Madame Flirt
the neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Sally had had more to drink than the
bottle of Mountain port her soul had craved for and was inclined to be
boisterous, but her temper was apt to be uncertain. It was a toss up
whether she laughed, cried or flew into a passion. She was inclined to
the first if she thought of her triumph over Lavinia and to the last
when Lancelot Vane and her failure to seduce him from his allegiance
came into her mind.
Sally often boasted she could win any man if she gave her mind to the
task, but Vane had escaped her toils. Perhaps it was that she had a
genuine passion for him and so had not used her powers of fascination.
The more she drank, the more she cursed herself for having allowed Vane
to slip through her fingers, and being in a reckless mood, she said as
much to Rofflash. Otherwise she would hardly have made a confidant of a
fellow who combined swash-buckling with highway robbery.
"What!" jeered Captain Jeremy, "Sally Salisbury own herself beaten over
a man. I'd as lief believe my old commander the great Duke Marlborough
crying he couldn't thrash the mounseers. I'll swear you didn't let him
go without getting the promise of an assignation out of him."
"A promise? Don't talk of promises. It's easier to get a promise out of
a man than his purse."
"Lord, madam, if it's the purse of that vapouring young spark you're
after, you'll be wasting your labour. You'll find it as empty as yonder
bottle. I'll swear now that you set greater store by his heart."
Rofflash glanced shrewdly at Sally's face. Her lips were working
convulsively. He knew he was right.
"You're a cunning devil, captain. You've the wheedling tongue of Satan
himself and his black soul, too, I doubt not. You're all ears and eyes
when money's to be picked up. Take that for what you did for me
to-night."
Sally drew five guineas from her pocket and flung them on the table. A
couple would have rolled on to the floor, but Rofflash grabbed them in
time. Sally burst into one of her hard, mirthless laughs.
"Trust you for looking after coin. See here, you Judas. Vane promised to
meet me at Spring Gardens to-morrow night. When I see him I shall
believe him, not before. You must work it so that he comes."
"Hang me, Sally, but that's a hard nut to crack."
"Not too hard for your tiger's teeth. I'll double those five guineas if
you bring it off."
Rofflash relished the proposition, but he pretended to find difficulties
and held out for higher pay. To Sally money was as water. She agreed to
make the ten into fifteen. Rofflash swearing that he'd do his best, took
his departure and left the lady, like Archibald Dorrimore, to drink
herself into insensibility.
"The devil looks after his own," chuckled Rofflash as he swaggered down
the Strand. "It'll go hard if I don't squeeze fifty guineas out of that
idiot Dorrimore over to-morrow night's work! He'd give that to have the
pleasure of running the scribbler through the body. Lord, if I'd
breathed a word of _that_ to Sally! No fool like an old fool, they say.
Bah! The foolishest thing in Christendom is a woman when she's in love."
And Captain Jeremy Rofflash plodded on, well pleased with himself. He
took the road which would lead him to Moorfields and Grub Street.
CHAPTER XX
"WHAT DID I TELL THEE, POLLY?"
Lavinia went to her first rehearsal in a strange confusion of spirits,
but came through the ordeal successfully. She was letter perfect, and
she remembered all Spiller's instructions. Mr. Huddy was pleased to say
that he thought she would do.
She left the theatre for her lodgings in Little Queen Street in a
flutter of excitement. Otway's "Orphan" might be dull and lachrymose,
the part of Serina might be insignificant, but to Lavinia the play was
the most wonderful thing. It meant a beginning. She had got the chance
she had longed for. She saw herself in imagination a leading lady.
But when she returned to her lodgings a reaction set in. She was
depressed. Life had suddenly become drab and dull. She was thinking of
Lancelot Vane, but not angrily, as was the case the previous night when
she walked away her head high in the air after seeing Sally
Salisbury--of all women in the world!--in his arms. She was in a tumult
of passion, and when that subsided tears of indignation rushed to her
eyes. She made no excuses for her recreant lover, no allowances for
accidents and misadventures. She did not, indeed, think he had set out
to insult her, but the unhappy fact was patent that he knew the wanton
Sally, and that he had a tender regard for her. Lavinia's reading of the
thing was that in her anxiety she had arrived at the trysting place too
soon. Ten minutes later and Vane would have got rid of his old love and
taken on with his new one. Oh, it was humiliating to think of!
Lavinia walked away in her rage. By the time she reached Little Queen
Street, the storm had passed. She had arrived at the conclusion that all
men were faithless, selfish, dishonourable. For the future she would
have naught to do with them.
The excitement of the rehearsal, the sense of independence she felt when
all was got through with credit, lent her buoyancy, but it did not last.
The dream she had once had of playing to an audience and seeing only
Lancelot Vane in the first row of the pit applauding and eager to
congratulate her, was gone. She was done with him for ever. So she told
herself. And to strengthen this resolve she recalled his weaknesses, his
vacillation, his distrust in himself, his lapses into inebriety. Yet no
sooner had she gone over his sins than she felt pity and inclined to
forgiveness. But not forgiveness for his faithlessness. That was
unpardonable.
Mrs. Egleton, her fellow lodger, had the night before gone to bed sober
and was inclined to be complaisant and to interest herself in Lavinia.
She was pleased to hear that Huddy had praised her.
"If he asks you to join his company, don't you refuse," said Mrs.
Egleton. "He's got a rough tongue when he's put out, but he knows his
business. Three months' experience will do wonders. I must come and see
you on _the_ night. When is it to be?"
Lavinia said she hadn't the least idea.
"Oh, well, you'll soon know."
Mrs. Egleton was right. In the next issue of the _Daily Post_ appeared
this advertisement:--
"At the desire of several persons of quality for the benefit of Mr.
Huddy, at the New Theatre in the Haymarket. To-morrow being
Thursday, the 24th day of February, will be presented a tragedy
called 'The Orphan; or, the Unhappy Marriage,' written by the late
Mr. Otway, with a new prologue to be spoken by Mr. Roger, who plays
the part of Chamont. The part of Acasto by Mr. Huddy; Monimia, Mrs.
Haughton; the page, Miss Tollet; and the part of Serina by a
gentlewoman who never appear'd on any stage before. With singing in
Italian and English by Mrs. Fitzgerald. And the original trumpet
song of sound fame, as set to musick by Mr. Henry Purcel, to be
performed by Mr. Amesbury."
Lavinia read this over twice and thrilled with delight. She ran with the
paper to Mrs. Egleton.
"Mercy on me, child!" cried the actress. "So you're a gentlewoman, are
you?"
"The paper says I am, so I suppose it's true," said Lavinia, casting
down her eyes demurely.
"If you are, it'll be a wonder. Not many women players are, I may tell
you for your satisfaction. Who was your father?"
"I don't know. I can't remember him."
"Well, you're in the fashion there. Few of us are better off than you.
But what matters father or mother? You're in the world, and after all
that's as much as you need trouble about. As for your mother--but I
won't bother you about _her_. A mother's not much good to her daughter.
She mostly looks to make money out of her by a rich marriage, not that
she's over particular about the marriage so long as there's plenty of
coin."
Lavinia did not contradict Mrs. Egleton's cynical views. From her own
experience she knew it was very often true.
The 24th was a fortnight ahead--plenty of time for the play to be in
readiness. Huddy had no fear about the performance. What concerned him
more nearly was his "benefit" money. He busied himself in canvassing his
patrons and the disposal of tickets.
The night came. Lavinia was wrought to a high pitch of excitement, but
her excitement was pleasurable. The scenery, albeit it would be scoffed
at nowadays, was to her magnificent. The costumes were gorgeous. It was
nothing that they smelt musty from having laid long in the theatre
wardrobe. The incongruity of many of the garments gave her no pang of
uneasiness. "The Orphan" was of no particular period. Dresses which had
done duty in Shakespearean tragedies, in classical plays of the Cato
type, in the comedies of the Restoration dramatists, were equally
admissible. The circumscribed space afforded the players by the
intrusion on the stage of the seats for the "quality" did not embarrass
her. The combined odours of oranges and candle snuff had their charm.
The house was full, but in the dim and smoky candlelight the faces of
the audience were little better than rows of shadowy masks. The pit
occupied the entire floor of the house right up to the orchestra. Here
the critics were to be found. The pit could make or mar the destiny of
plays, and the reputation of players. Dozens of regular playgoers knew
the traditions of the theatre better than many actors and actresses.
They were sticklers for the preservation of the stage "business" to
which they had been accustomed. They knew certain lines of their
favourite plays by heart, and how those lines ought to be delivered.
The curtain rose. Acasto, Monimia, Chamont mouthed their various parts,
and did exactly what was expected from them. Curiosity was excited only
when Serina, the daughter of Acasto, in love with Chamont, made her
appearance. Lavinia's winsome face, her eyes half tender, half alluring,
her pretty mouth with not an atom of ill nature in its curves, her
sympathetic voice, at once attracted the audience. It was a pity,
everyone felt, she had so little to say and do. Her few lines expressed
but one sentiment--her love for Chamont.
Lavinia played the part as if she felt it, which was indeed the fact,
for she was thinking of Lancelot Vane all the time. When she came to her
final words in the fifth act--
"If any of my family have done thee injury,
I'll be revenged and love thee better for it"
the house thundered its applause, so naturally and with such genuine
pathos were they delivered.
The curtain fell. The gallants who had seats on the stage crowded round
the "young gentlewoman" and showered compliments. A few privileged
people from the front of the house who found their way behind were
equally enthusiastic. Even Mrs. Haughton--the Monimia of the
play--deigned to smile approvingly.
"What did I tell thee, Polly?" she heard a pleasant if somewhat husky
voice whisper in her ear.
She knew the tones and turned quickly. John Gay's kindly eyes were
beaming upon her. He had come with Jemmy Spiller, and with a stout man
from whose broad red face a look of drollery was rarely absent. This was
Hippisley, a comedian with a natural humour which was wont to set an
audience in a roar.
Lavinia blushed with pleasure and cast a grateful look at Spiller, whose
hints had proved so valuable.
"Was I not right, Spiller?" went on Gay. "You've read my opera, what
there is of it that's finished. Won't Polly Peachum fit her like a
glove?"
"Aye, if she can sing as prettily as she acted to-night," said Spiller,
with a quizzical glance at the girl.
"Sing? My lad, she has the voice of a nightingale. Pepusch agrees with
me. I'll swear there's no singing woman outside the King's Theatre--or