Madame Flirt
can't lose sight of you. It would be eternal torment. When and where
shall we meet?"
"I don't know. Perhaps not at all," said Lavinia slowly and lowering her
eyes.
"Don't say that. I've told you why. Not at my miserable lodgings, I
grant you, but at some other place. What say you to Rosamond's Pond?"
Lavinia darted him a swift glance. The ghost of a smile played about her
lips.
"The Lovers' Walk of London! Oh, no."
"But indeed yes. What have you to say against Rosamond's Pond? Its
reputation justifies its romance."
"Neither its reputation nor its romance has anything to do with us."
"That is as it may be," he rejoined with an ardent glance. "But you
haven't said no. Rosamond's Pond then to-morrow at sunset--seven
o'clock?"
Lavinia was too exhausted in mind and body either to refuse or even to
argue. She felt as she had felt many a time in her childhood that she
was simply a waif and stray. Nothing mattered very much. It was easier
to consent than to object.
"To-morrow at sunset," she faltered.
"It's a bargain," he whispered. "You won't disappoint me?"
"Haven't I given you my word? What more do you want?"
She held out her hand and he pressed it between both his, his eyes fixed
earnestly on her face.
"I don't like leaving you," he pleaded. "You're pale. Your hand's cold.
You look as if you might faint again. Please ..."
"No--no--no," exclaimed Lavinia vehemently. "We must part here.
Good-night."
Vane was loth to let her hand go but she snatched it away and ran off,
turning her head and throwing him a smile over her shoulder--a picture
of natural grace and charming womanly wile and tenderness which dwelt in
his memory for many a long day.
Vane stood watching the fleeting figure until it vanished in the
obscurity of Ludgate Hill and then with a deep sigh turned towards
Cheapside.
"That settles it. I won't write a line for that rascal Curll. I've
promised my divinity and by God, I'll keep my promise."
But the next instant came the dismal reflection that apart from Curll he
hadn't the slightest notion where his next shilling was to come from.
"Tush! I won't think of the dolefuls," he muttered. "'Tis an insult to
the loveliest--the kindest--the warmest hearted--the ..."
He suddenly ceased his panegyric and wheeled round swiftly, his hand on
the hilt of his sword.
Absorbed though he had been in his thoughts of Lavinia, in some
sub-conscious way the sound of footsteps behind him keeping pace with
his own reached his ear. It was no unusual thing for foot passengers to
be set upon and Vane was on the alert. His suspicions were confirmed by
the sight of a man cloaked and with his slouch hat pulled over his
forehead gliding into a narrow passage leading into Paternoster Row.
"Just as well, my friend, you've taken to your heels. I've nothing to
lose and you'd have nothing to gain, save may be a sword thrust."
Congratulating himself on his escape from what might have been an ugly
encounter, Vane plodded back to Grub Street. He lingered in front of a
Cripples' Gate tavern where he knew he should find some of his friends,
but he thought of Lavinia's words and he resisted temptation. That night
he did that which with him was a rarity--he went to bed sober.
He had forgotten the cloaked man whom he had taken for an ordinary
footpad. The fellow must have altered his mind if his intention was to
follow Vane. No sooner was the latter past the passage than he darted
back into St. Paul's Churchyard and hastened westward. He overtook
Lavinia just as she was turning into the Old Bailey and cautiously
followed her.
CHAPTER XVI
"THEY'RE TO MEET AT ROSAMOND'S POND"
A masquerade was in full swing at a mansion in Leicester Square. The air
of the ball-room was hot and stuffy. Ventilation was a thing of little
account. The light, albeit there were a hundred candles or so in the
sconces, on the panelled walls, and in the chandelier hanging from the
decorated ceiling, and despite the assiduous snuffing by the servants,
was dim. The subdued illumination was not without its advantage. It was
merciful to the painted faces and softened the crudity of their raw
colouring. A mixture of odours offended the nostrils. Powder came off in
clouds, not only from the hair of the belles but also from the wigs of
the beaux. Its peculiar scent mingled with a dozen varieties of the
strong perfumes in vogue, and the combination was punctuated by a dash
of oil from a smoky lamp or two in the vestibule and an occasional waft
of burnt tallow and pitch from the torches of the link boys outside.
The masquerade was public and the company was mixed. The establishment
provided punch, strong waters and cordials and some of the visitors had
indulged themselves without scruple. The effect was seen in the cheeks
of matrons and damsels where they were not daubed. It added brilliancy
to many an eye--it gave a piquancy and freedom to talk, greatly
appreciated by the gallants. As for the dancing, in that crowded room
owing to the space monopolised by the prodigious hoops and the general
exhilaration, the stately minuet and sarabande were out of the question,
and the jig and country dance were much more in favour.
In a side room cards and dicing were going on and the gamblers were not
to be drawn from the tables while they had money in their pockets. Most
of them were women, and when the grey dawn came stealing between the
curtains of the long narrow windows, overpowering the candlelight and
turning it of a pale sickly yellow, the players were still seated, with
feverish hands, haggard faces and hawk-like eyes, pursuing their race
after excitement. A silence had come over the party. The play was high
and the gamesters too absorbed to note anything but the game. From the
ball-room came the sound of violin, flute and harpsichord, shrieks of
shrill laughter, oaths from drunken wranglers and the continual thump of
feet.
Then the servants brought in coffee, extinguished the candles and drew
back the curtains.
"Good lord, we're more like a party of painted corpses than creatures of
flesh and blood," cried a lady with excessively rouged cheeks, bright
bird-like eyes and a long, thin hooked nose. "I declare positively I'll
play no more. Besides the luck's all one way, but 'tis not my fault. I
don't want to win every time."
"How generous--how thoughtful of your ladyship," sarcastically remarked
a handsome woman on the other side of the table.
"What do you mean, madam?" fiercely inquired the first speaker who was
now standing.
"Oh, nothing madam," was the retort accompanied by a curtsey of mock
humility. "Everybody knows Lady Anastasia's pleasant way of drawing off
when she has won and the luck's beginning to turn against her."
"I despise your insinuations madam," loftily replied Lady Anastasia, her
face where it was not rouged turning the colour of putty. "So common a
creature as Mistress Salisbury--I prefer not to soil my lips by
addressing you as _Sally_ Salisbury--I think that is the name by which
you are best known among the Cheapside 'prentices and my lord's
lackeys--ought to feel vastly honoured by being permitted to sit at the
same table with a woman of my rank."
"Your _rank_? Indeed, you're quite right. It _is_ rank. Foh!"
The handsome face was expressive of contemptuous abhorrence and her
gesture emphasised the expression. Lady Anastasia was goaded to fury.
"Why, you impudent, brazen-faced Drury Lane trull! A month at Bridewell
would do you good, you----"
Her ladyship's vocabulary of abuse was pretty extensive but it was cut
short. A dice box with the ivories inside flew across the table hurled
with the full strength of a vigorous shapely arm. This was Sally
Salisbury's retort. A corner of a dice cut the lady's lip and a drop of
blood trickled on to her chin.
Beyond herself with rage, Lady Anastasia seized a wine glass--a somewhat
dangerous projectile, for the wine glasses of the time were large and
thick and heavy--and would have dashed it at her antagonist but one of
the players, a man, grasped her wrist and held it.
"Let her ladyship have her chance. She's entitled to it. A duel at a
masquerade between two women of fashion! Why, it'll be the talk of the
town for a whole week," and Sally Salisbury laughed derisively.
But so vulgar a _fracas_ was not to the taste of Lady Anastasia's
friends, besides which the attendants were alarmed and ran to prevent
further disturbance. They abstained, however, from interfering with
Sally Salisbury. Her ungovernable temper and her fear of nothing were
well known. If she once let herself go there was no telling where she
would stop. At this moment, however, her temper was under perfect
control and indeed she was rather enjoying herself.
She rose, pushed away her chair with a backward kick to give room for
her ample hoops, and curtseying low to the company marched out of the
room without so much as a glance at her rival who was on the verge of
hysterics.
Mistress Salisbury entered the ball-room, now tenanted by the dregs of
the company most of them more or less stupefied or excited, according to
their temperaments, by drink. In one corner was a young man whose richly
embroidered silk coat of a pale lavender was streaked with wine, whose
ruffles were torn and whose wig was awry. To him was talking in a thick
growling bass a man arrayed in a costume hardly befitting a ball-room,
unless indeed he wore it as a fancy dress. But his evil face, dark,
dirty, and inflamed by deep potations, the line of an old scar extending
from the corner of his mouth almost to his ear showing white against the
purple of his bloated cheek forbade this supposition.
Captain Jeremy Rofflash in point of fact was very drunk. He had for the
last three or four hours been industriously engaged in getting rid of
some of the guineas of the old gentleman from Bath, in a boozing ken in
Whitefriars. Seasoned toper as he was he could carry his liquor without
it interfering with his head. About the effect on his legs he was not
quite so sure and at that moment his body was swaying ominously, but
thanks to his clutching a high backed chair he maintained his
equilibrium fairly well.
"Idiot," snarled the young gentleman whose temper inebriation had
soured, "why the devil didn't you come here earlier? The coup might have
been brought off to-night. Gad, I want rousing. I'm just in the mood,
and the sight of that pretty, saucy, baggage--oh, you're a damned fool,
Rofflash!"
"If Mr. Dorrimore will condescend to await my explanation," swaggered
Rofflash with drunken dignity, "he will admit that I've done nothing
foolish--nothing not permissible to a man of honour."
"Devil take your honour."
"Granted sir. The subject is not under discussion at the present moment.
Now, sir, what happened? As I've already informed you, I came across the
young poppinjay and the girl sweethearting on Moor Fields. She was in
his arms...."
"In his arms! S'death! I'll run the impudent upstart through for that.
The girl's mine, by God. Where's the fellow to be found?"
"All in good time, sir. Have a little patience. Aye, she was in his arms
but it's only fair to say that she had gone into a swoon."
"A swoon? What the devil made her swoon? She's never swooned in _my_
arms and I've clipped her close enough. She giggled and tittered I grant
you, but never the ghost of a swoon."
"There's no rule for the mad humour of a woman, as you must know, Mr.
Dorrimore."
"But swooning--that's a sign she was in earnest. She was never in
earnest with me--just a hoyden asking to be won."
"I crave your honour's pardon. The girl was in earnest enough when she
smashed your carriage window with the heel of her shoe and leaped out
like a young filly clearing a five barred gate."