CHAPTER X

IN THE CHAPTER COFFEE HOUSE

It was nearly six o'clock when Lavinia stood on the broad steps of

Queensberry House behind Burlington Gardens. Now that she was staring at

the big door between the high railings with their funnel shaped link

extinguishers pointing downward at her on either side her courage

seemed to be slipping from her. The grotesque faces supporting the

triangular portico seemed to be mocking her, the enormous knocker

transformed itself into a formidable obstacle.

The adventures of the last forty-eight hours had suddenly presented

themselves to the girl's mind in all their enormity. It occurred to her

for the first time that she had not only thrown away the chance of her

life, but that she had been guilty of black ingratitude to her

benefactors. And her folly in permitting the fancy to rove towards

Archibald Dorrimore, for whose foppishness she had a contempt, simply

because he was rich! The recollection of this caused her the bitterest

pang of all.

How could she justify her conduct to Mr. Gay! Would he not look upon her

as a light o' love ready to bestow smiles upon any man who flattered

her? Well, she wouldn't attempt to justify herself. Mr. Gay was a poet.

He would understand. But the terrible duchess--Kitty of Queensberry who

feared nothing and in the plainest of terms, if she was so minded,

expressed her opinion on everything! Lavinia quaked in her shoes at the

thought of meeting the high-born uncompromising dame.

"But I've promised the poor fellow. I _must_ keep my word. I don't care

a bit about myself if I can do that," she murmured.

Lavinia had a sudden heartening, and lest the feeling should slacken she

seized the heavy bell-pull and gave it a violent tug.

The door was opened almost immediately by a fat hall porter who scowled

when he saw a girl instead of the footman of a fine lady in her chair.

"What d'ye want? A-ringing the bell like that one would think you was my

Lord Mayor."

"I'm neither the Lord Mayor nor the Lady Mayoress, as your own eyes

ought to tell you. I wish to see Mr. Gay."

"Well, you can't," said the porter gruffly. "He's not here. He's staying

with Mr. Pope at Twitnam."

"Twitnam? Where is Twitnam?"

"Up the river."

"How far? Can I walk there?"

"May be, but you hadn't better go on foot. It's a goodish step--ten or a

dozen miles. You might go by waggon, there isn't no other way save toe

and heel. An' let me give you warning, young 'oman, the roads aren't

safe after dark. D'rectly you get to Knightsbridge footpads is ten a

penny, let alone 'ighwaymen. Not that you're _their_ game--leastways by

the looks o' you."

"Thank you. I'm not afraid, but you mean your advice kindly and I'll not

forget it. Mr. Gay's at Mr. Pope's house you say?"

"Mr. Pope's villa--he calls it. Mr. Pope's the great writer."

"I've heard of him. Which is the way after I've left Knightsbridge?"

"Why, straight along. Don't 'ee turn nayther to the right or the left,

Kensington--'Ammersmith--Turn'am Green--Brentford--you goes through 'em

all, if you don't get a knock on the 'ead on the way or a bullet through

ye. One's as likely to 'appen as the other. I wouldn't answer fer your

getting safe and sound to Twitnam unless you goes by daylight."

"That's what I must do then," said Lavinia resignedly. "Thank you

kindly."

"You're welcome, I hope as how that pretty face o' yours won't get ye

into trouble. It's mighty temptin'. I'd like a kiss myself."

"Would you? Then you won't have one. As for my face, I haven't any other

so I must put up with it."

Dropping a curtsey of mock politeness Lavinia hastened away and did not

slacken her pace till she reached Piccadilly and was facing the large

open space now known as the Green Park.

It was a lovely evening and the western sun though beginning to descend,

still shone brightly. The long grass invited repose and Lavinia sat down

on a gentle hillock to think what her next step must be.

She was greatly disappointed at not finding Mr. Gay. She was sure he

would have forgiven her escapade; he would have helped her over the two

difficulties facing her--very little money and no shelter for the night.

Of the two the latter was most to be dreaded.

"A year ago," she thought, "it wouldn't have mattered very much. The

Covent Garden women and men from the country are kind-hearted. I'd have

had a corner in a waggon and some hay to lie upon without any bother,

and breakfast the next morning into the bargain. But now--in these

clothes--what would they take me for?"

These reflections, all the same, wouldn't solve the problem which was

troubling her and it _had_ to be solved. She must either walk about the

streets or brave the tempest of her mother's wrath. This wrath, however,

didn't frighten her so much as the prospect of being again made a

prisoner. Her mother, she felt sure, had some deep design concerning

her, though what it was she could not conceive.

Tired of pondering over herself and her embarrassing situation Lavinia

turned her mind to something far more agreeable--her promise to Lancelot

Vane which of course meant thinking about Vane himself.

She couldn't help contrasting Vane with Dorrimore. She hated to remember

having listened seriously to the latter's flatteries. By the light of

what had happened it seemed now to her perfectly monstrous that she

could ever have consented to marry him. It angered her when she thought

of it--but her anger was directed more against herself than against

Dorrimore.

"I suppose I ought to go back to Mr. Vane. He'll be waiting anxiously to

know how I've fared, but no--I'll go to Twitenham first."

She sat for some time watching the sunset. She wove fanciful dreams in

which the pallid face and large gleaming eyes of the young poet were

strangely involved. With what courtly grace and reverence he had kissed

her hand! Vane was a gentleman by nature; Dorrimore merely called

himself one and what was more boasted of it.

But what did it matter to her? Vane had done her a service and it was

only right she should repay him in some sort. This was how she tried to

sum up the position. Whether Mr. Gay befriended him or not, their

acquaintance would have to cease. He was penniless and so was she. If

she confessed as much as this to him he would be embarrassed and

distressed because he could not help her.

"I dursn't tell him," she sighed. "I'll have to do something for myself.

Oh, if I could only earn some money by singing! I would love it. Not in

the streets though. No, I could never do that again. Never!"

She clasped her hands tightly and her face became sad. Then her thoughts

went back to Vane and she pictured him in his lonely garret perhaps

dreaming of the glorious future awaiting him if his tragedy was a

success, or perhaps he was dejected. After so many disappointments what

ground had he for hope? Lavinia longed to whisper in his ear words of

encouragement. She had treasured that look when his face lighted up at

something she had said that had pleased him. And his sadness she

remembered too. She was really inclined to think she liked him better

when he was sad than when he was joyful. But this was because she

gloried in chasing that sadness away. It was a tribute to her power of

witchery.

Dusk was creeping on. She must not remain longer in that solitary

expanse. She rose and sped towards Charing Cross. In the Strand citizens

and their wives, apprentices and their lasses were taking the air. The

scraps of talk, the laughter, gave her a sense of security. But the

problem of how to pass the night was still before her. She dared not

linger to think it out. She must go on. Young gallants gorgeously

arrayed were swaggering arm in arm in pursuit of adventure, in plain

words in pursuit of women, the prettier the better. Lavinia had

scornfully repelled the advances of more than one and to loiter would

but invite further unwelcome attention.

The night was come but fortunately the sky was clear, for the Strand was

ill lighted. St. Mary's Church, not long since consecrated, St.

Clement's Church, loomed large and shadowy in the narrow roadway,

narrowing still more towards Temple Bar past the ill-favoured and

unsavoury Butcher's Row on the north side of the street, where the

houses of rotting plaster and timber with overhanging storeys frowned

upon the passer-by and suggested deeds of violence and robbery.

Butcher's Row and its evil reputation, even the ruffians and dissolute

men lurking in the deep doorways did not frighten Lavinia so much as the

silk-coated and bewigged cavaliers. The days of the Mohocks were gone it

was true, but lawlessness still remained.

Lavinia was perfectly conscious that she was being followed by a spark

of this class. She did not dare look round lest he should think she

encouraged him, but she knew all the same that he was keeping on her

heels. Along Fleet Street he kept close to her and on Ludgate Bridge

where the traffic was blocked by the crowd gazing into the Fleet river

at some urchin's paddling in the muddy stream he spoke to her. She

hadn't the least idea what he said, she was too terrified.

In the darkness of St. Paul's Churchyard she had the good luck to avoid

him and she darted into Paternoster Row, and took shelter in a deep

doorway. Either he had not noticed the way she went or he had given up

the chase, for she saw no more of him.

The doorway in which she had sought refuge was a kind of lobby with an

inner door covered with green baize. From the other side came the sound

of loud talking and laughter, and the clinking of glasses. It was the