Madame Flirt
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