
let her go her own way as keep her. A young 'oman with a pretty face
hasn't got no need to trouble about getting a living. Sooner or later
she'll give me the slip--but--well--if you takes her and makes a lady of
her what do I get out of it?"

This was a view of the matter which had not occurred to the poet. He
felt decidedly embarrassed. His project appeared to be more costly than
he had at first imagined.

"It is for the benefit of your daughter," he stammered.

"Her benefit, indeed. Fiddle-de-dee! Your own you mean. I know what men
are. If she was an ugly slut you wouldn't take no notice of her. Don't
talk rubbish. What are you a going to give me for saying, yes. That's
business, mister. Come, how much?"

The poet saw there was no other way but talking business. This
embarrassed him still more for he was the last man qualified to act in
such a capacity.

"I'll see what I can do," said he nervously, "but you mustn't forget
that Lavinia will have to be quite two years at school, and there is her
music master----"

"Oh I dare say," rejoined the lady scoffingly, "and the mantle maker,
and the milliner, and the glover, and the hairdresser. That's your
affair, not mine. Name a round sum and I'll try to meet you. What d'ye
say?"

"Would five guineas----?"

"What!" shrieked Lavinia's mother. "And you call yourself a gentleman?"

"The sum I admit is a small one, but as you seemed anxious to get your
daughter off your hands I thought I was doing you a service by putting
the girl in a way to earn a good living."

"I dare say. I'm not to be taken in like that. Fine words butter no
parsnips. While Lavinia's in the house I'll go bail I'll make her work.
If she goes away I've got to pay someone in her place, haven't I? Twenty
guineas is the very lowest I'll take, and if you was anything like the
gentleman you look you'd make it double."

The haggling over such a matter and the coarse mercenary nature of the
woman jarred upon the poet's sensitive soul. The plain fact that he
hadn't got twenty guineas in the world could not be gainsaid. But he had
rich friends. If he could only interest them in this protégée of his
something might be done. And there were the "Fables."

"Twenty guineas," he repeated. "Well, I'll do my best. In two days'
time, Mrs. Fenton, I will come and see you and most likely all will be
settled to your satisfaction."

"Two days. Aye. No longer or maybe my price'll go up."

"I shall not fail. Now, Mrs. Fenton, before I go I'd like to see Lavinia
once more."

"No, this business is between you an' me, mister. The hussy's naught to
do with it. She'll have to behave herself while she's with me. That's
all I have to say about _her_."

So Gay rose and walked out of the box feeling as though he'd been
through a severe drubbing. He might have been sufficiently disheartened
to shatter his castle in the air had he not seen Lavinia's big sorrowful
eyes fixed upon him from the kitchen. He dared not disobey her mother's
behest not to speak to her so he tried to smile encouragingly, and to
intimate by his expression that all was going well. Whether he succeeded
in so doing he was by no means sure.

On leaving the coffee house Gay walked towards Charing Cross and thence
along the Haymarket to Piccadilly. His destination was Queensberry House
to the north of Burlington Gardens. Here lived Gay's good friends the
Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, and indeed Gay himself, save when he
was at Twickenham with Pope.

At dinner that evening Gay broached the subject of the phenomenal singer
whom he had discovered in the streets of St. Giles and his scheme
concerning her. The duke laughed at the poet's visions, but the duchess
was fascinated. Anything of the unusual at once appealed to the
warmhearted, impulsive, somewhat eccentric, lady. Her enthusiasm where
she was interested always carried her away, and her impatience and
energy would not let her rest until her object was accomplished.

"I would vastly like to hear Mr. Gay's pretty nightingale. You must
bring her to-morrow. I am dying to see if she is really the wonder you
pretend she is. You know that the best judge of a woman is another
woman. A man is apt to be partial."

"And a woman to be prejudiced," said Gay smilingly.

"Faith, Kitty," laughed the duke, "our poet has thee there."

"I deny it. But we will discuss the question after we've seen the
paragon. When shall she come?"

Gay for once was shrewd.

"Not until we've settled with the mother. She's a harpy. If she knows
that your grace has anything to do with the affair she'll double her
price."

"Why, our Gay is teaching us something," said the Duke banteringly. "He
is giving us a lesson in financial economy. Duchess, you must keep your
eye on the next post vacant in the Exchequer."

"Pish!" retorted her grace. "Mr. Gay is only exercising commonsense. We
all of us have a little of that commodity. If we could only have it
handy when it's wanted how much better the world would be."

Neither of the men disputed the lady's proposition, and the duchess
rising, left them to their wine.

Armed with the twenty guineas, Gay presented himself the following day
at the Bedfordbury coffee house. Mrs. Fenton was still ungracious, but
the sight of the little pile of gold and the chink of the coins
mollified her humour.

"Where and when are you going to take her?" she demanded.

Gay had arranged a plan with the duchess and he replied promptly.

"She will stay here for a few days while her wardrobe is being got
ready, then she is to go to Miss Pinwell's boarding school in Queen
Square."

"Carry me out and bury me decent," ejaculated Mrs. Fenton. "Then I'm to
be the mother of a fine lady, am I?"

"I don't say that, but a clever one if I'm not mistaken."

"Clever! Oh la! Much good will her cleverness do her. Clever! Aye in
always having a crowd o' sparks a dangling after her. That Miss
What's-her-name in Queen Square'll have to get up early to best Lavinia
when there's a man about."

"A mother shouldn't say such ill-natured things of her own child," said
Gay reprovingly. "She's hardly a woman yet."

"But she knows as much. Well, you've got your bargain. Make your best of
it. What about her clothes? She's but a rag-bag though it's no fault o'
mine. Pray who's going to buy her gowns, her hats, her petticoats, her
laces and frills. You?"

"I? Bless me! no, woman. I know nothing about such things," rejoined Gay
colouring slightly. "I will send a woman who understands the business."

"It's all one to me. Maybe you'd better tell your tale to Lavinia with
your own lips. I've done with her."

"By all means. I should like to see her."

Mrs. Fenton, whose eyes all the while had been gloating over the gold on
the table now swept it into her pocket. It was a windfall which had come
at the right moment. She was tired of Bedfordbury. She aimed at a step
higher. There was a coffee house business in the Old Bailey going cheap,
the twenty pounds would enable her to buy it.

As for her daughter, she had no scruple about letting her go with a man
who was quite a stranger. The girl's future didn't trouble her. Since
Lavinia had entered her teens, mother and daughter had wrangled
incessantly. Lavinia was amiable enough, but constant snubbing had
roused a spirit which guided her according to her moods. Sometimes she
was full of defiance, at others she would run out of the house, and
ramble about the streets until she was dead tired.

Lavinia was shrewd enough to discover why her mother did not want her at
home. Mrs. Fenton, still good-looking, was not averse to flirting with
the more presentable of her customers, and as Lavinia developed into
womanhood she became a serious rival to her mother, so on the whole,
Gay's proposition suited Mrs. Fenton admirably, and she certainly never
bothered to find out if he spoke the truth. She was not inclined to
accept his story of the boarding school as a stepping-stone to the
stage, but to pretend to believe it in a way quieted what little
conscience she possessed. If the scheme turned out badly, why, no one
could say _she_ was to blame.

Lavinia, tremulous with excitement and looking prettier than ever, came
into the room where the poet was awaiting her. Her face fell when Gay
talked about the boarding school and of the possibility of her having to
remain there a long time, but she brightened up on his going on to say
that the period might be considerably shortened if she made a rapid
improvement.

"And do you really think, sir, I shall ever be good enough to act in a
theatre like Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Oldfield, and--oh, and Mrs.
Bracegurdle?" cried the girl, her eyes blazing with anxious ambition.

"I don't say you'll act like them. You'll act in your own way, and if
you work hard your own way will be good enough. If you succeed the
friends who are now helping you will be more than rewarded."

"Ah, I will do anything to please you, sir."

She caught his hand and impulsively raised it to her lips.

Gay was a little embarrassed at this outburst. Did it mean that the girl
had fallen in love with him? He checked the rising thought. Yet there
was nothing outrageous in such a possibility. Lavinia was only sixteen,
it is true, and romantic sixteen might see nothing incongruous in
thirty-seven, which was Gay's age.

"What pleases me, child, doesn't matter," he returned hastily. "I want
to see you please others--in the play house I mean."

She looked at him wistfully.

"But," he continued, "it will be time enough to talk of that when I see
how you get on. Now is it all settled? You're leaving this place and
your mother of your own free will--isn't that so?"

Lavinia said nothing, but pinched her lips and nodded her head
vigorously. The action was sufficiently expressive and Gay was
satisfied.

Three days went by. Her Grace of Queensberry's maid, a hard-faced
Scotswoman who was not to be intimidated nor betrayed into confidences,
superintended Lavinia's shopping and turned a deaf ear to Mrs. Fenton's
scoffs and innuendoes.

The girl was transformed. Her new gowns, hats, aprons, and what not sent
her into high spirits and she bade her mother adieu with a light heart.

"Go your own way, you ungrateful minx," was Mrs. Fenton's parting shot,
"and when you're tired of your fine gentleman or he's tired of you,
don't think you're coming back here 'cause I won't have you."

Lavinia smiled triumphantly and tripped into the hackney coach that was
awaiting her.




CHAPTER III

"OH, MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ART THOU ROAMING?"


"Lavina! Have done!"

It was a whispered entreaty. The victim of the feather of a quill pen
tickling her neck dared not raise her voice. Miss Pinwell, the
proprietress of the extremely genteel seminary for young ladies, Queen
Square--quite an aristocratic retreat some two hundred years ago--was
pacing the school-room. Her cold, sharp eyes roamed over the shapely
heads--black, golden, brown, auburn, flaxen--of some thirty girls--eager
to detect any sign of levity and prompt to inflict summary punishment.

"Miss Fenton, why are you not working?" came the inquiry sharply from
Miss Pinwell's thin lips.

Lavinia Fenton withdrew the instrument of torture and Priscilla
Coupland's neck was left in peace. It was done so swiftly that Miss
Pinwell's glance, keen as it was, never detected the movement. But the
lady had her suspicions nevertheless, and she marched with the erectness
of a grenadier to where Lavinia Fenton sat with her eyes fixed upon her
copy book, apparently absorbed in inscribing over and over again the
moral maxim at the top of the page, and, it may be hoped, engrafting it
on her mind.

The young lady's industry did not deceive Miss Pinwell. Lavinia Fenton
was the black sheep--lamb perhaps is a more fitting word, she was but
seventeen--of the school. But somehow her peccadilloes were always
forgiven. She had a smile against which severity--even Miss
Pinwell's--was powerless.

"What were you doing just now when you were not writing?"

The head was slowly raised. The wealth of wavy brown hair fell back from
the broad smooth brow. The large limpid imploring eyes looked straight,
without a trace of guilt in them, at the thin-faced schoolmistress. The
beautiful mouth, the upper lip of which with its corners slightly
upturned was delightfully suggestive of a smile, quivered slightly but
not with fear, rather with suppressed amusement.

"Nothing madam," was the demure reply.

"Nothing? I don't believe you. Your hand was not on your book. Where was
it?"

"Oh, _that_. Yes, a wasp was flying near us. I thought it was going to
settle on Priscilla Coupland's neck and I brushed it away with my pen."

Miss Pinwell could say nothing to this, especially as she distinctly
heard at that moment the hum of some winged insect. It _was_ a wasp, a
real one, not the insect of Lavinia's fervid imagination. The windows
were open and it had found its way in from Lamb's Conduit Fields, at a
happy moment allying itself with Lavinia.

Others heard it as well and sprang to their feet shrieking. The chance
of escaping from tiresome moral maxims was too good to be lost.

"Young ladies----" commanded Miss Pinwell, but she could get no further.
Her voice was lost in the din. The lady no more loved wasps than did her
pupils. She retreated as the wasp advanced. The intruder ranged itself
on the side of the girls and circled towards their instructress with
malevolence in every turn and vicious intent in its buzz.

The only one not afraid was Lavinia Fenton who, waving a pocket
handkerchief met the foe bravely but without success. The enemy refused
to turn tail. Other girls plucking up courage joined the champion and
soon the school-room was in a hubbub. Probably the army of hoydenish
maidens were not anxious the conflict should cease--it was far more
entertaining than maxims, arithmetic and working texts on samples--and
Miss Pinwell seeing this, summoned Bridget, the brawny housemaid, who
with a canvas apron finally caught and squashed the rash intruder.

It was sometime before the excitement died down, and meanwhile Lavinia
Fenton's remissness of conduct was forgotten--indeed her intrepidity
singled her out for praise, which she received with becoming
graciousness.

But before the day was out she relapsed into her bad ways. She could or
would do nothing right. Miss Pinwell chided her for carelessness, she
retorted saucily. As discipline had to be maintained she was at last
condemned to an hour with the backboard and there she sat in a corner of
the room on a high legged chair with a small and extremely uncomfortable
oval seat made still more uncomfortable by it sloping slightly forward.
As for the back, it was high and narrow. It afforded no rest for the
spine. The delinquent was compelled to sit perfectly upright. Thus it
was at the same time an instrument of correction and of deportment.

Whatever bodily defects the early Georgian damsels possessed they
certainly had straight backs and level shoulders. The backboard was
admirable training for the carriage of the stately sacque, the graceful
flirting of the fan and for the dancing of the grave and dignified
minuet.

The day was nearing its end. The hour for retiring was early, and at
dusk the head of each bedroom took her candle from the hall table and
after a low curtsy to the mistress of the establishment preceded those
who slept in the same room up the broad staircase. The maidens'
behaviour was highly decorous until they were safe in their respective
bed-chambers, when their tongues were unloosed.

Oddly enough Lavinia, who was usually full of chatter, had to-night
little to say. Her schoolmates rallied her on her silent tongue.

"Oh, don't bother me, Priscilla," she exclaimed pettishly. "I suppose I
can do as I like when Miss Pinwell isn't looking."

"My dear, you generally do that when she _is_. I never saw such
favouritism. I declare it's not fair. You were terribly tormenting all
day. Anybody but you would have been sent to bed and kept on bread and
water. What's the matter with you, miss?"

"Nothing. I'm tired, that's all."

"First time in your life then. You were lively enough this afternoon
when you nearly got me into a scrape trying to make me laugh with your
tickling. It was as much as I could do to keep from screaming,"
exclaimed Priscilla angrily.

"Well, you can do your screaming now if it pleases you, so long as it
doesn't bring Miss Pinwell upstairs. Let me alone. I'm thinking about
something."

"Some _one_, my dear, you mean," put in a tall fair girl, Grace Armitage
by name. "Confess now, isn't it the new curate at St. George's? He
seemed to have no eyes for any one but you last Sunday evening. How
cruel to disturb the poor man's thoughts."

"Console yourself, Grace dear--_you're_ never likely to do that."

The girls tittered at Lavinia's repartee. All knew that Grace Armitage
was the vainest of the vain and believed every man who cast his eyes in
her direction was in love with her. She went white with anger. But she
was slow witted. She had no sarcastic rejoinder ready and if she had it
was doubtful if she would have uttered it. Lavinia Fenton, the soul of
sweetness and amiability, could show resolute fight when roused. Miss
Armitage turned away with a disdainful toss of her head.

The others knew this too, for they ceased to irritate Lavinia and
continued their talk among themselves. All the same, the principal
topic was Lavinia Fenton. She was so strangely unlike herself to-night.

Half an hour later the room was in silence save for the whispering
between the occupants of those beds sufficiently close to each other to
permit this luxury. When the neighbouring clock of St. George's,
Bloomsbury, chimed half-past nine even these subdued sounds had ceased.

At half-past ten the moon was at the full. The pale light streamed
through the small window panes and threw the shadows of the broad
framework lattice-wise on Lavinia's bed which was next the window. In
daylight she had but to lie on her right side and she could see across
the fields and the rising ground each side of the Fleet river to the
villages of Islington and Hornsey.

Gradually the latticed shadow crept upwards. It at last reached
Lavinia's face. She was not asleep. Her eyes very wide open were staring
at the ceiling with a vague, wistful expression. She gave a long sigh,
her body twisted, and leaning on her right elbow, her left hand
insinuated itself beneath the pillow and drew forth a letter which she
held in the moonlight and read. Her forehead puckered as though she were
in doubt. Her steadfast eyes seemed to contradict the smile curving her
upper lip. The paper slipped from her limp fingers and she pondered, her
colour deepening the while. Nothing short of a love letter could have
caused that delightful blush. What she read was this:--


     "MY DEAREST LITTLE CHARMER,--

     "My soul is full of expectancy. I can think of nothing but you--the
     divinest being that ever tortured the heart of man. But the torture
     is exquisite because I know when I fold you in my arms it will
     change to bliss. You will keep your promise and meet me at the
     'Conduit Head' to-morrow midnight, will you not? I can scarce
     contain myself with thinking of it. If you come not what remains
     for me but death? Without you life is worthless. Come. My coach
     will be in readiness and the parson waiting for us at the Fleet.

     "When we are married, as I've told you, my family cannot refuse to
     receive my wife, but until we are made one they will do all they
     can to keep us apart. My father insists upon my marrying a rich
     city madam, but I'll none of her. I will only have you, my
     beauteous Lavinia. I swear to you by all the gods that you shall be
     back at school before dawn, as on the night of the dance when I
     first saw my adorable divinity. No one will know but us two. It
     will be a delicious secret. After I have seen you safely to Queen
     Square and have parted from my dearest--it will be misery to bid
     thee adieu--I shall ride post haste to my father and tell him
     everything. He will at first be angry, but he will relent when he
     sees your loveliness. We shall be forgiven and Heaven will be ours.

     "Panting with impatience, ever your most devoted humble servant,

                                              ARCHIBALD DORRIMORE."


Present taste would pronounce this effusion to be extravagant,
rhapsodical, high-flown, super-sentimental, but it did not read so to
Lavinia. It was in the fashion of the times--indeed it approached nearer
modern ideas than the majority of love letters of that day which
generally began with "Madam" without any endearing prefix. Lavinia liked
it none the less because it was not so formal as the letters which some
girls had shown her in all pride and secrecy.

But it troubled her all the same.

"I wonder if I really--really love him," she mused. "I suppose I do or I
shouldn't be continually thinking about him. But to be married--oh,
that's a different thing. Perhaps he'd want to live in the country.
That would be horribly dull, especially if he had to come to London
often. He hopes to be a great lawyer some day he says. I don't think I'd
like him in a wig and gown and white bands. He would look so horribly
old. Oh, but I wouldn't let him have his rooms in the Temple after we're
married. He'll have to burn his musty old books. He won't need them. His
father's very rich. He's told me so hundreds of times."

A half dozen times would have been nearer the mark and this would
probably represent the number of their meetings, once at a ball at
Sadler's Wells Gardens and afterwards at stolen opportunities which the
ingenious Lavinia contrived to bring about.

To tell the honest truth, Lavinia's gallant Archibald Dorrimore, the
young Templar, served only to amuse the young lady. She was not blind to
the fact that he was a fop and not blessed with too much brain. She had
seen many of his sort before and did not trust them. But Dorrimore
struck her as more sincere than the rest. Besides, he was very good
looking.

Lavinia couldn't help having admirers. Nature should not have endowed
her with such alluring, innocent looking eyes, with so sweet a mouth.
She had always had some infatuated young man hovering about her even
when she was her mother's drudge at the coffee house in Bedfordbury.
Perhaps she inherited flirting from that buxom, good-looking mother who
had the reputation of knowing her way quite well where a man was
concerned.

"Archibald Dorrimore will be _Sir_ Archibald some day," she mused. "It
would be rare to be called her ladyship. I can hear the footman saying:
'Your coach is waiting, my lady.' Lady Dorrimore--how well it sounds!
Archibald loves me...."

May be this conviction settled the matter. The girl slid out of bed and
dressed herself hurriedly, though eleven o'clock had only just struck
and she had plenty of time. Perhaps she thought that if she hesitated
any longer she might alter her mind and not be married after all.

Despite her haste she was not neglectful of herself. Now and again she
glanced at the little mirror over which the girls squabbled daily,
smoothed her rebellious hair and settled the Nithsdale hood of her cloak
coquettishly. Then she noiselessly crept from the room, flitted down the
staircase and was at the hall door shooting back its heavy
bolts--fortunately always kept well greased--and lifting the massive
chain which stretched across the centre. Street doors were well guarded
and ground floor windows barred in those days, and not without reason.

The moon was still shining brightly and Lavinia drew her hood closer
over her face, though there was little need, for the fields were
deserted. She turned to the east, keeping in the shadow, slight as it
was, of the school garden wall. When the "Conduit Head" at the top of
Red Lion Street (the northern end now known as Lamb's Conduit Street)
was reached she paused and her heart went pit-a-pat. If Dorrimore should
not be there!

She stopped, overcome by sudden scruples. In a flash her life at the
school, its monotony and discipline, the irksomeness of regular work,
rose before her! She had been some months at Miss Pinwell's
establishment and her restless soul pined for a change. Though she
looked back to her vagabond life in the streets with a shudder, she
yearned for its freedom, but without its degradations.

The step she was about to take, so she persuaded herself, meant freedom,
but it also meant ingratitude towards Gay and the duchess. For the
latter's opinion she did not care much. The imperious manner of her
grace was not to her taste. But Mr. Gay--that was a different thing. She
looked upon Gay as a father--of her own father she had but a shadowy
recollection--though sometimes she thought she detected in him signs of
a warmer affection than that which a father usually bestows on a
daughter. She did not want this. She liked his visits. She was glad to
have his praise. She laughed when he persisted in calling her Polly--why
she knew not--but she was sure she could never endure his making love to
her.

In her heart of hearts she was afraid of this. The dread had much to do
with her encouragement of Dorrimore. Of course if she married it would
mean an estrangement between her and Gay and his powerful friends, and
most likely the end of her ambition to be a great actress. Her mind had
long been torn, and at the eleventh hour when she was on her way to meet
her fate in Dorrimore she still hesitated. If she really loved Dorrimore
there would have been no hesitation. But she had never met any man who
did more than flatter her and gratify the pleasure she felt at being
admired.

Her decision was in the balance. The weight of a feather would turn the
scale one way or another. The feather came in the shape of Dorrimore
himself. There he was in three cornered hat and cloak, his powdered wig
white in the moonlight, pacing up and down, his hand resting on his
sword hilt. He caught sight of the shrinking figure in the shadow and
the hat was doffed in a profound bow. Undoubtedly a good looking young
man, but as undoubtedly a fop of the first water with his ruffles and
bosom of Mechlin lace, red heels to his shoes, gold clocks on his silk
stockings and the whiff of scent which heralded his coming.

When near enough his arm went round her and he drew back her hood. He
kissed her closely, so closely indeed that his ardour almost frightened
her, though she knew not why. He withdrew his lips and gazed into her
face, his own paling under the violence of his passion.

"Dearest Lavinia," he murmured. "You are the loveliest creature in the
world and I protest I am the luckiest of men. Have you no words of love
for me? Why so silent?"

She had not uttered a word. The rise and fall of her bosom showed her
agitation.

"I'm here. I'm here. Isn't that enough?" she faltered.

"Faith you're right, sweetheart. Then let us waste no time. My coach is
yonder."

He slid her arm within his and drew her forward. He was not unconscious
of a certain reluctance in her movements and a shyness in her manner,
but he put both down to maiden modesty. Her restraint made her all the
more enchanting and he quickened his pace. She was compelled to
accommodate her steps to his, but she did so unwillingly. A sudden
distrust whether of him or of herself she could not quite determine--had
seized her. She was repenting her rashness. She would have run from him
back to the school but that he held her too tightly. Within another
minute they had reached the heavy lumbering coach.

The coachman had seen them coming and descended from his box to open the
door. He was a big fellow who held himself erect like a soldier. His
swarthy complexion had a patch of purplish bloom spreading itself over
the cheek bones which told of constant tavern lounging. A pair of hawk's
eyes gleamed from under bushy beetling brows; wide loose lips and a
truculent, pugnacious lower jaw completed the picture of a ruffian.

Lavinia glanced at him and that glance was enough, it deepened her
distrust into repugnance. But she had no time to protest. She was
hurried into the coach, Dorrimore in fact lifting her inside bodily with
unnecessary violence for she was almost thrown into a corner of the back
seat. Dorrimore followed, turned, shut the door and almost immediately
the carriage moved. The coachman must have sprung to his box with the
quickness of a harlequin. The whip cracked and the horses broke into a
gallop.




CHAPTER IV

"IF WE'RE NOT TO BE MARRIED TELL ME"


The rattle of the wheels over the loose, roughly laid cobble stones, and
the swaying carriage hung on leathers, forbade talking. Lavinia heard
her companion's voice but she did not know what he was saying. Not that
it mattered for she was in too much of a flutter to heed anything but
her own emotions, and these were so confused that they told her little.

Then Dorrimore's arm stole round her waist. Well, this was not
unnatural. Would they not be soon man and wife? The puzzle was that she
had no feeling of response. She would rather that he did not embrace
her. She did not want to be noticed. Yet she could not find it in her
heart to be unkind, so she allowed him to draw her nearer, to let her
head droop on his shoulder. She tried to think it was pleasant to be so
loved and she lowered her eyelashes when he kissed her again and again.

Two or three minutes of oblivion. The coach had raced down Red Lion
Street. It was in Holborn going eastwards and here the din and clatter
were heightened by the shouts of drunken roisterers. The overhanging
houses cast deep shadows and the coach was travelling in the gloom. It
was past midnight and the lamps hung at every tenth house were
extinguished. This was the rule.

Then Lavinia became conscious that the carriage was going down hill. It
had passed Fetter Lane into which it should have turned and was
proceeding towards Holborn Bridge. Why was this? Fetter Lane led into
Fleet Street and so to the Fleet. Had the coachman misunderstood his
instructions? She wrenched herself free and looked out of the window.
She recognised St. Andrew's Church in Holborn Valley. She turned
swiftly and faced Dorrimore. The coach had crossed the bridge and had
commenced the steep ascent of Holborn Hill on the other side. The horses
had slackened their pace. The noise was less loud.

"You said we were going to the Fleet, but we're not. Where are you
taking me?"

"Don't trouble about such a trifle, darling little one," he cried gaily.
"Aren't you with me? What more do you want? Come, kiss me. Let us forget
everything but our two selves."

He would have embraced her but she repulsed him angrily.

"No. If you've altered your mind--if we're not to be married tell me so,
and I'll leave you to yourself," she cried agitatedly.

"Leave me? And d'you think I'll let you go when you're looking handsomer
than ever? Faith, what d'you take me for? You dear fluttering little
Venus. Why, you're trembling? But hang me, it must be with joy as I am."

Both his arms were round her. She struggled to free herself; pushed his
face away and panting, strove to reach the window, but he was strong and
prevented her.

"I'll go no further with you," she cried. "Set me down at once or I'll
scream for help."

"You pretty little fool. Much help you'll get here. Oh, you shall look
if you want to, but your wings must be clipped first."

He gripped both her wrists and held them fast. Her frightened eyes
glanced through the window. She heard a confused thud of hoofs, now and
again the deep bellowing of cattle, in the distance dogs barking,
drivers yelling. She could see horned heads moving up and down. The
coach was now moving very slowly. It was surrounded by a drove of
bullocks from the Essex marshes going to Smithfield.

"You see?" laughed Dorrimore. "D'you suppose I would set you down to be
tossed and gored by vulgar cattle. Why the sight of your red ribands
would send them mad, as it's nearly sent me."

"I don't care. I'd rather be with them than with you. I hate you," she
screamed with tears in her voice.

"Really? I'll warrant your hate'll turn to love before we part," he
jeered. "I'm not going to see you come to harm, so I shall hold your
pretty wrists tightly. How round and slender they are! So, you're my
prisoner."

"I'm not and I won't be."

Somehow she dragged her right wrist away and dealt him a smart blow on
his cheek.

"You would fight, would you? What a little spitfire it is! No matter. I
love you all the better. For every smart you give me you shall be repaid
with a dozen kisses. If that isn't returning good for evil may I never
handle a dice box again. There, do as you like. Lay your white hand
again on my face. The bigger debt you run up the better."

Despite his banter he was very savage and he flung her hands from him.
She at once laid hold of the strap to open the window. He burst into a
loud laugh.

"So the bird would escape," said he mockingly. "I thought as much."

She tugged at the strap but tugged in vain. The window refused to budge.
Then it flashed across her mind that it was all part of a plan. She was
to be trapped. The story of a Fleet marriage was a concoction to bait
the trap. She flung herself in the corner, turned her back upon her
captor and pulled her hood over her face.

She knew that for the time being she was helpless. What was the good of
wasting her strength in struggles, her spirit in remonstrance and be
laughed at for her pains? So she sat sullenly and turned a deaf ear to
Dorrimore's triumphant endearments.

That wrestle with the window strap had done one thing. It had told her
where she was. Lavinia knew her London well. Her rambles as a child had
not been confined to Charing Cross and St. Giles. She had often wandered
down to London Bridge. She loved the bustling life on the river; she
delighted in gazing into the shop windows of the quaint houses on the
bridge which to her youthful imagination seemed to be nodding at each
other, for so close were some that their projecting upper storeys nearly
touched.

She decided in that confused glance of hers through the window that the
coach was nearing the extreme end of the Poultry. She recognised the
Poultry Compter with its grim entrance and wondered whether the coach
would go straight on to Cornhill and then turn northward towards
Finsbury Fields, or southward to London Bridge.

For the moment all she thought of was her destination, and when she was
able without attracting her companion's, attention again to peep out of
the window she saw the coach was at the foot of London Bridge. The
driver had been compelled to walk his horses, so narrow and so dark was
the passage way.

The nightbirds of London were on their rambles looking out for prey; the
bridge was thronged. The people for the most part were half drunk--they
were the scourings from the low taverns in the Southwark Mint. Lavinia
had been revolving a plan of escape, but to launch herself among an
unruly mob ready for any devilry might be worse than remaining where she
was. But in spite of all that she did not cease to think about her plan
and watched for an opportunity when the worst of the rabble should have
passed.

Suddenly the coach came to a standstill. Shouts and oaths--more of the
latter than the former--were heard, and Dorrimore after fretting and
fuming lowered the window on his side and put out his head.

"What the devil's hindering you?" he demanded angrily, of the coachman.

"That monstrously clumsy waggon; the stubborn knave of a waggoner has
gotten the middle of the road and there he sticks. He'll draw neither to
the left or the right. I've a mind to get down and baste the surly
bumpkin's hide."

"Don't be a fool. Keep where you are. We must wait. Speak him fair."

Two things struck Lavinia. One was the open window. Evidently Dorrimore
had thought it only necessary to secure one window--that on the side
where she was sitting. If she were on the opposite side how easy to slip
her hand through the opening and turn the handle of the door. But this
was impossible. She could not hope to succeed.

The other thing which fixed itself in her mind was the familiar tone of
the coachman towards Dorrimore. It was more that of an equal than of a
menial. This impression confirmed her suspicion that she was trapped.
Dorrimore had doubtless enlisted the services of a confidential friend
rather than trust to a servant whose blabbing tongue might serve to
betray him.

Meanwhile Dorrimore's head was still out of the window. He was calling
to the waggoner and offering him a crown to pull his horses and load to
one side, but it was no easy task to move the gigantic lumbering wain
with its tilt as big as a haystack and its wheels a foot thick. Lavinia
had her eyes fixed at the window on her side, intent on watching a
little group of persons who were curious to see the result of the
deadlock. They were quietly disposed apparently.

Swiftly she bent down, slipped off one of her high heeled shoes and
straightened her body. The next moment there was the crash of broken
glass. She had struck the window with the heel of her shoe and had
thrust her hand through the jagged hole, turned the handle, opened the
door and had jumped out. Dorrimore, intent upon parleying with the
waggoner, had either not heard the smash or had attributed the cause to
anything but the real one.

The group were startled by the flying figure. In her haste and agitation
she had stumbled on alighting and would have fallen but for a man who
caught her.

"S'death madam, are you hurt?" she heard him say.

"No, no. For Heaven's sake don't stay me. I'm in great danger. I'm
running from an enemy. Oh, let me go--let me go!"

"But you're wounded. See."

Blood was on her arm. A drop or two had fallen on the man's ruffles. She
had cut herself in her wild thrust through the jagged hole in the door.

"It's nothing," she breathed. "Oh, if you've any pity don't keep me."

The man made no reply. He whipped out his handkerchief, tied it round
the cut and holding her arm tightly, forced a way through the crowd
towards the Southwark side of the bridge.

He might have got her away unobserved had it not been for Dorrimore's
coachman. The fellow uttered a yell and leaving his horses to take care
of themselves leaped from the box.

"A guinea to any one who stops that woman," he shouted.

Lavinia and her companion had nearly reached the obstructive waggon. A
dozen persons or so were between them and the yelling coachman. If they
succeeded in passing the waggon there might be a chance of escaping in
the darkness. But the onlookers crowding between the obstruction and the
shops--there were in those days no pavements--were too much interested
in what was going on to move, and the two found themselves wedged in a
greasy, ragged mob.

Then came a rush from behind by those eager to earn a guinea and things
became worse. The girl, helped by the young man--she had seen enough of
him to know that he was both young and good-looking--urged her way
through the crowd, and those in front, seeing she looked like a
gentlewoman and knowing nothing of the guinea offered for her capture
stood back and she passed through. At that moment she felt her
companion's grasp relax. Then his fingers slipped from her arm. Some one
had struck him.

"Run to the stairs and take a boat," he whispered. "Perhaps you haven't
any money. Here's my purse," and he pushed it into her hand.

"No, I won't have it," she faltered.

"You must. Quick! Fly!"

"But what of you?"

"I shall stay here, face the mob and give you time to get away."

She would have refused. She would have remained with her champion, but
the swaying mob ordered otherwise. She found herself separated from him
and carried onward whether she would or not. She was terribly frightened
and knew not what to do. Hoarse shouts pursued her; she heard the sound
of blows. Somehow no one seemed to notice her. Probably the fighting was
more to their taste. Suddenly she found herself alone. The archway
called the Traitors' Gate which then formed the entrance to the bridge
from the Surrey side was behind her. Crowds were pouring through the
Gate eager to see what the rumpus was about or to take part in it on the
chance of plunder, and they did not heed the shrinking figure in the
deep doorway of a house close to the bridge.

Lavinia was torn with anxiety. The young man whose purse she was holding
tightly--how was he faring? She could not help him by staying. Dorrimore
and Dorrimore's coachman with the guinea he had offered for her capture
had to be thought of. Her danger was by no means over. The roadway was
comparatively clear. Now was her chance if she was ever to have one.
She stole from the doorway; the stairs leading to the river were close
at hand and down these she sped.

The tide was at low ebb. She was standing on the shingle. But she looked
in vain for a waterman. There were plenty of boats on the river, most of
them loaded with merry parties returning from Spring Gardens, Vauxhall,
and no boats were plying for hire. She dared not ascend to the Borough.
Bullies and thieves abounded in the southern approaches to the bridge.
She crept down to one of the abutments of the bridge and tremulously
listened to the turmoil going on above.

Meanwhile the man who had come to her rescue was being hardly pressed.
He was surrounded by a mob led by Dorrimore's coachman. It was not the
leader who had struck the blow which made him lose his hold of Lavinia's
arm, but one of the mob for no motive other than a love for brutality.
The coachman had forced his way to the front a minute or so afterwards.
Almost at the same time a stone hit Lavinia's champion in the cheek,
cutting it and drawing blood.

"Cowards!" he shouted. "If you're for fighting at least fight fair. Who
did that?" and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"At your service, sir. Give me the credit of it. Captain Jeremy Rofflash
isn't the man to let the chance of a little pretty sword play go by."

The speaker was the man who acted as Dorrimore's coachman. He was every
inch a braggadocio. There were many such who had been with Marlborough
and had returned to their native country to earn their living by their
wits and by hiring out their swords.

The fellow who called himself Jeremy Rofflash had not time to draw his
sword; the fist of the man he had thought to frighten had shot out swift
as an arrow, catching him between the eyes and tumbling him backwards.

At the sight of the young gallant's spirit a number of the mob
instantly ranged themselves on his side. Others came on like infuriated
animals on the off chance of Captain Jeremy Rofflash rewarding them for
their services.

"You'd better show these ruffians a clean pair of heels," whispered a
friendly voice in the young man's ear. "To Winchester Stairs--now's your
chance before yonder bully's on his feet."

It was good advice and Lancelot Vane, the young man, budding poet and
playwright, who had found himself involved in a dangerous squabble,
which might mean his death, over a girl whom he had only seen for a few
minutes, had the sense to take it. But it was no easy task to extricate
himself. A burly ruffian was approaching him with arm uplifted and
whirling a bludgeon. Vane caught the fellow a blow in the waist and he
immediately collapsed. Before the prostrate man could get his wind, Vane
darted through the Traitors' Gate and racing towards the Borough with a
score or so of the rabble after him, darted into the first opening he
came to.




CHAPTER V

"MANY A MAN WOULD GIVE A HANDFUL OF GUINEAS FOR A KISS FROM SALLY
SALISBURY"


The fugitive found himself in a narrow ill-smelling, vilely paved alley
to the east of the Borough. Tall, ugly, dirty houses bordered it on each
side, a thick greasy mud covered the uneven stones. Dimly he was
conscious of the sound of a window being opened here and there, of
hoarse shouts and shrill screams, of shadowy beings who doubtless were
men and women but who were more like ghosts than creatures of flesh and
blood.

But no one molested him. This might be explained by the fact that those
who saw him running took him to be some criminal fleeing from justice to
take sanctuary in the Southwark slums, an impression quite sufficient to
ensure their sympathy. At least, this was what at first happened.
Afterwards the mob took it into their heads to pursue him and for no
particular reason save devilry.

The seething crowd poured into the narrow alley. Like a hunted deer the
young man ran up one court and down another, stumbling now and again
half from exhaustion and half from the greasy mud covered stones. He
could hear his pursuers coming nearer and nearer, but his strength was
gone. He dragged himself a few steps further and staggered into a
doorway, sinking on the steps in an almost fainting condition.

The next moment the door behind him opened, a hand gripped his shoulder
and a woman's voice whispered:--

"Come inside. Make haste before you're seen."

The young man raised his head. He was dimly conscious of a handsome
face, of a pair of bold eyes staring into his.

"Come. Why are you waiting? Do you want to be murdered?" she cried
imperiously.

He struggled to his feet and she dragged him into the passage and closed
the door. Scarcely had she done so when the clatter of feet and a
confused sound of voices told that his pursuers were approaching. Had
they tracked him to the house? The point was at once settled by a loud
hammering at the door.

The woman half turned her head and cast a scornful look over her
shoulder.

"Knock away, you devils. You won't break those panels in a hurry. For
all that, the place isn't safe for you, Mr. Vane."

"What, you know me?"

She laughed. Her laughter was loud rather than musical.

"Haven't I seen you with many a merry party at Spring Gardens? Don't you
remember that mad night when one of your friends was full of wine?
Didn't I cut off the end of his periwig and throw it to the mob to be
scrambled for?"

Lancelot Vane's pale face flushed slightly. He hadn't a very precise
recollection of what had happened on that night of frolic and revelry.
Like the rest he had had his bottle or two. The full blooded handsome
woman whom nothing abashed, who could take her liquor like a man, whose
beauty fired the souls of the gallants hovering about her wrangling for
her smiles, was part of the confused picture that had remained in his
memory. He had some vague remembrance of having kissed her or that she
had kissed him--it didn't matter which it was, nothing mattered very
much when the wine was in and the wit was out.

Yet now when both were sober and her round, plump arm was round his
shoulders on the plea of supporting him he felt embarrassed, ashamed.

"I thank you, madam, for your help," he said hurriedly. "But I won't
bring trouble upon you. Those rascals are still clamouring for my
blood--why I know not--and if they once burst into the house you'll
suffer."

"They won't frighten me, but I wouldn't have you come to harm. There's a
way of escape. I'll show it you."

With her arm still round him though there was no necessity for his
strength was gradually returning, she led him up the first flight--some
half dozen steps--of a narrow staircase to a small window which she
threw open.

"That's the Black Ditch. It leads to the river and is fairly dry now
that the tide is out. You can easily find your way to Tooley Street."

"Thanks--thanks," he murmured.

He clambered on to the window sill and gradually lowered himself. While
his head, slightly thrown back, was above the sill she bent down swiftly
and kissed him full on the lips.

"Many a man would give a handful of guineas for a kiss from Sally
Salisbury. You shall have one for nothing. It mayn't bring you luck, but
what of that?"

He let go his hold, alighted safely on his feet and ran along the ditch,
every nerve quivering in a tumult of emotion, and with Sally Salisbury's
strident, reckless laugh ringing in his ears.

Sally leaned her elbows on the sill and craning her head watched the
receding figure of the young man. Then she straightened her body and
walked leisurely from the room into one at the front of the house on the
first floor. The hammering at the entrance door had never ceased. She
threw open the window and looked down upon the swaying crowd.

"What do you want?" she called out.

"The man you're hiding," was the reply in a hoarse voice.

"You lie. There's no man here."

"No man where Mistress Sally Salisbury is? Ho-ho!"

She knew the voice. It was that of Captain Jeremy Rofflash.

Seizing a lamp Sally Salisbury ran down the stairs and opened the door.
Holding the lamp high over her head the light fell with striking effect
upon her luxuriant yellow hair clustering down upon a neck and shoulders
that Juno might have envied. The resemblance did not stop here. Juno in
anger could have found her double in Sally Salisbury at that moment.
Evidently the visitor was unwelcome.

"What does this silly masquerade mean?" she demanded, her eyes roaming
over the coachman's livery in high displeasure. "Have you turned over a
new leaf and gone into honest service?"

"Honest service be damned! Honesty doesn't belong to me or to you
either, Sally. Where's the man I'm looking for? I twigged the fellow
just as you shut the door upon him."

"Did you? Then you're welcome to go on looking."

He strode in, muttering oaths. When the door was closed he turned upon
her.

"Hang me, Sally, if I know what your game is in sheltering this spark.
Anyhow you wouldn't do it if you didn't see your way to some coin out of
him."

"I don't, so shut up your sauce."

"More fool you then. Look here, Sal. I've got hold of a cull or I
shouldn't be in this lackey's coat. The fool's bursting with gold and he
wants someone to help him to spend it. I'll be hanged if there's another
woman in London like you for that fun. Now's your chance. He's sweet on
a wench--a raw boarding school miss--he ran off with her an hour or so
ago. The little fool thought she was going to be married by a Fleet
parson, but somehow she took fright and jumped out of the coach on
London Bridge. How the devil she did it beats me, though to be sure when
one of your sex makes up her mind to anything she'll do it and damme, I
believe Beelzebub helps her. Now then----"

"What's this gabble to do with me?" broke in Sally, disdainfully.

"Wait a minute. The wench had a friend in the crowd--a man who got her
away--damn him. I jumped from the coach and we had a set to. See this?"

Scowling ferociously Rofflash pointed to a lump beneath his eye which
promised to become a beautiful mouse on the morrow.

"The jackanapes got me on the hop; my foot slipped and s'life, I was
down. But for that I'd ha' spitted him like a partridge. By the time I
was on my legs the mob were after him. I joined in the hue and cry and
we ran him down to your house. Now then, where's his hiding hole? It'll
mean a matter o' twenty guineas in your pocket to give him up."

"Blood money! I don't earn my living that way. You could have spared
your breath, Rofflash. The man's not here. I'll show you how he escaped.
Come this way."

Sally led the fellow to the window overlooking the Black Ditch and told
him the story.

"Are you bamboozling me, you jade?" growled Rofflash. "It would be like
you."

"I daresay it would if it were worth my while but it isn't. Look for
yourself. Can't you see the deep foot-prints in the mud?"

The waning moon gave sufficient light to show the black slimy surface of
the ditch. An irregularly shaped hole immediately below the window
showed where Vane had alighted. Footprints distinct enough indicated the
direction taken.

"If you're not satisfied search the house."

"I'll take your word. Who's your friend? You wouldn't lift your little
finger to save a stranger."

"Who's the girl?" Sally parried in a flash. "What's she like?"

Rofflash had sharp wits. Cunning was part of his trade.

"Ho ho," he thought. "Sits the wind in that quarter? I'll steer
accordingly."

"The girl? As tempting as Venus and a good deal livelier, I'll swear.
'Faith, she's one worth fighting for. I'll do her gallant justice. If
he's as handy with his blade as he is with his fists he'll be a pretty
swordsman. He'll need all he knows, though," added Rofflash darkly,
"when I meet him."

"Yes, when!" echoed Sally sarcastically. "You'll get no help from me."

"What! Sally Salisbury handing over the man she fancies to another
woman? Is the world coming to an end?"

Rofflash burst into a jeering laugh. It irritated Sally beyond endurance
as he intended it should. But it did not provoke the reply he hoped for.

"Mind your own business," she snapped.

"Why, that's what I'm doing and _my_ business is _yours_. But if you're
fool enough to chuck away a handful of guineas, why do it. All I can say
is that _my_ man would give you anything you like to ask if you'd open
your mouth and tell him where _your_ man is."

"Then I won't. That's my answer, Jeremy Rofflash. Put it in your pipe
and smoke it."

Rofflash made her a profound bow and smiled mockingly.

"Have your own way, mistress. What about this? Something more in your
line, I'll warrant."

He thrust his hand beneath the upper part of his long flapped waistcoat
and drew out a necklace. The pearls of which it was composed were
suffused with a pinkish tinge, the massive gold clasp gleamed in the
lamplight. Sally's eyes flashed momentarily and then became scornful.

"I'm not going to be bribed by _that_ either," she cried.

"Wait till you're asked, my dear. This is my business alone. It has
nought to do with t'other. A week ago these pearls were round the fair
neck of my Lady Wendover. I encountered her in her coach on the Bath
Road near Maidenhead Thicket--my favourite trysting place with foolish
dames who travel with their trinkets and fal-lals. At the sight of my
barkers her ladyship screamed and fainted. This made things as easy as
an old glove. Click! and the necklace was in my pocket and I was
galloping back to Hounslow as if Old Nick himself was behind me."

"Well, and what have your highway robberies to do with me?"

"Just this, pretty one. My Lord Wendover's offered £1,000 reward for the
return of her Ladyship's jewels. I dursn't hand 'em about. I've no fancy
for the hangman's rope. But _you_ can get rid of them and no one be the
wiser."

It was true. Sally had been very useful to Rofflash in disposing of some
of the trophies of his exploits on the Bath Road. The highwayman never
grumbled at whatever commission she chose to take and the arrangement
was to their mutual advantage.

Sally took the pearls and stroked their smooth surfaces lovingly.

"It's a shame to part with 'em."

"Aye, they'd look brave on your neck, sweetheart."

"No. I'm as loth to travel to Tyburn as you. Every fine woman of quality
knows the Wendover pearls. I'd be marked at the first ridotto or
masquerade I showed my face in. I'll do my best to turn 'em into money."

"You're a jewel yourself, Sally. That's all I want. Adieu, mistress, and
good luck go with you."

Rofflash swaggered out and as he made his way to the bridge he pondered
deeply over the mystery of woman. Here was Sally Salisbury, a "flaunting
extravagant quean," always over head and ears in debt, refusing a chance
to put money in her purse just because she had a fancy for a man who
maybe was as poor as a church mouse. Yet, as regarded men generally,
Sally was a daughter of the horseleech!

"Humph," muttered Rofflash, "so much the better. The end on't is I
pocket Dorrimore's gold and no sharing out. If Sally likes to be a fool
'tis her affair and not mine. I've only got to keep my eye on her. What
a woman like her wants she'll get, even if it costs her her life. Sooner
or later, madam, you'll find your way to the fellow's lodgings, and
it'll go hard if I'm not on the spot too."

By the time Rofflash was at the bridge the obstructing waggon had been
got out of the way. Dorrimore's coach was drawn to one side and
Dorrimore himself was striding impatiently up and down, occasionally
refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff and indulging in oaths more or
less elegant.

"Where the devil have you been, Rofflash?" he cried, testily. "And where
the devil's the girl?"

"She'll be safe in your hands shortly, Mr. Archibald, never fear."

"What, have you got her?"

"Not quite, but almost as good. The spark whose arms she jumped into is
her gallant, you may lay your life, and----"

"By thunder, if that's so I'll--I'll run him through, I will, by God!"

"Softly--softly. All in good time. By a bit of luck I came across a
friend who knows him and has engaged to run him to earth. It only means
a few guineas and I made free to promise him a purse. Within a week
you'll be face to face with your rival and you'll have your revenge."

"To the devil with my revenge. It's the girl I want, you blundering
idiot."

"And it's the girl you shall have, by gad. Can't you see, my good sir,
that when you clap your hands on the fellow you clap your hands on the
girl too?"

"S'life! Do you mean to say she's with him?"

"I'd go to a thousand deaths on that."

"I'll not believe it. The girl's a pretty fool or I shouldn't have made
her sweet on me with so little trouble, but she's not that sort."

"If she isn't, all I can say is that St. Giles and Drury Lane are the
places where innocent and unsuspecting maids are to be found. Ask Sally
Salisbury."

"Damn Sally Salisbury," cried the fine gentleman in a fury. "D'ye think
I don't know gold from dross? I'll take my oath no man had touched the
lips of that coy little wench before mine did."

"By all means keep to that belief, sir. It won't do you no harm. Now if
you'll take my advice you'll let me drive you to Moll King's and you'll
finish the night like a man of mettle and a gentleman."

Dorrimore was in a morose and sullen mood. He wanted bracing up and he
adopted Rofflash's suggestion. The coach rattled to Mrs. King's
notorious tavern in Covent Garden, where thieves and scoundrels, the
very dregs of London, mingled with their betters; and amid a bestial
uproar, with the assistance of claret and Burgundy, to say nothing of
port "laced" with brandy on the one hand, and gin and porter on the
other, all differences in stations were forgotten and gentlemen and
footpads were on a level--dead drunk.




CHAPTER VI

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER


A London night in the first quarter of the eighteenth century had very
little rest. Until long past midnight a noisy, lawless, drunken rabble
made the streets hideous. It was quite three o'clock, when as
physiologists tell us the vital forces are at their lowest, before it
could be said that the city was asleep. And that sleep did not last
long. Soon the creaking of market cart and waggon wheels, the shouts of
drovers and waggoners, tramping horses, bellowing cattle and bleating
sheep would dispel the stillness and proclaim the beginning of another
day.

Business in the approaches to the markets was in full swing before four
o'clock. Carters and waggoners were thirsty and hungry souls and the
eating houses and saloop stalls were thronged. The Old Bailey, from its
nearness to Smithfield was crowded, and the buxom proprietress of
Fenton's coffee house was hard put to it to serve her clamorous
customers and to see that she wasn't cheated or robbed.

Mrs. Fenton had improved in appearance as well as in circumstances since
she had come from Bedfordbury to the Old Bailey. She was a good-looking
woman of the fleshly type, with a bosom such as Rowlandson loved to
depict. She was high coloured, her eyes were deep blue, full and without
a trace of softness. Her lips were red and well shaped, her teeth white
and even. She was on the shady side of forty, but looked ten years
younger. Her customers admired her and loved to exchange a little coarse
badinage in which the good woman more than held her own.

There was a Mr. Fenton somewhere in the world, but his wife was quite
indifferent to his existence. He might be in the West Indian plantations
or the hulks for what she cared. She had always gone her own way and
meant to do so to the end of her days.

Apparently she was not in the best of tempers this morning. A drover who
attempted to jest with her was unmercifully snubbed, and so also was a
master butcher from Marylebone, who as a rule was received with favour.
But the lady was not in an ill temper with everybody--certainly not with
the stolid farmer-like man who was plodding his way through a rumpsteak
washed down by small beer.

The coffee shop was divided into boxes and the farmer-like man was
seated in one near the door which opened into the kitchen. Mrs. Fenton
had constantly to pass in and out and his seat was conveniently placed
so as to permit her to bestow a smile upon him as she went by or to
exchange a hurried word.

"The mistress is a bit sweet in that quarter, eh?" whispered a customer
with a jerk of the head and a wink to Hannah the waitress, whom Mrs.
Fenton had brought with her from Bedfordbury.

"I should just think she was," returned the girl contemptuously. "It
makes one sick. She ought to be a done with sweetheartin'."

"A woman's never too old for that, my girl, as you'll find when you're
her age. She might do worse. Dobson's got a tidy little purse put by.
There aren't many in the market as does better than him. He's brought up
twenty head o' cattle from his farm at Romford an' he'll sell 'em all
afore night--money down on the nail, mind ye. That'll buy Mistress
Fenton a few fallals if she's a mind for 'em."

"An' if she's fool enough. Why, he isn't much more than half her years
and she with a grown up daughter too."

"Aye. May be the gal 'ud be more a match for Dobson than her mother."

"Don't you let my mistress hear you say that. Why she's that jealous of
Lavinia she could bite the girl's head off. My! Well I never!"

Hannah started visibly and fixed her eyes on the entrance.

"What's the matter, wench?" growled the man.

"I don't believe in ghosts," returned the girl, paling a little and her
hands trembling in a fashion which rather belied her words, "or I'd say
as I'd just seen Miss Lavinia's sperrit look in at the door. If it isn't
her ghost it's her double."

"Why don't you run outside and settle your mind?"

"'Cause it's impossible it could be her. The girl's at boarding school."

"What's that got to do with it? You go and see."

Hannah hesitated, but at last plucked up her courage and went to the
door. She saw close to the wall some few yards away a somewhat
draggle-tail figure in cloak and hood. Within the hood was Lavinia's
face, though one would hardly recognise it as hers, so white, so drawn,
were the cheeks.

"Saints alive, surely it isn't you, Miss Lavvy?" cried Hannah, clasping
her hands as she ran to the fugitive.

"Indeed it is, worse luck. I'm in sad straits, Hannah. I wouldn't have
come here--I know what mother is--but I couldn't think what to do."

"But good lord--the school--mercy on us child, they haven't turned you
out, have they?"

"No, but they will if I go back. I dursn't do that. I couldn't get in.
I've been robbed of the key. It was inside my reticule that a rogue
snatched from my wrist on London Bridge."

"London Bridge! Gracious! What mischief took 'ee there and at this time
o' the mornin'?"

"I don't know," sighed the girl, half wearily, half pettishly. "I can't
tell you. Don't bother me any more. I'm tired to death. Take me inside
Hannah, or I'll drop. I suppose mother'll be in a fury when she sees me,
but it can't be helped. I don't think I care. It's nothing to do with
her."

Hannah forebore pestering the girl with more questions and led her to
the open door. The waitress had been with Mrs. Fenton in the squalid
days of six months before at the Bedfordbury coffee shop and she well
knew how Lavinia was constantly getting into a scrape, not from
viciousness, but from pure recklessness and love of excitement. Her
mother's treatment of her "to cure her of her ways," as the lady put it,
was simply brutal.

Hannah was not a little afraid of what would happen when Mrs. Fenton set
eyes on her wilful daughter. At the same time, Lavinia was not the same
girl who at Bedfordbury used to run wild, half clad and half starved,
and yet never looked like a beggar, so pretty and so attractive was she.
Six months had developed her into a woman and the training of Miss
Pinwell, the pink of gentility, had given her the modish airs of a lady
of quality. True, her appearance just now had little of this "quality,"
her walk being in fact somewhat limping and one-sided. But there was
good reason for this defect. She had lost one of her high-heeled shoes,
that with which she had battered the coach window.

In spite of her protest of not caring, Lavinia's heart went pit-a-pat
when she entered the hot, frowsy, greasy air of the coffee house.
Customers were clamouring to be served and there was no Hannah to wait
upon them. Mrs. Fenton, her eyes flashing fire, was bustling up and down
between the rows of boxes and denouncing the truant waitress in vigorous
Billingsgate.

Mrs. Fenton had her back turned to the door when Hannah entered with
Lavinia and the two were half way down the gangway before the lady
noticed them. At the sight of her daughter she dropped the dish of eggs
and bacon she was about to deposit in front of a customer and stared
aghast.

Every eye was turned upon Lavinia who, shaking herself free from
Hannah's friendly support, hastened towards her astonished mother,
anxious to avoid a scene under which in her shattered nerves she might
break down.

"Devil fetch me," Mrs. Fenton ejaculated before she had recovered from
the shock. "Why, you hussy----"

Lavinia did not wait to hear more. She brushed past her mother and then
her strength failing her for a moment, she clutched the back of the last
box to steady herself.

This box was that in which Dobson, the young cattle dealer was seated.
Dobson was human. He fell instantly under the spell of those limpid,
imploring eyes, the tremulous lips, and he rose and proffered his seat.

The act of courtesy was unfortunate. It accentuated Mrs. Fenton's rage.
Her heart was torn by jealousy. That Lavinia had shaken her head and
refused the seat made not the slightest difference. The girl had become
surpassingly handsome. Despite her fury Mrs. Fenton had eyes for this.
Her own daughter had attracted the notice of _her_ man! The offence was
unpardonable.

Lavinia knew nothing about this. All she wanted was to escape
observation and she darted into the kitchen, Betty the cook receiving
her with open mouth.

A narrow, ricketty staircase in a corner of the kitchen shut in by a
door which a stranger would take for that of a cupboard led to the upper
part of the house. Lavinia guessed as much. She darted to this door,
flung it open and ran up the creaking stairs just as her mother, shaking
with passion, entered and caught sight of her flying skirt.

"Good laux, mistress," Betty was beginning, but she could get no
further. Mrs. Fenton jumped down her throat.

"Hold your silly tongue. Don't talk to me. I--the smelling salts! Quick,
you slut, or I'll faint," screamed the lady.

No one could look less like fainting than did Mrs. Fenton, and so Betty
thought, but she kept her thoughts to herself and fetched the restorer
at which her mistress vigorously sniffed, after sinking, seemingly
prostrate, into a chair. Then she fell to fanning her hot face with her
apron, now and again relieving her feelings with language quite
appropriate to the neighbourhood of the Old Bailey.

Meanwhile Hannah wisely kept aloof and only went to the kitchen when
necessary to execute her customers' orders. Directly the fainting lady
inside saw the waitress she revived.

"What's this about Lavinia? Tell me. Everything mind," she cried.

"What I don't know I can't tell, mistress. Ask her yourself," returned
Hannah.

"Don't try to bamboozle me. You _do_ know."

"I say I don't. I found her outside more dead than alive, and I brought
her in. I wasn't going to let her be and all the scum of Newgate about."

"Oh, that was it. And pray how did you come to learn she was outside?"

"Because she'd looked in at the door a minute afore and was afeared to
come in 'cause of you, mistress. Give me that dish o' bacon, Betty. The
man who saw his breakfast tumbling on the floor is in a sad pother."

This was a shot for Mrs. Fenton. Hannah rarely sought to have words with
her mistress, but when she did she stood up to her boldly. Mrs. Fenton
was discomfited and Hannah, snatching the dish Betty handed to her,
vanished to appease the hungry customer, leaving the angry woman to chew
over her wrath as best she might.

Mrs. Fenton gradually cooled down. In half an hour's time the market
would be in full swing and most of her customers would be gone. Though
she was dying to know what had brought her daughter home, the story
would not spoil by keeping. Besides, though she was in a pet with
Dobson, she did not want to give him offence and she tried to make
amends for her angry outburst by bestowing upon him extra graciousness.

Before long Hannah was quite able to attend single-handed to the few
lingerers, and Mrs. Fenton went upstairs, eager to empty her vial of
suppressed temper on "that chit," as she generally called Lavinia.

She entered her own bedroom expecting to find the girl there, but
Lavinia had no fancy for invading her mother's domains and had gone into
the garret where Hannah slept. Dead with fatigue, mentally and bodily,
she had thrown herself dressed as she was on Hannah's bed and in a few
minutes was in a heavy sleep. But before doing so she slipped under the
bolster something she was holding in her left hand. It was the purse
forced upon her by Lancelot Vane.

Mrs. Fenton stood for a minute or so looking at her daughter. She could
not deny that the girl was very pretty, but that prettiness gave her no
satisfaction. She felt instinctively that Lavinia was her rival.

"The baggage is handsomer than I was at her age, and I wasn't a fright
either or the men wouldn't ha' been always dangling after me. With that
face she ought to get a rich husband, but I'll warrant she's a silly
little fool and doesn't know her value," muttered the lady, her hands on
her hips.

Then her eyes travelled over the picturesque figure on the bed, noting
everything--the shoeless foot, the stockings wet to some inches above
the small ankles, the mud-stained skirt, the bedraggled cloak saturated
for quite a foot of its length. Her hair had lost its comb and had
fallen about her shoulders. Mrs. Fenton frowned as she saw these signs
of disorder.

Then she caught sight of a piece of paper peeping from the bosom of the
girl's dress. The next instant she had gently drawn it out and was
reading it. The paper was Dorrimore's letter.

"Of course, I knew there was a man at the bottom of the business. And a
marriage too. Hoity toity, that's another pair of shoes."

She threw back a fold of the cloak, and scrutinised Lavinia's left hand.

"No wedding ring!" she gasped. "I might ha' guessed as much. Oh, the
little fool! Why, she's worse than I was. _I_ wasn't to be taken in by
soft whispers and kisses--well--well--_well_!"

The lady bumped herself into the nearest chair, breathed heavily and
smoothed her apron distractedly. Then she looked at the letter again.
Her glance went to the top of the sheet.

"So, no address. That looks bad. Who's Archibald Dorrimore? May be that
isn't his right name. He's some worthless spark who's got hold of her
for his own amusement. Oh, the silly hussy! What could that prim
Mistress Pinwell have been about? A fine boarding school indeed! She
can't go back. But I won't have her here turning the heads of the men.
That dull lout, Bob Dobson, 'ud as lieve throw his money into her lap as
he'd swallow a mug of ale. What'll her fine friends do for her now?
Nothing. She's ruined herself. Well, I won't have her ruin me."

Mrs. Fenton worked her fury to such a height that she could no longer
contain herself, and seizing her daughter's shoulder she shook her
violently. The girl's tired eyelids slowly lifted and she looked
vaguely into the angry face bending over her.

"Tell me what all this means, you jade. What have you been up to? How is
it you're in such a state? Who's been making a fool of you? Who's this
Dorrimore? Are you married to him or not?"

The good lady might have spared herself the trouble of pouring out this
torrent of questions. The last was really the only one that mattered.

"Married? No, I'm not," said Lavinia drowsily. "Don't bother me, mother.
Let me sleep. I'll tell you everything, but not--not now. I'm too
tired."

"Tell me everything? I should think you will or I'll know the reason
why. And it'll have to be the truth or I'll beat it out of you. Get up."

There was no help for it. Lavinia knew her mother's temper when it was
roused. Slowly rubbing her eyes she sat up, a rueful and repentant
little beauty, but having withal an expression in her eyes which seemed
to suggest that she wasn't going to be brow-beaten without a struggle.

"I ran away from school to be married," said she with a little pause
between each word. "I thought I was being taken to the Fleet, but when I
saw the coach wasn't going the right way I knew I was being tricked. On
London Bridge I broke the coach window, opened the door and escaped."

"A parcel of lies! I don't believe one of 'em," interjected the irate
dame.

"I can't help that. It's the truth all the same. I cut my arm with the
broken glass. Perhaps that'll convince you."

Lavinia held out her bandaged arm.

"No, it won't. What's become of your shoe?"

"I took it off to break the window with the heel and afterwards lost
it."

Mrs. Fenton was silent. If Lavinia were telling false-hoods she told
them remarkably well. She spoke without the slightest hesitation and the
story certainly hung together.

"After I jumped from the coach I ran to the river, down the stairs at
the foot of the bridge. The water was low and I stood under the bridge
afraid to move. A terrible fight was going on above me. I don't know
what it was about. The shooting and yelling went on for a long time and
I dursn't stir. I would have taken a wherry but no waterman came near.
Then the tide turned; the water came about my feet and I crept up the
stairs. I was in the Borough, but I dursn't go far. The street was full
of drunken people and I crept into a doorway and hid there. I suppose I
looked like a beggar, for no one noticed me. Then when the streets were
quieter I came here."

It will be noticed that Lavinia did not think it necessary to mention
the handsome young man who had rescued her.

While she was recounting her adventures her mother, though listening
attentively, was also pondering over the possible consequences. The
story might be true or it might not, whichever it was did not matter. It
was good enough for the purpose she had in her mind.

"Why didn't you go back to Miss Pinwell's?" Mrs. Fenton demanded
sharply. "I see by this scrawl that it isn't the first time you've
stolen out to meet this precious gallant of yours."

And Mrs. Fenton, suddenly producing the letter which she had hitherto
concealed, waved it in her daughter's face. Lavinia flushed angrily and
burst out:--

"You'd no right to read that letter any more than you had to steal it."

"Steal it? Tillyvalley! It's my duty to look after you and I'm going to
do it. Why didn't you go back to the school as you seem to have done
before?"

"Because the key of the front door was in my reticule, and that was
snatched from me or it slipped from my wrist in the scuffle on the
bridge."

"A pretty how de do, my young madam, upon my word. Miss Pinwell'll
never take you back. Goodness knows what may happen. What'll Mr. Gay,
who's been so good to you, think of your base ingratitude?"

Lavinia's eyes filled with tears. She broke down when she thought of the
gentle, good-natured poet. She could only weep silently.

Mrs. Fenton saw the sign of penitence with much satisfaction and while
twirling her wedding ring to assist her thoughts, suddenly said:--

"You haven't told me a word about this spark of yours. Who is he? What
is he? Some draper's 'prentice, I suppose, or footman, may be out of a
place for robbing his master and thinking of turning highwayman."

"Nothing of the kind," cried Lavinia, furious that her mother should
think she would so bemean herself. "I hate him for his falseness, but
he's a born gentleman all the same."

"Oh, is he? Let's hear all about him. There's no address on his letter.
Where does he live?"

"I shan't tell you."

"Because you're ashamed. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't a trull's bully
from Lewknor's Lane or Whetstone Park. The rascals pass themselves off
as sparks of fashion at ridottos, masquerades and what not and live by
robbery and blood money. I warrant I'll soon run your fine gentleman to
earth. He talks about telling his father. Pooh! That was but to bait the
trap and you walked into it nicely."

Her mother's insinuations maddened poor Lavinia. The mention of
Lewknor's Lane and Whetstone Park, two of the most infamous places in
London, was amply sufficient to break her spirit, which indeed was Mrs.
Fenton's intention. The worst of it was that after what had happened she
had in her secret heart come round to the same opinion so far as the
baiting of the trap was concerned. She was far too cast down to make
any reply and wept copiously, purely through injured pride and
humiliation.

"You must leave me to deal with this business, child," said Mrs. Fenton
loftily. "If the young man really belongs to the quality and what he
writes about his father is true, then his father must be made to pay for
the injury his son's done you. I suppose he's told you who his father is
and where he lives, and _I_ want to know too. If I'm to get you out of
the mess you're in you must help me."

"I won't," gasped Lavinia between her sobs. "I don't want to hear
anything more about him or his father either. I wish to forget both of
them."

"Humph! That won't be so easy as you'll find, you stubborn little fool.
Keep your mouth shut if you like. I'll ferret out the truth without
you."

And stuffing the letter into her capacious pocket, Mrs. Fenton stalked
out of the room and directly she was outside she turned the key in the
lock. Lavinia, too exhausted in body and too depressed in mind to think,
sobbed herself to sleep.




CHAPTER VII

"I WISH I WERE A RICH LADY FOR YOUR SAKE"


Lavina awoke to find Hannah in the room. The maid had brought in a cup
of chocolate and something to eat.

"I'm a dreadful sight, Hannah," said she dolefully.

"You'll be better when you've had a wash and done your hair. Your
cloak's spoilt. What a pity! Take it off and let me brush away the mud
and see if I can smooth out the creases."

Lavinia stretched herself, yawned and slowly pulled herself up, sitting
on the side of the bed for a minute or two before she commenced her
toilette. Hannah helped her to dress to the accompaniment of a running
commentary on the state of her clothing.

"What am I to do about shoes?" asked Lavinia, when this part of her
wearing apparel was reached.

"You won't be wanting any for a time I'm thinking, Miss Lavvy."

"Not wanting any shoes? Whatever do you mean?"

"Your mother means to lock you in this room for a while. She was for
keeping you for a day or two on bread and water, but I talked her out of
it."

Lavinia started in dismay. Then she burst out:--

"I won't endure such treatment. I won't, Hannah! You'll help me to run
away, won't you?"

"Not till I know what's going to become of you."

"But if I'm a prisoner you're my gaoler and you can let me out whenever
you choose."

"No I can't. I've to hand over the key to your mother."

"So you can after I'm gone."

"And what do you suppose I'm to say to her when that happens?"

"Oh, what you like, Hannah. I don't believe you're afraid of anybody.
You're so brave," said Lavinia, coaxingly.

"Well, well, we'll see. But I warn you, child, I'm not going to let you
come to harm."

Lavinia laughed and shrugged her plump shoulders. After what she had
gone through the night before she felt she could face anything. She knew
she could talk over the good-natured Hannah and she heard the latter
lock the door without feeling much troubled.

For all that Lavinia had a good deal to worry about, and she sat sipping
the chocolate while she pondered over what she should do. She could
think of no one she could go to besides Mr. Gay. How would he receive
her after her escapade?

"He knows so many play actors," she murmured,--"didn't he say I had a
stage face? I wonder--I wonder."

And still wondering she rose and straightened the bed. Shifting the
pillow she found beneath it the purse she had placed there before going
to sleep. Excitement and exhaustion had driven it out of her head. She
felt quite remorseful when the remembrance of the chivalrous young man
came into her mind.

"Ah me," she sighed. "I'll warrant I'll never set eyes on him again. I
do hope he wasn't hurt."

Lavinia looked at the purse wistfully. She had not had the opportunity
of seeing what it contained. It was of silk with a silver ring at each
end to keep the contents safe, and an opening between the rings. One end
had money in it, in the other a piece of paper crackled. She slipped the
ring at the money end over the opening and took out the coins--a guinea,
a crown and a shilling.

"I don't like taking it. He gave it me to pay the waterman and I hadn't
the chance. It isn't mine. I ought to return it to him. But how can I? I
don't know where he lives. I don't even know his name."

Then she fingered the other end. She slid the ring but hesitated to do
more. To look at the paper seemed like prying into the owner's affairs.
It must be something precious for him to carry it about with him.
Suppose it was a love letter from his sweetheart? She blushed at the
idea. Then curiosity was roused. Her fingers crept towards the papers,
for there were two. One ran thus:--


                                        "The Duke's Theatre,
                                             "Lincoln's Inn Fields.
     "SIR,--

     "I have read your play and herewith return it. I doubt not it has
     merit but it will not suit me.

             "I am your obedient humble servant,

      Lancelot Vane, Esq.                   "JOHN RICH."


"Poor fellow--so he writes plays. How aggravating to have such a rude
letter. 'Obedient--humble--servant,' forsooth! I hate that John Rich.
He's a bear."

Then Lavinia unfolded the second letter. It was more depressing than the
first.

"Lancelot Vane, 3, Fletcher's Court, Grub Street," Lavinia read;
"Sir,--I give you notiss that if you do nott pay me my nine weeks' rent
you owe me by twelve o'clock to-morrer I shall at wunce take possesshun
and have innstruckted the sheriff's offiser in ackordance therewith.
Yours respeckfully, Solomon Moggs."

"Oh, a precious lot of respect indeed," cried Lavinia angrily.

The date of the letter was that of the day before. The money had
consequently to be paid that very day and it was already past twelve
o'clock. If the poor young man could not pay he would at that moment be
homeless in the street and maybe arrested for debt and taken to the
Fleet or even Newgate. Hadn't she seen the poor starving debtors stretch
their hands through the "Debtors' door" in the Old Bailey and beg for
alms from the passers-by with which to purchase food? She pictured the
poor young man going through this humiliation and it made her shudder.
He was so handsome!

And all for the want of a paltry twenty-seven shillings! Twenty-seven
shillings? Was not that the exact sum of money in the purse?

"Oh, that must have been for his rent," cried Lavinia, clasping her
hands in great distress. "And he gave it to me!"

She was overwhelmed. She must return the money at once. But how? She ran
to the door. It was locked sure enough. The window? Absurd. It looked
out upon a broad gutter and was three storeys from the street. If it
were possible to lower herself she certainly could not do so in the
daytime. And by nightfall it would be too late. She sat down on the
side of the bed, buried her face in her hands and abandoned herself to
despair.

But this feeling did not last long. Lavinia sprang to her feet, flung
back her hair and secured it. Then she went once more to the window and
clambered out into the broad gutter. She hadn't any clear idea what to
do beyond taking stock of her surroundings. She looked over the parapet.
It seemed a fearful depth down to the roadway. Even if she had a rope it
was doubtful if she could lower herself. Besides, rarely at any hour
even at night was the Old Bailey free from traffic. She would have to
think of some other way.

She crept along the gutter in front of the next house. Dirty curtains
hung at windows. There was no danger of her being seen even if the room
had any occupants. She crawled onward, feeling she was a sort of Jack
Sheppard whose daring escapes were still being talked about.

At the next window Lavinia hesitated and stopped. This window had no
curtains. The grime of many months, maybe of years, obscured the glass.
One of the small panes was broken. Gathering courage she craned her head
and looked through the opening. The room was empty. The paper on the
walls hung in strips. There was a little hole in the ceiling through
which the daylight streamed.

If the house should, like the room, be empty! The possibility opened up
all kinds of speculation in Lavinia's active brain. Why not explore the
premises? Up till now she had forgotten her lost shoe. To pursue her
investigations unsuitably dressed as she was would be absurd. Supposing
she had a chance of escaping into the street she must be properly
garbed.

She did not give herself time to think but hastened back to Hannah's
room. She tried on all the shoes she could find. One pair was smaller
than the rest. She put on that for the left foot. It was a little too
large but near enough. Then she hurried on her hooded cloak and once
more tackled the gutter. She was able to reach the window catch by
putting her hand through the aperture in the broken pane. In a minute or
so she was in the room, flushed, panting, hopeful.

A long, long time must have passed since that room had been swept. Flue
and dust had accumulated till they formed a soft covering of nearly a
quarter of an inch thick. A fusty, musty smell was in the room, in the
air of the staircase, everywhere.

She feared that only the upper part of the house was uninhabited but it
was not so. The place was terribly neglected and dilapidated. Holes were
in the walls, some of the twisted oak stair-rails had been torn away,
patches of the ceiling had fallen. But Lavinia hardly noticed anything
as she flew down the stairs. The lock could not be opened from the
outside without the key, but inside the handle had but to be pushed back
and she was in the street. She pulled her hood well over her head and
hastened towards Ludgate Hill. It was not the nearest route to Grub
Street which she knew was somewhere near Moorfields, but she dared not
pass her mother's house.

Lavinia knew more about London west of St. Paul's than she did east of
it, and she had to ask her way. Grub Street she found was outside the
city wall, many fragments of which were then standing, and she had to
pass through the Cripples Gate before she reached the squalid quarter
bordering Moor Fields westward, where distressed poets, scurrilous
pamphleteers, booksellers' hacks and literary ne'er-do-wells dragged out
an uncertain existence.

Lavinia found Fletcher's Court to be a narrow passage with old houses
dating from Elizabethan times, whose projecting storeys were so close
together that at the top floor one could jump across to the opposite
side without much difficulty. With beating heart she entered the house,
the door of which was open. She met an old woman descending a rickety
tortuous staircase and stopped her.

"Can you tell me if Mr. Vane lives here?" said she.

"Well, he do an' he don't," squeaked the old dame. "Leastways he won't
be here much longer. He's a bein' turned out 'cause he can't pay his
rent, pore young gentleman. We're all sorry for him, so civil spoken and
nice to everybody, not a bit like some o' them scribblers as do nothing
but drink gin day an' night. Street's full of 'em. I can't make out what
they does for a livin'! Scholards they be most of 'em I'm told. Mr.
Vane's lodgin's on the top floor. You goes right up. That's old Sol
Moggs' squeak as you can hear. Don't 'ee be afeared of 'im, dearie."

The old woman, who was laden with a big basket and a bundle, went out
and Lavinia with much misgiving ascended the stairs. She remembered the
name, Solomon Moggs. He was the landlord. If his nature was as harsh and
discordant as his voice poor Lancelot Vane was having an unpleasant
time.

"Ill, are ye?" she heard Moggs shrieking. "I can't help that. I didn't
make you ill, did I? Maybe you was in a drunken brawl last night. It
looks like it with that bandage round your head. You scribbling gentry,
the whole bunch of ye, aren't much good. I don't see the use of you. Why
don't ye do some honest work and pay what you owes? I can't afford to
keep you for nothing. Stump up or out ye go neck and crop."

Lavinia ran up the next flight. The landing at the top was low pitched
and dark. The only light was that which came from the open door of a
front room. In the doorway was a little man in a shabby coat which
reached down to his heels. His wig was frowsy, his three-cornered hat
was out of shape and he held a big stick with which he every now and
then thumped the floor to emphasise his words.

Beyond this unpleasant figure she could see a small untidy room with a
sloping roof. The floor, the chairs--not common ones but of the early
Queen Anne fashion with leathern seats--an old escritoire, were strewn
with papers. The occupant and owner was invisible. But she could hear
his voice. He was remonstrating with the little man in the doorway.

Lavinia touched the man on the shoulder. He turned, stared and seeing
only a pretty girl favoured her with a leer.

"How much does Mr. Vane owe you?" said Lavinia, chinking the coins.

"Eh, my dear? Are you going to pay his debt? Lucky young man. Nine weeks
at three shillings a week comes to twenty-seven shillings. There ought
to be a bit for the lawyer who wrote the notice to quit. But I'll let
you off that because of your pretty face."

Lavinia counted the money into the grimy outstretched paw. Moggs' face
wrinkled into a smirk.

"Much obleeged, my young madam. I'll wager as the spark you've saved
from being turned into the street'll thank you more to your liking than
an old fellow like me could."

Solomon Moggs made a low bow and was turning away when Lancelot Vane
suddenly appeared. His face was very pallid and he clutched the door to
steady himself. What with his evident weakness and his bandaged head he
presented rather a pitiable picture.

"What's all this?" he demanded. "I'm not going to take your money,
madam."

"It's not mine," cried Lavinia in a rather disappointed tone. She could
see he did not remember her.

"Faith an' that's gospel truth," chuckled Moggs. "It's mine and it's not
going into anybody else's pocket." And he hastily shuffled down the
staircase.

Lavinia turned to Vane a little ruffled.

"You don't recollect me," she said. "The money's ours. I didn't want it
but you did and so I brought it back. I'm so glad I was in time and
that you're rid of that horrid man."

Lancelot Vane stared fixedly at her. The events of the night before were
mixed up in his mind and he had but a dim remembrance of the girl's
face. Indeed he had caught only a momentary glimpse of it.

"Was it you, madam, who were pursued by those ruffians?" he stammered.
"I'm grateful that you've come to no harm."

"Oh, it was all your doing," cried Lavinia, eagerly, "you were so brave
and kind. I was too frightened last night to think of anything but
getting away and I didn't thank you. I want to do so now."

"No, no. It's you who should be thanked. Don't stand there, pray. Do
come inside. It's a frightfully dirty room but it's the best I have."

"But I--I must get back."

"You're in no hurry, I hope. I've so much I would like to say to you."

"What can you have? We're such strangers," she protested.

"Just now we are perhaps, but every minute we talk together makes us
less so. Please enter."

His voice was so entreating, his manner so deferential, she could not
resist. She ventured within a few steps and while he cleared a chair
from its books and papers her eyes wandered round. One end of the room
was curtained off and the opening between the curtains revealed a bed.
The furniture was not what one would expect to find in a garret. It was
good and solid but undusted and the upholstery was faded. The general
appearance was higgledy-piggledy--hand to mouth domesticity mixed up
with the work by which the young man earned, or tried to earn, his
living. No signs of a woman's neatness and touches of decoration could
be seen.

Lavinia's glances went to the owner of the garret. After all it was only
he who was of real interest. She noticed the difficulty he had in
lifting a big folio from the chair. He could hardly use his right arm.
She saw his hollow cheeks and the dark circles beneath his eyes. She
hadn't spent years in the streets amongst the poorest not to know that
his wistful look meant want of food--starvation may be.

"Won't you sit down?" he said.

She shook her head.

"This belongs to you," she said, holding out his purse. "I'm so sorry
it's empty."

"I'm sorry too. You haven't spent a farthing on yourself and I meant it
all for you."

"It was very foolish when you wanted money so badly."

"That doesn't matter. You wouldn't have been here now if I hadn't given
it you."

Her eyes lighted up. The same thought had crossed her mind.

"How did you know I lived here?" he went on.

"Well I--I opened the other end of the purse and read what was on the
papers inside. It was very wrong. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"I'd forgive you anything. You descended upon me like an angel. Not many
young ladies of your station would have had the courage to set foot in
Grub Street."

A smile trembled on Lavinia's tempting lips.

"My station? What then do you think is my station?"

"How can I tell? I take you to be a lady, madam. I don't want to know
any more."

At this Lavinia laughed outright. Her clothes were of good quality and
of fashionable cut--the Duchess of Queensberry's maid had seen to
that--her manner and air were those of a lady of quality--thanks to Miss
Pinwell--but apart from these externals what was she? A coffee shop
waitress--a strolling singer--a waif and stray whose mother would not
break her heart if she got her living on the streets!

When she thought of the bitter truth the laughing face was clouded.

"I wish I were a lady--a rich one, I mean--for your sake," said she
softly. "You look so ill. You ought to have a doctor."

"I ought to have a good many things, I daresay, that I haven't got. I
have to do without."

Her eyes drooped. They remained fixed on a little gold brooch fastening
her cloak. The brooch was the gift of Dorrimore. The wonder was her
mother had not discovered it.

"I must go. I--I've forgotten something."

"But you'll come again, wont you?" said he imploringly. "Though to be
sure there's nothing in this hovel to tempt you? Besides, the difference
between us----"

"Please don't talk nonsense," she broke in. "Yes, I'll come again soon.
I don't know how long I shall be--a couple of hours perhaps."

"Do you really mean that?" he cried, joyfully.

"Yes, if nothing happens to prevent me. Good-bye for a while."

She waved her hand. He caught the tips of her fingers and kissed them.
One bright smile in response and she was gone.

With her heart fluttering strangely--a fluttering that Dorrimore had
never been able to inspire--Lavinia flew down the staircase and sped
through the streets in the direction of London Bridge.




CHAPTER VIII

"YOU'VE A MIGHTY COAXING TONGUE"


The shop on London Bridge of Dr. Mountchance, apothecary, astrologer,
dealer in curios and sometimes money lender and usurer, was in its way
picturesque and quaint, but to most tastes would scarcely be called
inviting. Bottles of all shapes and sizes loaded the shelves, mingled
with jars and vases from China, Delft ware from Holland and plates and
dishes from France, which Dr. Mountchance swore were the handiwork of
Palissy, the famous artist-potter. Everything had a thick coating of
dust. Dried skins of birds, animals and hideous reptiles hung from the
walls and ceiling; a couple of skulls grinned mockingly above a doorway
leading into a little room at the rear, and it was difficult to steer
one's way between the old furniture, the iron bound coffers and
miscellaneous articles which crowded the shop.

In the room behind, chemical apparatus of strange construction was on
one table; packets of herbs were on another; a huge tome lay opened on
the floor, and books were piled on the chairs. The apartment was a
mixture of a laboratory and lumber room. A furnace was in one corner,
retorts, test tubes, crucibles, a huge pestle and mortar, jars, bottles
were on a bench close handy.

The room was lighted by a window projecting over the Thames, and the
roar of the river rushing through the narrow arches and swirling and
dashing against the stone work never ceased, though it varied in
violence according to wind and tide. The house was a portion of the old
chapel of St. Thomas, long since converted from ecclesiastical
observances to commercial uses.

Dr. Mountchance, who at this moment was at a table in the centre
examining a silver flagon and muttering comments upon it, was a little
man about seventy, with an enormous head and a spare body and short
legs. His face was wrinkled like a piece of wet shrivelled silk and his
skin was the colour of parchment. His eyes, very small and deep-set,
were surmounted by heavy brows once black, now of an iron grey. His
mouth was of prodigious width, the lips thin and straight and his nose
long, narrow and pointed. He wore a dirty wig which was always awry, a
faded mulberry coloured coat, and a frayed velvet waistcoat reaching
halfway down his thighs. His stockings were dirty and hung in bags about
his ankles, his feet were cased in yellow slippers more than half worn
out.

Dr. Mountchance's hearing was keen. A footfall in the shop, soft as it
was, caused him to look up. He saw a slight girlish figure, her cloak
pulled tightly about her, a pair of bright eyes peering from beneath the
hood.

The old man gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. Many of his customers were
women but he liked them none the more because of their sex. They
generally came to sell, not to buy, and most of them knew how to drive a
hard bargain. He shuffled into the shop with a scowl on his lined yellow
face.

"What d'ye want?" he growled.

Most girls would have been nervous at such a reception. Not so this one.

"I want to sell this brooch. How much will you give me for it?" said
she, undauntedly.

"Don't want to buy it. Go somewhere else."

"I shan't. Too much trouble. Besides, you're going to buy it, dear Dr.
Mountchance."

The imploring eyes, the beseeching voice, soft and musical, the modest
yet assured manner, were too much for the old man. Unconscious of the
destiny awaiting her, Lavinia was employing the same tenderness of look,
the same captivating pathos of tone as when two years later she, as
Polly Peachum, sang "Oh ponder well," and won the heart of the Duke of
Bolton.

"H'm, h'm," grunted Mountchance, "you pretty witch. Must I humour ye?"

"Of course you must. You're so kind and always ready to help others."

The doctor showed his yellow fangs in a ghastly grin that gave a
skull-like look to his dried face.

"Hold thy wheedling tongue, hussy. This trinket--gold you say?"

"Try it, you know better than I."

Dr. Mountchance took the brooch into the inner room, weighed it, tested
the metal and returned to the shop.

"I can give you no more than the simple value of the gold. 'Tis not
pure--a crown should content ye."

"Well, it doesn't. Do you take me for a cutpurse? I'm not that sort."

"How do I know? You use thieves' jargon. Where did you pick it up?"

Lavinia gave one of her rippling laughs.

"That's my business and not yours. I tell you it's honestly come by and
I want a guinea for it. You know it's worth five and maybe more. The man
who gave it me--I don't care for him you may like to know--isn't mean.
He'd spend a fortune on me if I'd care to take it but I don't." She
tossed her head disdainfully.

"Oh, 'tis from your gallant. Aye, men are easily fooled by bright eyes.
Well--well----"

Lavinia's ingenuous story had its effect. Not a few of Dr. Mountchance's
lady customers preferred money to trinkets and he did a profitable trade
in buying these presents at his own price. Some of these flighty damsels
were haughty and patronising and others were familiar and impudent. The
old man disliked both varieties. Lavinia belonged to neither the first
nor the second. She was thoroughly natural and the humour lurking in her
sparkling eyes was a weapon which few could resist. Dr. Mountchance
unclasped a leather pouch and extracted a guinea.

"You've a mighty coaxing tongue, you baggage. Keep it to yourself that I
gave you what you asked, lest my reputation as a fair dealing man be
gone for ever."

"Oh, you may trust me to keep my mouth shut," said Lavinia with mock
gravity.

A sweeping curtsey and she turned towards the door. At the same moment a
lady cloaked and hooded like herself entered. They stared at each other
as they passed.

Lavinia recognised Sally Salisbury, though the latter was much more
finely dressed than when they encountered each other outside the
Maidenhead Tavern in St. Giles. Sally was not so sure about Lavinia. The
slim girl was now a woman. She carried herself with an air. She had
exchanged her shabby garments for clothes of a fashionable cut which she
knew how to wear. Still, some chord in Sally's memory was stirred and
she advanced into the shop with a puzzled look on her face.

Mountchance received his fresh customer obsequiously. He had made a good
deal of money out of Sally; she never brought him anything which was not
valuable and worth buying. Sometimes her treasures were presents from
admirers, sometimes they were the proceeds of highway robberies. The
latter yielded the most profit. The would-be sellers dared not haggle.
They were only too anxious to get rid of their ill-gotten gains.

The old man bowed Sally Salisbury into his inner room. He knew that the
business which had brought her to him was one that meant privacy. He
ceremoniously placed a chair for her and awaited her pleasure.

The lady was in no hurry. She caught sight of the gold brooch lying on
the table, took it up and examined it. On the back was graven "A.D. to
Lavinia." Sally's dark arched eyebrows contracted.

"Lavinia," she thought. "So it _was_ that little squalling cat. I hate
her. She's tumbled on her feet--like all cats. But for the letters I'd
say she'd flung herself at the head of _my_ man."

Sally was thinking of her encounter with Lavinia outside the Maiden Head
tavern. Lancelot Vane was then sitting in the bow window of the
coffee-room. True he was in a drunken sleep but this would make no
difference. Lavinia, Sally decided, was in a fair way to earn her
living, much as Sally herself did--the toy of the bloods of fashion one
day, the companions of highwaymen and bullies the next.

"Where did the impertinent young madam get her fine clothes and her
quality air if not?" Sally asked herself, and the question was a
reasonable one.

"Have you brought me ought that I care to look at, Mistress Salisbury?"
broke in the old man impatiently. "You haven't come to buy that paltry
trinket, I'll swear."

"How do you knew? It takes my fancy. Where did you get it?"

"I've had it but five minutes. You passed the girl who sold it me as you
came in. A pretty coaxing wench. She'd make a man pour out his gold at
her feet if she cared to try."

Sally's lips went pallid with passion and her white nostrils quivered.

"A common little trull," she burst out. "She should be sent to Bridewell
and soundly whipped. 'Tis little more than six months she was a street
squaller cadging for pence round the boozing kens of St. Giles and Clare
Market. And now--pah! it makes me sick."

Sally flung the brooch upon the table with such violence it bounced a
foot in the air.

"Gently--gently, my good Sally," remonstrated Mountchance, "if you must
vent your fury upon anything choose your own property, not mine."

It was doubtful if the virago heard the request. She was not given to
curbing her temper, and leaning back in the chair, her body rigid, she
beat a tattoo with her high-heeled shoes and clenched her fists till
the knuckles whitened.

Mountchance had seen hysterical women oft times and was not troubled. He
opened a stoppered bottle and held its rim to the lady's nose. The
moment was well chosen, Sally was in the act of drawing a deep breath,
probably with the intention of relieving her feelings by shrieking
aloud. The ammonia was strong and she inhaled a full dose. She gasped,
she coughed, her eyes streamed, the current of her thoughts changed, she
poured a torrent of unadulterated Billingsgate upon the imperturbable
doctor who busied himself about other matters until Sally should think
fit to regain her senses.

That time came when after a brief interval of sullenness, accompanied by
much heaving of the bosom and biting of lips she deigned to produce the
pearl necklace, the spoil of Rofflash's highway robbery on the Bath
Road.

Mountchance looked at the pearls closely and his face became very
serious.

"The High Toby game I'll take my oath," said he in a low voice. "Such a
bit of plunder as this must be sent abroad. I dursn't attempt to get rid
of it here."

"That's _your_ business. My business is how much'll you give."

Dr. Mountchance named a sum ridiculously low so Sally thought. Then
ensued a long haggle which was settled at last by a compromise and Sally
departed.

As she hurried back to her lodgings in the Borough, Sally was quite
unaware that Rofflash, disguised as a beggar with a black patch over his
eye and a dirty red handkerchief tied over his head in place of his wig,
was stealthily shadowing her.




CHAPTER IX

"YOU WERE BRAVE AND FOUGHT FOR ME"


Meanwhile Lavinia was hastening to Grub Street. On her way she bought a
pair of shoes which if not quite in the _mode_ were at least fellows.
She also cleverly talked the shopkeeper into allowing her something on
the discarded odd ones and thereby saved a shilling.

The girl's old life in roaming about the streets had sharpened her wits.
Adversity had taught her much. It had given her a knowledge of persons
and things denied to those to whom life had always been made easy. She
had had sundry acquaintances among the pretty orange girls who plied
their trade at Drury Lane and the Duke's theatres and had got to know
how useful Dr. Mountchance was in buying presents bestowed upon them by
young bloods flushed with wine, and in other ways. Hence when in want of
money she looked upon her brooch she at once thought of the old man's
shop on London Bridge.

The taverns in those days were real houses of refreshment. Food could be
had at most of them as well as drink. Still a girl needed some courage
to enter. The men she might meet were ready to make free in far too
familiar a fashion. Lavinia stopped in front of the "Green Dragon" near
the Cripples Gate, but hesitated. Many months had passed since the time
when she would have boldly walked into the galleried inn-yard and asked
for what she wanted. The refining influence of Miss Pinwell's genteel
establishment had made her loathe the low life in which her early years
had been passed.

"They can't eat me," she thought. "Besides, the poor fellow is
starving."

The place was fairly quiet. One or two men of a group drinking and
gossipping winked at each other when they caught sight of her pretty
face, but they said nothing and she got what she asked for, a cold
chicken, bread and a bottle of wine.

Lavinia hastened to Grub Street. She ran up the dirty narrow ricketty
stairs, her heart palpitating with excitement, and she knocked at the
garret door. It was opened immediately, Lancelot Vane stood in the
doorway, his fine eyes beaming. He looked very handsome, Lavinia
thought, and she blushed under his ardent gaze.

He had washed, he had shaved, he had put on his best suit and his wig
concealed the cut on his forehead. He was altogether a different
Lancelot from the bedraggled, woe-begone, haggard young man whom she had
found in the last stage of misery two hours ago. He had moreover,
enlisted the help of the old woman whom Lavinia had met on the stairs at
her first visit and the place was swept and tidied. The room as well as
its occupant was now quite presentable.

"I've brought you something to eat," stammered Lavinia quite shyly to
her own surprise. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not if you'll do me the honour to share it with me."

"Oh, but it will give you so much trouble. And I'm not hungry. I bought
it all for you."

Lavinia was busy emptying the contents of a rush basket which the
good-natured landlord of the "Green Dragon" had given her.

"Have you a plate and a knife and fork? You can't eat with your fingers,
you know."

"I've two plates and two knives and forks, but the knives are not pairs.
I apologise humbly for my poverty stricken household."

"That doesn't matter. I'm not going to touch a morsel."

"Neither am I then. And it isn't my hospitality, remember, but yours.
Why are you such a good Samaritan?"

"You were brave and fought for me. I shall never forget last
night--never."

"It will always be in my memory too, and I want our first meal together
to be in my memory also. Alas! I have no tablecloth."

"But you have plenty of paper," Lavinia laughingly said. "That will do
as well."

Lancelot laughed in unison and seizing a couple of sheets of foolscap he
opened and spread them on the table.

"One for you and one for me, but you see I've put them together," said
he with a roguish gleam in his eye.

"No, they must be separate."

But he had his way.

Soon the banquet was ready and it delighted Lavinia to see how
ravenously the young man ate. At the same time it pained her for it told
of days of privation. Before long they were perfectly at ease and
merrily chatting about nothing in particular, under some circumstances
the best kind of talk. Suddenly he said:

"I'm wondering where my next meal is to come from. I can't expect an
angel to visit me every day."

"Perhaps it will be a raven. Didn't ravens feed Elijah?" said Lavinia
mockingly.

"I believe so, but I'm not Elijah. I'm not even a prophet. I'm only a
poor scribbler."

"You write plays, don't you?"

"I've written one but I'm afraid it's poor stuff. I meant to show it to
Mr. Gay the great poet. I was told he was often to be found at the
Maiden Head in St. Giles, but unluckily I was persuaded by some friends
to see Jack Sheppard's last exploit at Tyburn. I drank too much--I own
it to my shame--and when I reached the inn where I hoped to see Mr. Gay
I fell dead asleep and never saw him. He had gone when I awoke."

Lavinia clasped her hands. A shadow passed over her bright face leaving
it sad and pensive. The red mobile lips were tremulous and the eyes
moist and shining. She now knew why Lancelot Vane's features had seemed
so familiar to her. But not for worlds would she let him know she had
seen him in his degradation.

Besides she too had memories of that day she would like to forget--save
the remembrance of her meeting with Gay and his kindness to her, a
kindness which she felt she had repaid with folly and ingratitude.

"Then you know Mr. Gay?" said she presently.

"I was introduced to him by Spiller the actor one night at the Lamb and
Flag, Clare Market--I'll warrant you don't know Clare Market; 'tis a
dirty greasy ill-smelling place where everyone seems to be a
butcher----"

Lavinia said nothing. She knew Clare Market perfectly well.

"Mr. Gay was good enough to look at some poems I had with me. He praised
them and I told him I'd written a play and he said he would like to see
it. And then--but you know what happened. I feel I daren't face him
again after disgracing myself so. What must he think of me?"

"He'll forgive you," cried Lavinia enthusiastically. "He's the dearest,
the kindest, the most generous hearted man in the world. He is my best
friend and----"

She stopped. She was on the point of plunging into her history and there
was no necessity for doing this. She had not said a word to Lancelot
Vane about herself and she did not intend to do so. He must think what
he pleased about the adventure which had brought them together. He must
have seen her leap from Dorrimore's carriage--nay, he may have caught
sight of Dorrimore himself. Then there was the ruffian of a coachman who
had pursued her. The reason of the fellow's anxiety to capture her must
have puzzled Vane. Well, it must continue to puzzle him.

"Mr. Gay your friend?" returned Vane with a pang of envy. "Ah, then,
you're indeed fortunate. I--you've been such a benefactor to me, madam,
that I hesitate to ask another favour of you."

All familiarity had fled from him. He seemed to be no longer on an
equality with her. He was diffident, he was respectful. If this girl was
a friend of Mr. Gay the distinguished poet and dramatist whose latest
work, "The Fables," was being talked about at Button's, at Wills', at
every coffee-house where the wits gathered, she must be somebody in the
world of fashion and letters. Perhaps she was an actress. She had the
assured manner of one, he thought.

"What is it you want? If it's anything in my power I'd like to help
you," said Lavinia with an air of gracious condescension. The young
man's sudden deference amused her highly. It also pleased her.

"Thank you," he exclaimed eagerly. "I would ask you if you have
sufficient acquaintance to show him my play? I'm sure he would refuse
you nothing. Nobody could."

"Oh, this is very sad," said Lavinia shaking her head. "I'm afraid, Mr.
Vane, you're trying to bribe me with flattery. I warn you it will be of
no avail. All the same I'll take your play to Mr. Gay if you care to
trust it to me."

"Trust, madam, I'd trust you with anything."

"You shouldn't be so ready to believe in people you know nothing of.
But--where's this play of yours? May I look at it?"

"It would be the greatest honour you could confer upon me. I would
dearly love to have your opinion," he cried, his face flushing.

"My opinion isn't worth a button, but all the same the play would
interest me I'm sure."

He went to a bureau and took from one of the drawers a manuscript neatly
stitched together.

"I've copied it out fairly and I don't think you'll have much difficulty
in deciphering the writing."

Lavinia took the manuscript and glanced at the inscription on the first
page. It ran "Love's Blindness: A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Lancelot
Vane."

"Oh, it's a tragedy," she exclaimed.

He read the look of dismay that crept over her face and his heart fell.

"Yes. But the real tragic part doesn't come until the very last part of
the fifth act."

"And what happens then?"

"The lovers both die. They do not find out how much they love each other
until it is too late for them to be united, so Stephen kills Amanda and
then kills himself."

"How terribly sad. But wasn't there any other way? Why couldn't you have
made them happy?"

"Then it wouldn't have been a tragedy."

"Perhaps not. But what prevented them marrying?"

"Amanda, not knowing Stephen loved her, had married another man whom she
didn't care for."

"I see. There was a husband in the way. Still it would have been wiser
for her to have left him and run away with Stephen. It certainly would
have been more in the mode."

"Not on the stage. People like to see a play that makes them cry. How
they weep over the sorrows of Almeria in Mr. Congreve's 'Mourning
Bride!'"

"Yes, so I've heard. I've never seen the play. The title frightens me. I
don't like the notion of a mourning bride."

"Not in real life I grant you. But on the stage it's different. I'm
sorry you don't care for my tragedy," he went on disappointedly.

"I never said that. How could I when I haven't read a line? That's very
unjust of you."

"I humbly crave forgiveness. Nothing was further from my thoughts than
to accuse you of being unjust. I ought to have said that you didn't care
for tragedies, and if so mine would be included. Pray pardon me."

"How serious! You haven't offended me a bit. After all it isn't what I
think of your play that's of any consequence. It's what Mr. Gay thinks
and I'll do my best to take it to him."

"You will? Madam, you've made me the happiest of mortals. Let me wrap up
my poor attempt at play writing."

"Why do you call it poor? And am I not to read it?"

"No, no. Not a line. You would think it tedious. I'll wait for Mr. Gay's
opinion, and if that's favourable I would like with your permission to
introduce a part for you."

"What, in a tragedy? I can't see myself trying to make people weep."

"But it wouldn't be a tragic part. While we've been talking it has
occurred to me that the play would be improved by a little comedy."

"Yes," rejoined Lavinia eagerly, "by a character something like Cherry
in the 'Beaux Stratagem?'"

"H'm," rejoined Vane. "Not quite so broad and vivacious as Cherry. That
would be out of keeping."

"I'd dearly love to play Cherry," said Lavinia meditatively.

"You'd be admirable I doubt not, but----"

"Would the part you'd introduce have a song in it?"

"H'm," coughed the dramatist again. "Hardly. There are no songs in
tragedies."

"I don't see why there shouldn't be. I love singing. When I'm an actress
I must have songs. Mr. Gay says so."

"Then you've not been on the stage?"

"No, but I hope I shall be soon. I dream of nothing else."

Vane looked at her inquiringly. To his mind the girl seemed made for
love. Surely a love affair must have been the cause of the escapade on
London Bridge. How came she to be alone with a gallant in his carriage
at that time of night? But he dared not put any questions to her. Her
love affairs were nothing to him--so he tried to persuade himself.

He was now busy in tying up the manuscript in a sheet of paper and
Lavinia was thinking hard.

The question was, what was to become of her? She had no home, for she
had made up her mind she would not go back to her mother and Miss
Pinwell was equally impossible. This impeccable spinster would never
condone such an offence as that of which she had been guilty. Neither
did Lavinia wish the compromising affair to be known in the school and
talked about. She felt she had left conventional schooling for ever and
she yearned to go back to life--but not the same life in which her early
years had been passed.

Another worry was her shortness of money. She had but a trifle left out
of the guinea her brooch had fetched. In the old days she could have
soon earned a shilling or two by singing outside and inside taverns. But
what she had done as a beggar maid could not be thought of in her fine
clothes. And during the last six months, with good food, regular hours
and systematic drilling, she had shot up half a head. She was a grown
woman, and she felt instinctively that as such and with the winsome face
Nature had bestowed upon her, singing outside taverns would be
considered by men as a blind for something else. In addition she looked
back upon her former occupation with loathing. It could not be denied
that she was in an awkward plight.

She was so absorbed that she did not hear Vane who finished tieing up
the packet speaking to her. Suddenly she became aware of his voice and
she turned to him in some confusion.

"I beg your pardon. You were saying----"

"Pardon my presumption, I was asking whether I might have the privilege
of knowing your name."

"Oh yes. Lavinia Fenton. But that's all I can tell you. You mustn't ask
where I live."

"I'm not curious. I'm quite contented with what you choose to let me
know."

"And with that little are you quite sure you'll trust me with your play?
Suppose I lose it or am robbed?"

"I must take my chance. I've a rough draft of the whole and also all the
parts written out separately. I wouldn't think of doubting you. But do
you know where to find Mr. Gay?"

"Oh yes. He lives at the house of his friend, Her Grace the Duchess of
Queensberry."

"That is so," rejoined Vane in a tone of evident relief. Her answer
convinced him that what she said about knowing Gay was true.

"I can only promise to deliver it to him and if possible place it in his
own hands. Do you believe me?"

"Indeed I do. And will you see me again and bring me an answer?"

"Why, of course," said she smilingly.

He insisted upon attending her down the staircase and when they were in
the dark passage down below they bade each other adieu, he kissing her
extended hand with a courteous bow which became him well.

Vane watched her thread her way along poverty-stricken Grub Street, and
slowly ascended the staircase to his garret sighing deeply.




CHAPTER X

IN THE CHAPTER COFFEE HOUSE


It was nearly six o'clock when Lavinia stood on the broad steps of
Queensberry House behind Burlington Gardens. Now that she was staring at
the big door between the high railings with their funnel shaped link
extinguishers pointing downward at her on either side her courage
seemed to be slipping from her. The grotesque faces supporting the
triangular portico seemed to be mocking her, the enormous knocker
transformed itself into a formidable obstacle.

The adventures of the last forty-eight hours had suddenly presented
themselves to the girl's mind in all their enormity. It occurred to her
for the first time that she had not only thrown away the chance of her
life, but that she had been guilty of black ingratitude to her
benefactors. And her folly in permitting the fancy to rove towards
Archibald Dorrimore, for whose foppishness she had a contempt, simply
because he was rich! The recollection of this caused her the bitterest
pang of all.

How could she justify her conduct to Mr. Gay! Would he not look upon her
as a light o' love ready to bestow smiles upon any man who flattered
her? Well, she wouldn't attempt to justify herself. Mr. Gay was a poet.
He would understand. But the terrible duchess--Kitty of Queensberry who
feared nothing and in the plainest of terms, if she was so minded,
expressed her opinion on everything! Lavinia quaked in her shoes at the
thought of meeting the high-born uncompromising dame.

"But I've promised the poor fellow. I _must_ keep my word. I don't care
a bit about myself if I can do that," she murmured.

Lavinia had a sudden heartening, and lest the feeling should slacken she
seized the heavy bell-pull and gave it a violent tug.

The door was opened almost immediately by a fat hall porter who scowled
when he saw a girl instead of the footman of a fine lady in her chair.

"What d'ye want? A-ringing the bell like that one would think you was my
Lord Mayor."

"I'm neither the Lord Mayor nor the Lady Mayoress, as your own eyes
ought to tell you. I wish to see Mr. Gay."

"Well, you can't," said the porter gruffly. "He's not here. He's staying
with Mr. Pope at Twitnam."

"Twitnam? Where is Twitnam?"

"Up the river."

"How far? Can I walk there?"

"May be, but you hadn't better go on foot. It's a goodish step--ten or a
dozen miles. You might go by waggon, there isn't no other way save toe
and heel. An' let me give you warning, young 'oman, the roads aren't
safe after dark. D'rectly you get to Knightsbridge footpads is ten a
penny, let alone 'ighwaymen. Not that you're _their_ game--leastways by
the looks o' you."

"Thank you. I'm not afraid, but you mean your advice kindly and I'll not
forget it. Mr. Gay's at Mr. Pope's house you say?"

"Mr. Pope's villa--he calls it. Mr. Pope's the great writer."

"I've heard of him. Which is the way after I've left Knightsbridge?"

"Why, straight along. Don't 'ee turn nayther to the right or the left,
Kensington--'Ammersmith--Turn'am Green--Brentford--you goes through 'em
all, if you don't get a knock on the 'ead on the way or a bullet through
ye. One's as likely to 'appen as the other. I wouldn't answer fer your
getting safe and sound to Twitnam unless you goes by daylight."

"That's what I must do then," said Lavinia resignedly. "Thank you
kindly."

"You're welcome, I hope as how that pretty face o' yours won't get ye
into trouble. It's mighty temptin'. I'd like a kiss myself."

"Would you? Then you won't have one. As for my face, I haven't any other
so I must put up with it."

Dropping a curtsey of mock politeness Lavinia hastened away and did not
slacken her pace till she reached Piccadilly and was facing the large
open space now known as the Green Park.

It was a lovely evening and the western sun though beginning to descend,
still shone brightly. The long grass invited repose and Lavinia sat down
on a gentle hillock to think what her next step must be.

She was greatly disappointed at not finding Mr. Gay. She was sure he
would have forgiven her escapade; he would have helped her over the two
difficulties facing her--very little money and no shelter for the night.
Of the two the latter was most to be dreaded.

"A year ago," she thought, "it wouldn't have mattered very much. The
Covent Garden women and men from the country are kind-hearted. I'd have
had a corner in a waggon and some hay to lie upon without any bother,
and breakfast the next morning into the bargain. But now--in these
clothes--what would they take me for?"

These reflections, all the same, wouldn't solve the problem which was
troubling her and it _had_ to be solved. She must either walk about the
streets or brave the tempest of her mother's wrath. This wrath, however,
didn't frighten her so much as the prospect of being again made a
prisoner. Her mother, she felt sure, had some deep design concerning
her, though what it was she could not conceive.

Tired of pondering over herself and her embarrassing situation Lavinia
turned her mind to something far more agreeable--her promise to Lancelot
Vane which of course meant thinking about Vane himself.

She couldn't help contrasting Vane with Dorrimore. She hated to remember
having listened seriously to the latter's flatteries. By the light of
what had happened it seemed now to her perfectly monstrous that she
could ever have consented to marry him. It angered her when she thought
of it--but her anger was directed more against herself than against
Dorrimore.

"I suppose I ought to go back to Mr. Vane. He'll be waiting anxiously to
know how I've fared, but no--I'll go to Twitenham first."

She sat for some time watching the sunset. She wove fanciful dreams in
which the pallid face and large gleaming eyes of the young poet were
strangely involved. With what courtly grace and reverence he had kissed
her hand! Vane was a gentleman by nature; Dorrimore merely called
himself one and what was more boasted of it.

But what did it matter to her? Vane had done her a service and it was
only right she should repay him in some sort. This was how she tried to
sum up the position. Whether Mr. Gay befriended him or not, their
acquaintance would have to cease. He was penniless and so was she. If
she confessed as much as this to him he would be embarrassed and
distressed because he could not help her.

"I dursn't tell him," she sighed. "I'll have to do something for myself.
Oh, if I could only earn some money by singing! I would love it. Not in
the streets though. No, I could never do that again. Never!"

She clasped her hands tightly and her face became sad. Then her thoughts
went back to Vane and she pictured him in his lonely garret perhaps
dreaming of the glorious future awaiting him if his tragedy was a
success, or perhaps he was dejected. After so many disappointments what
ground had he for hope? Lavinia longed to whisper in his ear words of
encouragement. She had treasured that look when his face lighted up at
something she had said that had pleased him. And his sadness she
remembered too. She was really inclined to think she liked him better
when he was sad than when he was joyful. But this was because she
gloried in chasing that sadness away. It was a tribute to her power of
witchery.

Dusk was creeping on. She must not remain longer in that solitary
expanse. She rose and sped towards Charing Cross. In the Strand citizens
and their wives, apprentices and their lasses were taking the air. The
scraps of talk, the laughter, gave her a sense of security. But the
problem of how to pass the night was still before her. She dared not
linger to think it out. She must go on. Young gallants gorgeously
arrayed were swaggering arm in arm in pursuit of adventure, in plain
words in pursuit of women, the prettier the better. Lavinia had
scornfully repelled the advances of more than one and to loiter would
but invite further unwelcome attention.

The night was come but fortunately the sky was clear, for the Strand was
ill lighted. St. Mary's Church, not long since consecrated, St.
Clement's Church, loomed large and shadowy in the narrow roadway,
narrowing still more towards Temple Bar past the ill-favoured and
unsavoury Butcher's Row on the north side of the street, where the
houses of rotting plaster and timber with overhanging storeys frowned
upon the passer-by and suggested deeds of violence and robbery.

Butcher's Row and its evil reputation, even the ruffians and dissolute
men lurking in the deep doorways did not frighten Lavinia so much as the
silk-coated and bewigged cavaliers. The days of the Mohocks were gone it
was true, but lawlessness still remained.

Lavinia was perfectly conscious that she was being followed by a spark
of this class. She did not dare look round lest he should think she
encouraged him, but she knew all the same that he was keeping on her
heels. Along Fleet Street he kept close to her and on Ludgate Bridge
where the traffic was blocked by the crowd gazing into the Fleet river
at some urchin's paddling in the muddy stream he spoke to her. She
hadn't the least idea what he said, she was too terrified.

In the darkness of St. Paul's Churchyard she had the good luck to avoid
him and she darted into Paternoster Row, and took shelter in a deep
doorway. Either he had not noticed the way she went or he had given up
the chase, for she saw no more of him.

The doorway in which she had sought refuge was a kind of lobby with an
inner door covered with green baize. From the other side came the sound
of loud talking and laughter, and the clinking of glasses. It was the
Chapter Coffee House, the meeting place of booksellers, authors who had
made their names, and struggling scribblers hanging on to the skirts of
the muses.

The air was close. Inside the revellers may have found it insufferable.
The door was suddenly opened and fastened back by one of the servants.
The man looked inquiringly at the shrinking figure in the lobby.
Evidently she was not a beggar and he said nothing.

Lavinia glanced inside from no feeling other than that of curiosity. At
the same time she was reluctant to leave the protection of the house
until she was sure her persecutor was not lurking near.

The candles cast a lurid yellowish light; the shadows were deep; only
the faces of those nearest the flame could be clearly distinguished. One
table was surrounded by a boisterous group in the centre of which was a
fat man in a frowsy wig. He had a malicious glint in his squinting eyes
and was evidently of some importance. When he spoke the others listened
with respect.

This pompous personage was Edmund Curll, bookseller, whose coarse and
infamous publications once brought him within the law. Curll, we are
told, possessed himself of a command over all authors whatever; he
caused them to write what he pleased; they could not call their very
names their own. Curll was the deadly enemy of Pope and his friends, and
his unlimited scurrility drew from the poet of Twickenham a retaliation
every whit as coarse and as biting as anything the bookseller's warped
mind ever conceived.

Had Lavinia been told this was the notorious Curll, the name would have
conveyed nothing. The quarrels of poets and publishers were to her a
sealed book. All that she knew was that she disliked the man at first
sight, while his vile speech made her ears tingle with shame. Despite
the danger possibly awaiting her in the gloom of Paternoster Row she
would have fled had not the sight of one of the group at the table
rooted her to the spot.

This was Lancelot Vane whom her maiden fancy had elevated into a god
endowed with all the virtues and laden with misfortunes which had so
drawn him towards her. Vane--alas that it should have to be written--had
taken much wine--far too much!

Lavinia knew the signs. Often in the old days in St. Giles had she seen
them--the eyes unnaturally bright, the face unnaturally flushed, the
laugh unnaturally empty. And she had pictured Vane so sad, so depressed!
The sight of him thus came upon her as a shock.

At first she was angry and then full of excuses for him. It was not his
fault, she argued, but that of his companions and especially of the
squint-eyed, foul-tongued man who no sooner saw that the bottle was
getting low than he ordered another one.

What could she do to help him? Nothing. He was out of her reach. She
remembered how he looked when she first saw him at the Maiden Head inn.
He would probably look like that again before the night was ended. She
could not bear to gaze upon him as he was now and she crept away with
the old wives' words in her mind--Providence looks after drunken men and
babes.

She stole from the lobby sad at heart. She had no longer the courage to
face the dangers of the street. The deep shadow of great St. Paul's,
sacred building though it was, afforded her no protection; it spoke
rather of cut-throats, footpads, ruffians ready for any outrage. The din
of voices, the sounds of brawling reached her from Cheapside. The London
'prentices let loose from toil and routine were out for boisterous
enjoyment and may be devilry. She dared not go further eastward.

The only goal of safety she could think of was the coffee house in the
Old Bailey. Why should she be afraid of her mother?

"She won't lock me up again. I'll take good care of that. I suppose she
thinks I'm still a child. Mother's mistaken as she'll find out."

So she wheeled round and went back to Ludgate Hill, keeping close to the
houses so that she should not attract attention.




CHAPTER XI

LAVINIA'S PILGRIMAGE


It was past nine when Lavinia turned into the Old Bailey. The chief
trade done by the coffee house was in the early morning. After market
hours there were few customers save when there was to be an execution at
Tyburn the next morning, and those eager to secure a good sight of the
ghastly procession and perhaps take part in it, assembled opposite the
prison door over night. Mrs. Fenton in the evenings thought no more of
business, but betook herself to the theatre or one of the pleasure
gardens in the outskirts of London.

Lavinia remembered this and hoped for the best. At such a time Mrs.
Fenton with her love of pleasure would hardly stay at home.

Lavinia hurried past grim Newgate and crossed the road. The coffee house
was on the other side. Hannah was standing in the doorway in a cruciform
attitude, her arms stretched out, each hand grasping the frame on either
side. She was gossipping with a man and laughing heartily. Lavinia
decided that her mother must be out. If at home she would never allow
Hannah this liberty. Lavinia glided to the woman and touched one of the
outstretched hands. Hannah gave a little "squark" when she felt the
girl's cold fingers.

"It's only me Hannah," whispered Lavinia.

"Only me--an' who's me?... Bless us an' save us child, what do you go
about like a churchyard ghost for? Where in 'eaven's name have ye sprung
from? I never come across anybody like you, Miss Lavvy, for a worryin'
other people. I've been a-crying my eyes out over ye."

"And mother, has she been crying too?"

"Your mother? Not she," returned Hannah with a sniff of contempt. "Catch
her a-cryin' over anything 'cept when she hasn't won a prize in a
lottery. But come you in. I've ever so much to tell you. You'd best be
off Reuben. I'll see you later."

Reuben who was one of the men employed at Coupland's soap works in the
Old Bailey, looked a little disappointed, but he obeyed nevertheless.

"You've given us a pretty fright and your lady mother's been in a mighty
tantrum. I tell you it's a wonder as she didn't tear my eyes out. She
swore as it was all my fault a lettin' you go. But what have you come
back for?"

"I had to. But don't bother, it's only for a few hours. Mother's out I
know."

"Course she is. Simpson the cattle dealer's a-beauing her to Marybone
Gardens. They won't be back this side o' midnight. Now just tell me what
you been a-doin' of. You're a pretty bag o' mischief if ever there was
one. Who's the man this time? T'aint the one as you runned away with, is
it?"

"No, indeed," cried Lavinia, indignantly. "I don't want ever to see him
again."

"Well, your mother does," returned Hannah with an odd kind of laugh.

"Whatever for?"

"I'll let you have the story d'rectly, but you tell me your tale first."

By this time they were in the shop and Hannah caught sight of Lavinia's
white, drawn face and her tear-swollen eyes.

"You poor baby. What's your fresh troubles?"

"Nothing--that is, not much. I'm tired. I'm faint. Give me some
coffee--cocoa--anything."

Faint indeed she was. At that meal with Lancelot Vane she had eaten very
sparingly. She was too excited, too much absorbed and interested in
seeing him so ravenous to think of herself. In addition she had gone
through much fatigue.

"Coffee--cocoa--to be sure," cried the kindly Hannah, "an' a hot
buttered cake besides. You shan't say a word till I've gotten them
ready."

The cook had gone. There was no one in the house save Hannah. The two
went into the kitchen where the fire was burning low--with the aid of
the bellows Hannah soon fanned the embers into a flame and she was not
happy until Lavinia had eaten and drank.

Then Lavinia told the story of her adventures, hesitatingly at first and
afterwards with more confidence seeing that Hannah sympathised and did
not chide or ridicule.

"An' do 'ee mean to tell me you're going to Twitenham to-morrow?"

Lavinia nodded.

"What, over a worthless young man who gets drunk at the first chance he
has?"

Lavinia fired up.

"He's not worthless and he wasn't drunk."

"Hoity-toity. What a pother to be sure. Well, I'll warrant he is by this
time."

"How do you know? If he is it won't be his fault. The others were
drinking and filling his glass. I saw them, the wretches," cried Lavinia
with heightened colour. "But it is nothing to me," she went on tossing
her head. "Why should I bother if a man drinks or doesn't drink?"

"Why indeed," said Hannah ironically. "Since you don't care we needn't
talk about him."

"No, we won't, if you've only unkind things to say."

"Eh, would you have me tell you how well you've behaved and how good you
are? First you run away to be married to a man you don't care for, and
in the next breath you take no end of trouble and tire yourself to death
over another man you say you don't care for either. Are you going
through your life like that--men loving you and you leaving them?"

"You're talking nonsense, Hannah. You know nothing about it," cried
Lavinia angrily. "Let me manage my own affairs my own way and tell me
what mother's doing. You read me a riddle about her just now."

"'Tisn't much of a riddle. It's just what one might guess she'd do when
she's on the scent for money. You've become mighty valuable to her all
of a sudden."

"I! Valuable? Oh la! That's too funny."

"You think so, do you child? Wait till you hear. _I_ call it a monstrous
shame an' downright wicked. A mother sell her own child! It's
horrible--horrible."

"What are you talking about, you tiresome Hannah?" cried the girl
opening her eyes very wide.

"Ah, you may well ask. After you was locked up she pocketted that letter
from your spark and off she went to his lodgings in the Temple. She well
plied herself with cordials an' a drop o' gin or two afore she started,
an' my name's not Hannah if she didn't repeat the dose as she came back.
I knowed it at once by her red face an' her tongue a-wagging nineteen to
the dozen. She can't keep her mouth shut when she's like that. It all
comed out. She'd been to that Mr. Der--Dor--what's his name?"

"Dorrimore. Yes--yes. Go on. I want to hear," exclaimed Lavinia
breathlessly.

"I wouldn't ha' said a word agen her if she'd insisted upon the fine
young gentleman paying for his frolic a trying to fool you--which he
didn't do an' you may thank yourself for your sperrit Miss Lavvy--that
was only what a mother ought to do, but to sell her own child to make
money out of her own flesh an' blood--well I up an' told her to her face
what I thought of her."

"Make money out of _me_, good gracious Hannah, how?"

"The fellow offered her fifty guineas if she'd hand you over to him. He
swore he'd make a lady of you."

"What! Marry me?"

"Marry you! Tilly vally, no such thing. He'd spend money on you--fine
dresses, trinkets, fallals and all that, but a wedding ring, the
parson--not a bit of it. An' when he tired of you he'd fling you away
like an old glove."

"Would he?" cried Lavinia indignantly. "Then he won't."

"No, but it means a tussle with your mother. What a tantrum she went in
to be sure when she found you was gone. She fell upon poor me an' called
me all the foul names she could lay her tongue to. Look at these."

Hannah pushed back her cap and her hair and showed four angry red
streaks down the side of her face. Mrs. Fenton had long nails and knew
how to use them.

Lavinia was horrified. Throwing her arms round the honest creature's
neck she kissed her again and again. Then she exclaimed despairingly:--

"What am I do to do to-night? I dursn't stay here."

"I'm not so sure about that. I'm thinking it can be managed. Your
mother's gone to Marybone Gardens with Dawson, the Romford cattle
dealer. They won't be home till latish an' I'll go bail as full o'
strong waters as they can carry. It's not market day to-morrow and your
mother'll lie in bed till noon. You can share my bed an' I'll let 'ee
out long afore the mistress wakes."

"Oh thank you--thank you Hannah. How clever you are to think of all
this."

"Not much cleverness either. Trust a woman for finding out a way when
love's hanging on it."

"Love?" rapped out Lavinia sharply.

"Aye, it's love as is taking you to Twitenham with the young man's
rubbishy play."

"You've not read it, Hannah. It's not fair to call it rubbishy."

"Not read it, no, nor never shall, and may be I'll never see it acted
either. But I hope it will be, Lavinia, for your sake. But take care,
it's ill falling in love with a man who's fond of his cups."

Lavinia made no reply. Her face had suddenly gone grave.

Hannah ceased to tease her and bustled about to get supper--something
warm and comforting, stewed rabbit and toasted cheese to follow.

The bedroom shared by Lavinia and Hannah was in the front of the house.
About two o'clock both were awakened by the champing of a horse and the
squeaking and scraping of wheels followed by a loud wrangling in a deep
bass growl and a shrill treble.

"That's the mistress--drat her," grumbled Hannah from under the
coverlet. "She's a-beatin' down the coachman. She always does it."

The hubbub was ended, and not altogether to the satisfaction of the
hackney coachman judging by the way he banged his door. Mrs. Fenton
stumbled up the stairs to her room rating the extortion of drivers, and
after a time all was silence.

Daylight was in the room when Lavinia awoke. She slipped quietly out of
bed not wanting to disturb Hannah, but the latter was a light sleeper.

"Don't you get up," said Lavinia. "I can dress and let myself out
without bothering you."

"What, an' go into the early morning air wi'out a bite or sup inside
you? I'm not brute beast enough to let you do that."

And Hannah bounced out of bed bringing her feet down with a thump which
must have awakened Mrs. Fenton in the room below had the lady been in a
normal condition, which fortunately was not the case.

Within half an hour the two stole out of the house, and on reaching the
Ludgate Hill end of the Old Bailey turned eastwards. Their destination
was the Stocks Market occupying the site where the present Mansion House
stands. The Stocks Market was the principal market in London at that
time, Fleet Market was not in existence and Covent Garden, then mainly a
fashionable residential quarter, was only in its infancy as to the sale
of fruit and vegetables.

But the Stocks Market eastwards of St. Paul's was not in the direction
of Twickenham, or Twitenham as it was then called. Why then were Lavinia
and Hannah wending their way thither?

It was in this wise. Hannah was quick witted and fertile in resources.
Moreover she was a native of Mortlake, then surrounded by fruit growing
market gardens and especially celebrated for its plums, the fame of
which for flavour and colour and size has not quite died out in the
present day. Hannah had had her sweethearting days along by the
riverside and in pleasant strolls on Sheen Common, and not a few of her
swains cherished tender recollections of her fascinating coquetry. She
knew very well she would find some old admirer at the Stocks Market who
for auld lang syne would willingly give Lavinia a seat in his covered
cart returning to Mortlake with empty baskets. And Mortlake of course,
is no very long distance from Twickenham.

So it came about. The clock of St. Christopher le Stocks struck five as
the two young women entered the market. The Bank of England as we now
know it did not then exist. St. Christopher's, hemmed in by houses,
occupied the site of the future edifice, as much in appearance like a
prison as a bank. Sir Thomas Gresham's Exchange then alone dominated the
open space at the entrance of the Poultry.

The market was in full swing. Shopkeepers, hucksters and early risen
housewives keen on buying first hand and so saving pennies were
bargaining at the various stalls. Hannah went about those set apart for
fruit and soon spotted some one she knew--a waggoner of honest simple
looks. His mouth expanded into the broadest of grins and he coloured to
his ears when he caught sight of Hannah.

"Ecod Hannah, my gal, if the sight o' 'ee baint good fur sore eyes. I'm
in luck sure-ly. Fi' minutes more an' 'ee'd ha' found me gone. Dang me
if 'ee baint bonnier than ever."

"Don't 'ee talk silly, Giles Topham. Keep your nonsense for Hester
Roberts."

"Hester Roberts! What be that flirty hussy to I?" retorted Giles
indignantly.

"You know best about that, Giles. What be 'ee to me? That's more to the
purpose I'm thinking."

"I be a lot to 'ee Hannah. Out wi' the truth now, an' tell me if I
baint."

Lavinia was beginning to feel herself superfluous in the midst of this
rustic billing and cooing, and was moving a few steps off when Hannah
having whispered a few words to Giles which might have been a reproof or
the reverse beckoned to her, and without further ado told her old
sweetheart what she wanted.

"I'd a sight sooner take 'ee Hannah--meanin' no offence to 'ee miss--but
if it can't be, why----"

"Of course it can't, you booby. You know that as well as I do."

"Aye. Some other time may be," rejoined Giles grinning afresh. "So 'ee
be a-goin' to see the great Mr. Pope? 'Ee'll have to cross by the ferry
and 'tis a bit of a walk there from Mortlake but I'll see 'ee safe."

"I should think you would or I'll never speak to you again."

Giles gave another of his grins and set to work arranging the baskets
in his cart so as to form a seat for Lavinia, and having helped the girl
to mount, bade Hannah adieu, a matter which took some few minutes and
was only terminated by a hearty kiss which Hannah received very
demurely. Then Giles after a crack of his whip started his horse, at the
head of which he marched, and with waving handkerchiefs by Hannah and
Lavinia the cart took the road to London Bridge.

The nearest way to Mortlake would have been the Middlesex side, crossing
the river at Hammersmith, but Hammersmith Bridge had not been thought of
and the cart had to plod through Lambeth, Vauxhall, Wandsworth, Putney
and Barnes.

At intervals Giles climbed into the cart and entertained Lavinia with
guileless talk, mainly relating to Hannah and her transcendent virtues.
Nor did he stop at Hannah herself but passed on to her relatives, her
mother who was dead and her grandmother who was ninety and "as hale an'
hearty as you please."

"A wonnerful old dame she be an' mighty handy with her needle, a'most as
she used to be when she was a girl a-working at the tapestry fact'ry by
the riverside. It were a thunderin' shame as ever the tapestry makin'
was done away with at Mortlake an' taken to Windsor. It was the King's
doin's that was. Not his Majesty King George, but King Charles--long
afore my time, fifty years an' more agone. Lords an' ladies used to come
to Mortlake then I'm told an' buy the wool picture stuff, all hand sewn,
mind ye, to hang on the walls o' their great rooms. Some of it be at
'Ampton Palace this very day."

Thus and much more Giles went on and Lavinia listened attentively. The
cart rumbled through the narrow main street of Mortlake and reached
Worple way where Giles and his mother lived in a cottage in the midst of
a big plum orchard.

The old woman was astonished to see a pretty girl seated in her son's
cart but the matter was soon explained, and she insisted upon Lavinia
having a meal before going on to Twickenham.

Then Giles volunteered to show Lavinia the way to the ferry, the
starting point of which on the Surrey side was near Petersham Meadows,
and in due time she was landed at Twickenham.




CHAPTER XII

"ARE WORDS THE ONLY SIGNS OF LOVE?"


Lavinia easily found her way to Pope's villa. The first man of whom she
inquired knew the house well and guided her to it.

The house was somewhat squat and what we should now call double fronted.
The back looked on to a garden bordering the river, the front faced a
road on the other side of which was a high wall with a wooded garden
beyond.

"That be Mr. Pope's house, young madam, an' that be his garden too,
t'other side o' that wall. He be but a feeble shrivelled up whey-faced
little gentleman, thin as a thread paper an' not much taller than you
yourself. I'm told as he baint forty, but lor, he might be ninety by his
looks. We folk in the village don't see much of him an' I doubt if he
wants to see us."

"Gracious! Why is that? What makes him so unsociable?"

"He's always ailing, poor gentleman. Why, if ye went by his face he
might have one foot in the grave. When he fust comed to live here he
hated to have to cross the road to get to that there garden t'other
side, so what do'e do but have a way dug under the road. It be a sort
o' grotto, they say, with all kinds o' coloured stones and glasses
stuck about an' must ha' cost a pile o' money. I s'pose rich folk must
have their whims and vapours an' must gratify 'em too, or what be the
good o' being rich, eh? Thank 'ee kindly young madam."

Lavinia, upon whom the good Hannah had pressed all the coins that were
in her pocket, gave the man a few coppers and summoning her courage she
grasped the bell-pull hanging by the door in the wall fronting the
house. Her nerves were somewhat scattered and she could not say whether
the clang encouraged or depressed her. May be the latter, for a sudden
desire seized her to run away.

But before desire had become decision the door in the wall had opened
and a soberly attired man-servant was staring at her inquiringly.
Lavinia regained her courage.

"I want to see Mr. Gay please. I'm told he's staying with Mr. Pope."

"Aye. What's your business?"

"That's with Mr. Gay, not with you," rejoined Lavinia sharply.

The man either disdained to bandy words or had no retort ready. He
admitted the visitor and conducted her into the house. Lavinia found
herself in a small hall, stone paved, with a door on either side. The
hall ran from the front to the back of the house and at the end a door
opened into a wooden latticed porch. Beyond was a picturesque garden and
further still the river shining in the sun. She heard men talking and
apparently disputing. The shrill tones of one voice dominated the rest.

The servant bade her wait in the hall while he went to Mr. Gay. He did
not trouble to ask her name.

While he was gone Lavinia advanced to the open door, drawn thither by
curiosity. A garden grateful to the eye was before her. It had not the
grotesque formality of the Dutch style which came over with William of
Orange--the prim beds with here and there patches and narrow walks of
red, flat bricks, the box trees cut and trimmed in the form of peacocks
with outstretched tails, animals, anything absurd that the designer
fancied. Close to the river bank drooped a willow, and a wide spreading
cedar overspread a portion of the lawn.

Underneath the cedar four men were sitting round a table strewn with
papers. Lavinia easily recognised the portly form of her patron, Gay.
Next to him was a diminutive man, his face overspread by the pallor of
ill-health. He was sitting stiff and bolt upright and upon his head in
place of a fashionable flowing wig was a sort of loose cap.

"That must be Mr. Pope, the queer little gentleman the countryman told
me of," thought Lavinia.

She saw the servant in a deferential attitude standing for some time
between Mr. Pope and Mr. Gay waiting for an opportunity to announce his
errand. For the moment the discussion was too absorbing for anyone of
the four to pay attention to the man.

"Mr. Rich no high opinion has of either music or musicians," said one of
the disputants, a lean, dried-up looking man who spoke with a strong
guttural accent. This was Dr. Pepusch, musical director at John Rich's
theatre, the "Duke's," Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields.

"Dr. Pepusch is right," rejoined Gay. "That is why I favoured Cibber.
But from his reception of me I doubt if he'll take the risk of staging
the play."

"Cibber likes not you, Mr. Gay, and he hates me," said Pope with his
acid smile. "He's a poet--or thinks he's one--and poets love not one
another. Nothing is so blinding to the merits of others as one's own
vanity."

"Nay, Mr. Pope, is not that assumption too sweeping?" put in the fourth
man, of cheerful, rubicund countenance and, like Gay, inclined to
corpulency. "What about yourself and Mr. Gay? Is there anyone more
conscious of his talents and has done more to foster and encourage them
than you? Who spoke and wrote in higher praise of Will Congreve than
John Dryden?"

"Your argument's just, Arbuthnot," rejoined Pope. "And that's why I
rejoice that the King, his Consort and the Statesman who panders to her
spite and lives only for his own ambition have insulted our friend.
Their taste and their appreciation of letters found their level when
they considered the author of the 'Trivia' and the 'Fables' was
fittingly rewarded by the appointment of 'gentleman usher' to a
princess--a footman's place, forsooth!"

It was too true. George the First was dead, George the Second had
succeeded and with the change of government Gay hoped to obtain the
"sinecure" which would have kept him in comfort to the end of his days.
He was bitterly disappointed. The post bestowed upon him was a
degradation.

"Say no more on that head," exclaimed Gay hastily, "I would forget that
affront."

"But not forgive. We're all of us free to carry the battle into the
enemy's camp and with the more vigour since you are fighting with us,
John Gay. The 'Beggar's Opera'--'tis mainly the Dean's idea--the title
alone is vastly fine--will give you all the chance in the world. Pray do
not forget the Dean's verses he sent you 't'other day. They must be set
to good music, though for my own part I know not one tune from another."

Snatching a sheet of paper from the table Pope, in his thin, piping
voice, read with much gusto:--


     "Through all the employments of life
       Each neighbour abuses his brother,
     Trull and rogue they call husband and wife,
       All professions be-rogue one another.

     "The priest calls the lawyer a cheat,
       The lawyer be-knaves the divine,
     And the statesman because he's so great
       Thinks his trade as honest as mine."


"Aye; that should go home. Faith, I'd give my gold headed cane to see
Sir Robert's face when he hears those lines," laughed the cheery
physician. "Who will sing them, Mr. Gay?"

"I know not yet; we've settled upon very few things. Our good musician,
Dr. Pepusch, is ready whenever I hand him the verses and the tunes to
set them to. Why, I've not decided the names of the characters, and that
let me tell you, doctor, is no easy matter. I call the first wench Peggy
Peachum, but it doesn't please me. I----"

At that moment Pope caught sight of his man fidgetting first on one foot
and then on the other.

"What d'ye want sirrah?" demanded the poet irritably.

"A young girl, sir, desires to see Mr. Gay. She couldn't tell me her
business with him."

A roar of laughter was heard, in the midst of which Gay looked puzzled
and a trifle foolish.

"Oh poor Gay, to think thy light damsels cannot let thee alone but must
follow thee to my pure Eve-less abode," said Pope mockingly.

"Nay, 'tis nothing of the kind. You accuse me unjustly. I know no light
o' love. To prove it your servant shall bring the girl here and you may
see her for yourself. I've no love secrets."

"What if you had, man? No one would blame you. Not I for one. Get as
much enjoyment as you can out of life, but not in excess. 'Tis excess
that kills," said Arbuthnot laying his hand on Gay's.

There was a meaning in the contact which emphasised the doctor's words.
Self indulgence was Gay's failing as all his friends knew.

"Well--well," rejoined Gay somewhat embarrassed. "Be it so, I--conduct
the girl hither--have I your permission, Mr. Pope?"

"With all my heart--provided she's worth looking at."

"I know nothing of her looks. Quick, Stephen, your master and these
gentlemen are impatient."

The man hastened away to the house and presently was seen crossing the
lawn with Lavinia by his side.

"'Faith, you've good taste, Mr. Gay," said Arbuthnot with a chuckle. "A
trim built wench, upon my word. And she knows how to walk. She hasn't
the mincing gait of the city madams of the Exchange nor the flaunting
strut of the dames of the Mall or the Piazza."

Gay made no reply. The girl's carriage and walk were indeed natural and
there was something in both which was familiar to him. But he could not
fix them. He would have to wait until the sheltering hood was raised and
the face revealed.

This came about when Lavinia was a couple of yards or so from the man.
Gay bent forward and rose slightly from his chair. An expression half
startled, half puzzled stole over his face.

"Gad! Polly--or am I dreaming?"

"Lavinia sir," came the demure answer accompanied by a drooping of the
long lashes and a low curtsey.

"Lavinia of course, but to me always Polly. Gentlemen, this is Miss
Lavinia Fenton, the nightingale I once told you of."

"Aye," rejoined Pope, "I remember. She was flying wild in the fragrant
groves of St. Giles and you limed her. Good. Now that she's here she
must give us a sample of her powers. I pray that your nightingale, Mr.
Gay, be not really a guinea fowl. Your good nature might easily make you
imagine one to be the other."

"I protest. You are thinking of yourself. I'll swear you cannot tell the
difference. You put all the music you have into your verse. I doubt if
you could even whistle 'Lillibulero,' though there's not a snub nosed
urchin in his Majesty's kingdom who can't bawl it."

"That may be, but I can neither whistle nor am I a snub-nosed urchin. I
apologise for my defects," retorted the poet.

A general laugh followed at this and Gay, somewhat discomfited, turned
to Lavinia.

"Now, Polly, what has brought you here, child? But looking at you I
doubt if I ought to call you child. 'Tis months since I saw thee and I
vow in that time you've become a young woman."

"I'm very sorry, sir. I could not help it," said Lavinia meekly.

"Help it! Faith, no! 'Tis very meritorious of you. But tell me. Has the
admirable Miss Pinwell granted you a holiday, or is it your birthday and
you've come for a present, or what?"

"Neither the one nor the other, sir. I--I rather think I've left
school."

"Left school! And without apprising me who am, you know, in a way
sponsor for you? But may be you've written the duchess?"

Lavinia shook her head and cast down her eyes.

"Left school," repeated Gay lifting his wig slightly and rubbing his
temple. "Surely--surely you haven't misbehaved and have been expelled.
Miss Pinwell I know is the perfection of prim propriety, but----"

"Quite true, sir, so she is," burst out Lavinia impetuously, "and I've
done nothing wicked--not really wicked--only silly, but I'm sure Miss
Pinwell wouldn't take me back. You see, sir, I--oh well, I suppose I
must confess I ran away--I meant to return and nobody would have been
the wiser--but things happened that I didn't expect and--and oh, I do
hope you'll forgive me."

Lavinia's pleading voice quivered. Her eyes were fixed imploringly on
Gay. Tears were glistening in them, the pose of her figure suggested a
delightful penitence. The susceptible poet felt his emotions stirred.

"Forgive you? But you haven't told me what I am to forgive. You ran
away from school you say. What made you? Had you quarrelled with
anyone?"

"Oh no--not then--the quarrel was after I left the school."

"After--hang me if I understand. Whom did you quarrel with?"

"The--the person I--I ran away with."

Lavinia's confession was uttered in the softest of whispers. It was
inaudible to anyone save Gay. Her face had suddenly become scarlet.

"The per--oh, there's a mystery here. Mr. Pope--gentlemen," Gay went on
turning to the others, "will you excuse me if I draw apart with our
young madam. She has propounded to me an enigma which must be solved."

"And if you fail--as you will if the enigma is a woman's--call us to
thine aid," said Arbuthnot laughingly.

Gay shook his head and he and Lavinia paced the lawn.

"It's no use asking you to tell me everything, Polly, because you can't
do it. Your sex never do. You're like spendthrifts who are asked to
disclose all their debts. They always keep the heaviest one back. Tell
me as much or as little as you please or nothing at all, if it likes you
better."

Lavinia hesitated, and at first her tale was a halting one enough, but
seeing no sign of anger in Gay's amiable countenance, she became more
courageous, and substantially she said all that was necessary to make
her companion acquainted with her list of peccadilloes.

"Zooks, my young miss," quoth Gay after the solace of a pinch of snuff.
"It seemeth to me that you've begun to flutter your pinions sufficiently
early. Two love affairs on your hands within twenty-four hours. Mighty
fine, upon my word."

"Oh, but they are _not_ love affairs," protested Lavinia. "I didn't love
Mr. Dorrimore a bit. I never want to see him again. And as for Mr.
Vane, never a word of love has passed between us."

"Bless your innocence. Are words the only signs of love? Permit me to
inform you, Polly, that I look upon your love adventure with Lancelot
Vane as a much more serious business than your elopement with a
profligate fop."

"Indeed, it is serious, Mr. Gay. It's worse than serious--it's tragic.
If you could see the wretched place poor Mr. Vane lives in, if you knew
how he is wanting for food----"

"And drink--is he wanting for that too?" interposed Gay sarcastically.

Lavinia made no answer. She thought of Lancelot at the Chapter Coffee
House the night before and her face clouded.

"I'll give you a word of advice, Polly. If you're going to be a nice
woman and want to keep your peace of mind, never fall in love with a
poet, a playwright or indeed any man who takes his pen in hand for a
living."

"But, sir--aren't you a poet and don't you write plays?"

"Exactly, and that's why I'm warning you. _Ex uno disce omnes_, which
you may like to know means, we're all tarred with the same brush."

"And do you drink too much, sir?" inquired Lavinia with an engaging
simplicity.

"Gad, not oftener than I can help. But we were talking about falling in
love and that has nothing to do with my drinking habits. About Mr.
Vane's--well, that's a different matter. You haven't fallen in love with
me and you have with a clever young man who's going as fast as he can to
the deuce."

"I don't know, sir, whether you're laughing at me or telling me the
truth, but--Mr. Vane risked his life for me."

"And to reward him you're thinking of trusting him with yours. A pretty
guardian--a man who can't take care of his own!"

"Oh, you're wrong, Mr. Gay--indeed, you are. Mr. Vane is nothing to me.
I'm only sorry for him."

"Of course--of course. That's the first step. You begin by being sorry
for your sweetheart and you end by being sorry for yourself. Well--well,
a woman must go her own way or she wouldn't be a woman. What have you
there?"

Lavinia was holding out a parcel.

"'Tis a play, sir, that Mr. Vane has written."

"And why did he write it? Who asked him? Who wants plays?"

"I--I don't know," Lavinia stammered dismally. She felt her ardour was
being damped. "Mr. Vane begged me to bring it to you, sir, and I
couldn't refuse, could I? It was this way. I told him you were my
friend--and you are, aren't you?--and he was overjoyed."

"Overjoyed? What in the name of Heaven about?"

"Mr. Vane thought that if I took the play to you and asked you to read
it you would be sure to say you would."

"Mr. Vane had no business to think anything of the kind. Doesn't he know
that nothing in this world can be taken for granted? I've committed the
folly myself too often not to know that placing faith in other people is
vanity and vexation."

"Yes, sir. But you'll read Mr. Vane's play all the same, won't you?"

"What a wheedling baggage it is," muttered Gay.

And he held the parcel and resisted the impulse to give it back to
Lavinia and to tell her that he had neither time nor inclination to read
other men's plays. His own play was sufficient for him at that moment.




CHAPTER XIII

"I'M FIXED ON POLLY PEACHUM"


Lavinia saw she had nearly conquered and cried:--"Let me untie the knot.
I was sure you would not say no."

Gay was like wax in her hands. He permitted her to snatch the parcel and
attack the knot. Between her deft fingers and pearly teeth she had the
string off and the parcel open in a trice. She held the manuscript under
Gay's nose. He could not help seeing the title, writ large as it was.

"Love's Blindness: A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Lancelot Vane," he read
with a rueful look. "Mercy on me, Polly, you never told me it was a
tragedy. Oh, this is very--very sad."

"But Mr. Gay, aren't all tragedies sad?"

"Oh, I confess some are comic enough in all conscience. But that was not
in my mind. It was that any sane man should waste time in writing a
tragedy. The worst thing about a tragedy is that the playwright's
friends are pestered to read it and audiences tired by sitting it out.
Aren't there tragedies enough in real life without men inventing 'em?"

"Indeed, I can't say, sir."

"I suppose not. You're not old enough. Tragedy doesn't come to the young
and when it does they don't understand and perhaps 'tis as well. But
I'll have to humour you or I shall never hear the last of it. Put the
parcel up again and I'll look at the contents at my leisure. Now to a
much more entertaining matter--yourself. Have you practised your
singing? Have you attended to the instructions of your music master? I
doubt it. I'll vow you've often driven the poor man half frantic with
your airs and graces and teasing and that he hasn't had the heart to
chide you."

"Oh, indeed he has," cried Lavinia, pouting, "though really I haven't
given him cause and yet he was tiresome enough."

"I dare say. But you must let me hear. I want to be sure the good
duchess hasn't thrown her money away. My friends, too, are curious to
have a taste of your quality. I've told them much about thee. You
mustn't put discredit upon me."

"No sir, I wouldn't be so ungrateful. What would you have me do?"

"I want to hear one of your old ballads such as showered pennies and
shillings in your pocket when I've heard you sing in Clare Market and
St. Giles High Street. But first let us go back to Mr. Pope and the
others."

Lavinia looked a little frightened at the idea of singing before musical
judges who doubtless were accustomed to listen to the great singers at
the King's Theatre--Signor Senesino, Signor Farinalli, Signora Cuzzoni,
Signora Faustina, and may be the accomplished English singer Anastasia
Robinson, albeit she rarely sang in the theatre but mainly in the houses
of her father's noble friends among whom was the Earl of Peterborough,
her future husband.

Perhaps Gay saw her trepidation, for, said he laughingly:

"You needn't fear Mr. Pope. He hasn't the least idea what a tune is and
won't know whether you sing well or ill. Dr. Arbuthnot sitting next him
is the kindliest soul in the world, and will make excuses for you if you
squawl as vilely as a cat on the tiles. As for Dr. Pepusch--ah, that's a
different matter. Pepusch is an ugly man and you must do your best to
lessen his ugliness. He's all in all to Mr. Rich when Rich condescends
to let the fiddles and the flutes give the audience a little music. If
you capture Pepusch you may help me."

"Oh, I'd do that gladly Mr. Gay. Tell me how," cried Lavinia eagerly.

"Softly--softly, 'tis all in the clouds at present. Pepusch must hear
you sing. Then--but I dare not say more."

Lavinia surveyed the hard face and the double chin of the musical
director disapprovingly.

"I don't take to him," said she. "Is he an Englishman?"

"No--he comes from Germany. Like King George and Queen Caroline."

Lavinia frowned.

"Some of the people in St. Giles I've heard call the Royal Family
Hanoverian rats," she exclaimed indignantly, "and those German women who
pocketted everything they could lay their hands upon--the 'Maypole' and
the 'Elephant,' the one because she's so lean and the other because
she's so fat--they're rats too. Fancy the King making them into an
English duchess and countess. 'Tis monstrous. Why----"

"Hush--hush," interrupted Gay with mock solemnity and placing his finger
on her lips. "You're talking treason within earshot of the 'Maypole,'
otherwise her Grace the Duchess of Kendal. Don't you know that she is a
neighbour of Mr. Pope? Kendal House on the road to Isleworth is but an
easy walk from here."

"Then I'm sorry for Mr. Pope. I hate the Germans."

"Oh, then you're a Jacobite and a rebel. If you would retain your pretty
head on your shoulders keep your treason to yourself," laughed Gay. "But
I confess I like the Germans no more than you do. Yet there are
exceptions. Pepusch has made his home here--his country turned him
out--and there's clever Mr. Handel. The English know more about his
music than do his countrymen. I would love to see you, Polly, applauded
in the Duke's Theatre as heartily as was Mr. Handel's opera 'Rinaldo' at
the King's."

Something significant in Gay's voice and face sent the blood rushing to
Lavinia's cheeks.

"I applauded!--I at the Duke's! Oh, that will never be."

"May be not--may be not. But one never knows. A pretty face--a pretty
voice--an air--faith, such gifts may work wonders. But let us keep Mr.
Pope waiting no longer."

They approached the table beneath the cedar tree.

"Sir," said Gay with a bow to Pope, "I've prevailed upon my young madam
here to give us a taste of her quality. I trust your twittering birds
won't be provoked to rivalry. Happily their season of song is past."

"I warn you Mr. Gay, the age of miracles is _not_ past. What if the work
you're toiling at sends the present taste of the town into a
summersault? Would not that be a miracle?"

"You think then that my 'Beggar's Opera' won't do," broke in Gay, his
face losing a little of its colour.

"You know my views. It is something unlike anything ever written
before--a leap in the dark. But for Miss's ditty. We're all attention."

"What shall I sing, sir?" Lavinia whispered to Gay.

"Anything you like, my child, so long as you acquit yourself to Dr.
Pepusch's satisfaction."

"But I would love to have your choice too. What of 'My Lodging is on the
Cold Ground?' My music master told me this was the song that made King
Charles fall in love with Mistress Moll Davies. So I learned it."

"Odso. Of course you did. Then let old Pepusch look out. Nothing could
be better. Aye, it is indeed a sweet tune."

Lavinia retired a few paces on to the lawn, dropped naturally into a
simple pose and for a minute or two imagined herself back in the streets
where she sang without effort and without any desire to create effect.
She sang the pathetic old air--much better fitted to the words t

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