Madame Flirt
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.