Madame Flirt
"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