Madame Flirt
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