Madame Flirt
inside, for the matter of that--who can hold a candle by the side of
her. Have you forgotten the pretty baggage who so charmed us at the
Maiden Head?"
"Not I, faith. I was but jesting. And so you've fixed upon her. But I
hear that Mr. Rich has set his face against so many songs. He won't take
your Polly merely because she can sing."
"Mr. Rich is a fool--in some things," rejoined Gay hastily. "He can
dance, I grant you, and posture as no other man can, and he thinks he
can act! I heard him once at a party of friends. My good Spiller, if his
vanity ever prompted him to air his voice on the stage, the people would
think he was mocking them, and one half would laugh and the other half
boo and hiss."
"I know--I know. Still, he holds command, and he likes his own way, no
man better."
"No doubt, but whatever a man wills he has to give up when a woman says
yea or nay. My good duchess means to have a word with him over the
songs."
"If that's so John Rich had better capitulate at once. He's as good as
beaten."
Lavinia could only catch a word of this talk here and there. She was
being pestered by half a dozen sparkish admirers who were somewhat taken
aback when they discovered that the "gentlewoman who had never appear'd
on any stage before" could more than hold her own in repartee and give
the fops of fashion as good as or better than they gave. How could they
tell that the sprightly young budding actress had graduated in the wit
and slang of the streets?
But she was pestered and peeved all the same, for she dearly wanted to
talk to Gay and Spiller. At last the modish gadflies got tired of having
their smart talk turned against them, and one by one fell off,
especially as Huddy, whose blunt speech was not much to their taste,
came up and intruded without apology into their vapid banter.
"The gal's done well, Spiller," said Huddy, "and I'm obleeged to ye. Now
I want to get on the road and waste no time about it. I ought to be at
Woolwich afore a fortnight's over, then Dartford, Gravesend, Rochester,
Maidstone, and so away on to Dover. What d'ye say, miss? I can give ye a
good engagement--no fixed salary in course--sharing out, that's the rule
with travelling companies--Mr. Spiller knows what I'm a'telling you is
right."
Lavinia hardly knew what to say to this, and she turned to Spiller for
advice. Huddy saw the look of doubt on her face, and went on with his
argument.
"It's this way, miss. I don't say as you didn't play to-night to my
satisfaction--thanks to my rehearsing of you--but you've got a lot to
learn, and, by God, you won't learn it better anywhere in the world than
with me. Ask Mr. Spiller--ask Mr. Hippisley. They know what's what, and
they'll tell you the same."
Spiller nodded.
"You've made a good beginning, but the more practice you have the
better. Isn't that so, Mr. Gay? Mr. Gay has great hopes of you, my dear
and--but you'd better hear what he has to say."
"Oh, I should dearly love to," murmured Lavinia.
They were now in the green room. Mrs. Fitzgerald was on the stage
singing "in English and French," and her shrill tones penetrated the
thin walls greatly to Gay's discomfort. The lady's voice was not
particularly sweet.
"Let us walk apart, Polly," said he. "We shan't hear that noise so
keenly."
He took her arm and placed it beneath his.
"Spiller's right, my dear. I have great hopes of you, but your chance
won't come for months. The time won't be lost if you work hard at
everything Huddy puts in your way. You'll have plenty of variety, but
you won't earn much money. The sharing out system puts the lion's
portion into the manager's pocket. But that can't be helped. Still, if
you want money--the duchess----"
"Oh, Mr. Gay," broke in Lavinia anxiously, "I've been sorely worried
thinking of her grace. Have you told her?--I mean about me running away
from school and--and----"
Gay laughed and playfully pinched her cheek.
"The love story, eh? Yes, I told the duchess, and she was vastly
entertained. She's a woman of infinite spirit and she likes other women
to have spirit too. She's not without romance--and I wouldn't give a
thank-you for her if she were. If you'd run off out of restlessness or a
mere whim or fit of temper, I doubt if she'd troubled about you further;
but love--that was another thing altogether. Oh, and your courage in
escaping from that dissolute rascal--that captured her. My dear,
Queensberry's Duchess is your friend. She's as desirous as I am that you
should be Polly Peachum in my 'Beggar's Opera,' and when I tell her
about to-night she'll be overjoyed. You need not fear about the future
save that it depends upon yourself. But Polly, what of the young
playwright, Lancelot Vane?"
"I don't want to hear anything about him!"
"What! Have you and he tiffed? Well, 'tis a way that true love works.
But let me tell you I've handed his play to Mr. Cibber, though much I
doubt its good fortune. Honestly, my child, though some of the lines are
good, others are sad stuff."
"I don't wish Mr. Vane any ill will, but it is no affair of mine whether
his play be good or bad."
"Mercy on me! But you told me he wanted to write in a part for you."
"If he does I won't play it. Mr. Vane is nothing to me."
"Oh, so _that_ love's flown away, has it? Was there anybody in this
world or any other so full of vagaries and vapours as Master Cupid?"
Lavinia was in a tumult of doubt and contrary inclinations. She hated to
discuss Lancelot Vane! She wanted to talk about him! She was suffering
from the most puzzling of emotions--the mingled pain and pleasure of
self-torture.
Gay neither gratified nor disappointed her. He simply remarked that it
was well she now had nothing to distract her mind and that she would be
able to devote herself entirely to her new life, and after counselling
her not to argue about terms with Huddy, he led her back to the manager,
and it was settled that she should join his travelling company.
Lavinia was overwrought, and that night slept but little. It was hard to
say whether the thoughts of her future on the stage, her dreams of
distinction with Gay's opera, or her wounded love and pride occupied the
foremost place in her mind. She resolved over and over again that she
would forget Lancelot Vane. She meant to steel herself against every
kind of tender recollection. She was certain she hated him and dropped
off to sleep thinking of the one kiss they had exchanged.
The next morning she was fairly tranquil. She had not, it is true,
dismissed Vane entirely from her thoughts, but she had arrived at the
conclusion that as it was all over between them it really was of no
consequence whether he had jilted her for Sally Salisbury. That he
should bestow even a look on so common a creature was a proof of his
vulgar tastes. Oh, he was quite welcome to Sally if his fancy roamed in
so low a direction. She felt she was able to regard the whole business
with perfect equanimity.
Her landlady that day bought a copy of the _Daily Post_ and she sent it
upstairs to Lavinia. Newspaper notices of theatrical performances were
rarities in those days. Lavinia did not expect to see any reference to
Mr. Huddy's benefit, and her expectations were realised. What she _did_
see sent the blood rushing to her face and her hands fumbled so that she
could hardly hold the paper. Then she went deadly pale, she tore the
paper in half and--a rare thing for Lavinia to do--she burst into tears.
CHAPTER XXI
"IF WE FIGHT.... WHAT SAY YOU TO LAVINIA FENTON?"
The big room of the "Angel and Sun" hard by Cripples Gate was the scene
of loud talk, louder laughter and the clank of pewter mugs on the solid
oaken table. The fat landlord, divested of his wig, which he only wore
on high days and holidays, was rubbing his shiny pate with satisfaction.
The Grub Street writers were his best customers, and when they had money
in their pockets they were uneasy until it was gone.
The room was low pitched; its big chimney beams projected so much that
it behoved a tall man to be careful of his movements; it was full of
dark shadows thrown by the two candles in iron sconces on the walls; a
high settle was on either side of the fire in front of which stood the
bow-legged host, his eyes beaming on the rapidly emptying bottles.
A slight sound, a movement, caused the landlord to glance towards the
door. A stranger had entered. He was not of the Grub Street fraternity.
He had too much swagger. His clothes were too fine, despite their
tawdriness, his sword hilt too much in evidence. What could be seen of
his dark face, the upper half of which his slouched hat concealed, was
rather that of a fighter than of a writer. The landlord summed up the
signs of a swashbuckler and approached him deferentially.
"Good evenin', sir. What's your pleasure?"
The stranger cast a rapid glance over the revellers sitting round the
long, narrow table before he replied.
"Half a pint of gin, landlord," said he, in the deep, husky voice of
Captain Jeremy Rofflash, and he strode towards the chimney corner of one
of the settles, whence he could see the noisy party of drinkers and not
be seen himself very well.
The landlord brought the gin in a pewter pot and set it down on a ledge
fixed to the chimney jamb.
"See here, landlord," growled Rofflash, "d'ye know Mr. Jarvis?"
"Sure, sir; 'tis he yonder with the lantern-jawed phizog."
"Aye. Watch your chance when he's not talking to the rest and bid him
look where I'm sitting. There's a shilling ready for you if you don't
blunder."
The landlord nodded and waddled towards the man he had pointed out.
Jeremy Rofflash, it may be remarked, was a born spy and informer. His
blood was tainted with treachery. Ten years before he had been employed
by the Whig Government of George of Hanover to ferret out
evidence--which not infrequently meant manufacturing it--against the
Jacobites. Posing as a Jacobite, Rofflash wormed himself into the
secrets of the conspirators, and he figured as an important witness
against the rebel lords Derwentwater, Nithsdale, Carnwath and Wintoun.
It was nothing for him to serve two masters and to play false to both,
according as it best suited his own pocket. Sally Salisbury and
Archibald Dorrimore were working in two different directions, and the
ingenious Jeremy accommodated both. His scheming in Sally's interest had
turned out to his and to her satisfaction, but not so that on behalf of
Dorrimore. The captain had not reckoned upon Lavinia taking flight
before he and his employer arrived on the scene.
The plot of which she was the objective was common enough in those days
of free and easy lovemaking. Merely an abduction. Rofflash had an
intimate knowledge of Whitefriars, not then, perhaps, so lawless a place
as in the times of the Stuarts, but sufficiently lawless for his
purpose. Its ancient privileges which made it a sanctuary for all that
was vile and criminal had not been entirely swept away. Rofflash knew of
more than one infamous den to which Lavinia could be conveyed, and
nobody be the wiser.
The abduction plot had failed--for the present--and Rofflash, to pacify
Dorrimore, went on another tack. In this he was personally interested.
He saw his way to make use of Dorrimore to punish Vane for the
humiliation Vane had cast upon him when they encountered each other on
London Bridge. This humiliation was a double one. Vane had not merely
knocked him down, but had rescued Lavinia under his very nose.
The insult could only be washed out in blood, and the captain had been
nursing his wrath ever since. But he was as great a coward as he was a
braggart, and a fair fight was not to his taste. He was more at home in
a stealthy approach under the cover of night, and a swift plunge of his