Madame Flirt
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 protegee 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.