Madame Flirt
Sadler's Wells Gardens and afterwards at stolen opportunities which the
ingenious Lavinia contrived to bring about.
To tell the honest truth, Lavinia's gallant Archibald Dorrimore, the
young Templar, served only to amuse the young lady. She was not blind to
the fact that he was a fop and not blessed with too much brain. She had
seen many of his sort before and did not trust them. But Dorrimore
struck her as more sincere than the rest. Besides, he was very good
looking.
Lavinia couldn't help having admirers. Nature should not have endowed
her with such alluring, innocent looking eyes, with so sweet a mouth.
She had always had some infatuated young man hovering about her even
when she was her mother's drudge at the coffee house in Bedfordbury.
Perhaps she inherited flirting from that buxom, good-looking mother who
had the reputation of knowing her way quite well where a man was
concerned.
"Archibald Dorrimore will be _Sir_ Archibald some day," she mused. "It
would be rare to be called her ladyship. I can hear the footman saying:
'Your coach is waiting, my lady.' Lady Dorrimore--how well it sounds!
Archibald loves me...."
May be this conviction settled the matter. The girl slid out of bed and
dressed herself hurriedly, though eleven o'clock had only just struck
and she had plenty of time. Perhaps she thought that if she hesitated
any longer she might alter her mind and not be married after all.
Despite her haste she was not neglectful of herself. Now and again she
glanced at the little mirror over which the girls squabbled daily,
smoothed her rebellious hair and settled the Nithsdale hood of her cloak
coquettishly. Then she noiselessly crept from the room, flitted down the
staircase and was at the hall door shooting back its heavy
bolts--fortunately always kept well greased--and lifting the massive
chain which stretched across the centre. Street doors were well guarded
and ground floor windows barred in those days, and not without reason.
The moon was still shining brightly and Lavinia drew her hood closer
over her face, though there was little need, for the fields were
deserted. She turned to the east, keeping in the shadow, slight as it
was, of the school garden wall. When the "Conduit Head" at the top of
Red Lion Street (the northern end now known as Lamb's Conduit Street)
was reached she paused and her heart went pit-a-pat. If Dorrimore should
not be there!
She stopped, overcome by sudden scruples. In a flash her life at the
school, its monotony and discipline, the irksomeness of regular work,
rose before her! She had been some months at Miss Pinwell's
establishment and her restless soul pined for a change. Though she
looked back to her vagabond life in the streets with a shudder, she
yearned for its freedom, but without its degradations.
The step she was about to take, so she persuaded herself, meant freedom,
but it also meant ingratitude towards Gay and the duchess. For the
latter's opinion she did not care much. The imperious manner of her
grace was not to her taste. But Mr. Gay--that was a different thing. She
looked upon Gay as a father--of her own father she had but a shadowy
recollection--though sometimes she thought she detected in him signs of
a warmer affection than that which a father usually bestows on a
daughter. She did not want this. She liked his visits. She was glad to
have his praise. She laughed when he persisted in calling her Polly--why
she knew not--but she was sure she could never endure his making love to
her.
In her heart of hearts she was afraid of this. The dread had much to do
with her encouragement of Dorrimore. Of course if she married it would
mean an estrangement between her and Gay and his powerful friends, and
most likely the end of her ambition to be a great actress. Her mind had
long been torn, and at the eleventh hour when she was on her way to meet
her fate in Dorrimore she still hesitated. If she really loved Dorrimore
there would have been no hesitation. But she had never met any man who
did more than flatter her and gratify the pleasure she felt at being
admired.
Her decision was in the balance. The weight of a feather would turn the
scale one way or another. The feather came in the shape of Dorrimore
himself. There he was in three cornered hat and cloak, his powdered wig
white in the moonlight, pacing up and down, his hand resting on his
sword hilt. He caught sight of the shrinking figure in the shadow and
the hat was doffed in a profound bow. Undoubtedly a good looking young
man, but as undoubtedly a fop of the first water with his ruffles and
bosom of Mechlin lace, red heels to his shoes, gold clocks on his silk
stockings and the whiff of scent which heralded his coming.
When near enough his arm went round her and he drew back her hood. He
kissed her closely, so closely indeed that his ardour almost frightened
her, though she knew not why. He withdrew his lips and gazed into her
face, his own paling under the violence of his passion.
"Dearest Lavinia," he murmured. "You are the loveliest creature in the
world and I protest I am the luckiest of men. Have you no words of love
for me? Why so silent?"
She had not uttered a word. The rise and fall of her bosom showed her
agitation.
"I'm here. I'm here. Isn't that enough?" she faltered.
"Faith you're right, sweetheart. Then let us waste no time. My coach is
yonder."
He slid her arm within his and drew her forward. He was not unconscious
of a certain reluctance in her movements and a shyness in her manner,
but he put both down to maiden modesty. Her restraint made her all the
more enchanting and he quickened his pace. She was compelled to
accommodate her steps to his, but she did so unwillingly. A sudden
distrust whether of him or of herself she could not quite determine--had
seized her. She was repenting her rashness. She would have run from him
back to the school but that he held her too tightly. Within another
minute they had reached the heavy lumbering coach.
The coachman had seen them coming and descended from his box to open the
door. He was a big fellow who held himself erect like a soldier. His
swarthy complexion had a patch of purplish bloom spreading itself over
the cheek bones which told of constant tavern lounging. A pair of hawk's
eyes gleamed from under bushy beetling brows; wide loose lips and a
truculent, pugnacious lower jaw completed the picture of a ruffian.
Lavinia glanced at him and that glance was enough, it deepened her
distrust into repugnance. But she had no time to protest. She was
hurried into the coach, Dorrimore in fact lifting her inside bodily with
unnecessary violence for she was almost thrown into a corner of the back
seat. Dorrimore followed, turned, shut the door and almost immediately
the carriage moved. The coachman must have sprung to his box with the
quickness of a harlequin. The whip cracked and the horses broke into a
gallop.
CHAPTER IV
"IF WE'RE NOT TO BE MARRIED TELL ME"
The rattle of the wheels over the loose, roughly laid cobble stones, and
the swaying carriage hung on leathers, forbade talking. Lavinia heard
her companion's voice but she did not know what he was saying. Not that
it mattered for she was in too much of a flutter to heed anything but
her own emotions, and these were so confused that they told her little.
Then Dorrimore's arm stole round her waist. Well, this was not
unnatural. Would they not be soon man and wife? The puzzle was that she
had no feeling of response. She would rather that he did not embrace
her. She did not want to be noticed. Yet she could not find it in her
heart to be unkind, so she allowed him to draw her nearer, to let her
head droop on his shoulder. She tried to think it was pleasant to be so
loved and she lowered her eyelashes when he kissed her again and again.
Two or three minutes of oblivion. The coach had raced down Red Lion
Street. It was in Holborn going eastwards and here the din and clatter
were heightened by the shouts of drunken roisterers. The overhanging
houses cast deep shadows and the coach was travelling in the gloom. It
was past midnight and the lamps hung at every tenth house were
extinguished. This was the rule.
Then Lavinia became conscious that the carriage was going down hill. It
had passed Fetter Lane into which it should have turned and was
proceeding towards Holborn Bridge. Why was this? Fetter Lane led into
Fleet Street and so to the Fleet. Had the coachman misunderstood his
instructions? She wrenched herself free and looked out of the window.
She recognised St. Andrew's Church in Holborn Valley. She turned
swiftly and faced Dorrimore. The coach had crossed the bridge and had
commenced the steep ascent of Holborn Hill on the other side. The horses
had slackened their pace. The noise was less loud.
"You said we were going to the Fleet, but we're not. Where are you
taking me?"
"Don't trouble about such a trifle, darling little one," he cried gaily.
"Aren't you with me? What more do you want? Come, kiss me. Let us forget
everything but our two selves."
He would have embraced her but she repulsed him angrily.
"No. If you've altered your mind--if we're not to be married tell me so,
and I'll leave you to yourself," she cried agitatedly.
"Leave me? And d'you think I'll let you go when you're looking handsomer
than ever? Faith, what d'you take me for? You dear fluttering little
Venus. Why, you're trembling? But hang me, it must be with joy as I am."
Both his arms were round her. She struggled to free herself; pushed his
face away and panting, strove to reach the window, but he was strong and
prevented her.
"I'll go no further with you," she cried. "Set me down at once or I'll
scream for help."
"You pretty little fool. Much help you'll get here. Oh, you shall look
if you want to, but your wings must be clipped first."
He gripped both her wrists and held them fast. Her frightened eyes
glanced through the window. She heard a confused thud of hoofs, now and
again the deep bellowing of cattle, in the distance dogs barking,
drivers yelling. She could see horned heads moving up and down. The
coach was now moving very slowly. It was surrounded by a drove of
bullocks from the Essex marshes going to Smithfield.
"You see?" laughed Dorrimore. "D'you suppose I would set you down to be
tossed and gored by vulgar cattle. Why the sight of your red ribands
would send them mad, as it's nearly sent me."
"I don't care. I'd rather be with them than with you. I hate you," she
screamed with tears in her voice.
"Really? I'll warrant your hate'll turn to love before we part," he
jeered. "I'm not going to see you come to harm, so I shall hold your
pretty wrists tightly. How round and slender they are! So, you're my
prisoner."
"I'm not and I won't be."
Somehow she dragged her right wrist away and dealt him a smart blow on
his cheek.
"You would fight, would you? What a little spitfire it is! No matter. I
love you all the better. For every smart you give me you shall be repaid
with a dozen kisses. If that isn't returning good for evil may I never
handle a dice box again. There, do as you like. Lay your white hand
again on my face. The bigger debt you run up the better."
Despite his banter he was very savage and he flung her hands from him.
She at once laid hold of the strap to open the window. He burst into a
loud laugh.
"So the bird would escape," said he mockingly. "I thought as much."
She tugged at the strap but tugged in vain. The window refused to budge.
Then it flashed across her mind that it was all part of a plan. She was
to be trapped. The story of a Fleet marriage was a concoction to bait
the trap. She flung herself in the corner, turned her back upon her
captor and pulled her hood over her face.