CHAPTER XV

"A MAN SHOULD FIGHT HIS WAY THROUGH THE WORLD"

Vane left alone, strolled onward moodily, his eyes bent on the ground.

"In love, as I ought to be, said that scoundrel," he was muttering. "How

does he know I'm not? But what's the good? Faith, I believe I'm the

poorest devil in London and the unluckiest. Some people would say that

it is my own fault and that I've no need to be. Anyhow, my worthy father

would hold that view. I doubt if he'd kill the fatted calf if I went

back to him.... Go back! I'd rather go to the devil to whose tender

mercies he consigned me. Well, let it be so.... I've had some of the

joys of life--though maybe I've also had a good slice of its

disappointments.... It was worth being poor to have the pity of that

dear delightful girl.... God, what eyes! How sweet the tones of her

voice! I feel I love every hair of her pretty head. But to what purpose?

She's not for me. She never could be. Yet--well I shall see her again.

That's a joy to live for ... anyway. But it's too late to expect her

now. There's nothing left but to dream of her."

While thus soliloquising, kicking the pebbles as an accompaniment to his

thoughts, Vane neared the corner of Moor Fields leading to Cripples Gate

and was pounced upon by a couple of noisy fellows, friends of his, who,

newly sprung with wine, would have him go with them to the "Bear and

Staff" close to the Gate.

"No--no," protested Vane, "I'm not in the mood."

"The very reason why you should drink," quoth one.

"But I've sworn not to touch a drop of anything stronger than coffee or

chocolate for a week. I had too much port last night."

"Worse and worse. Hang it man, whatever you may have been at Oxford

University you are no disputant now. Your resolution to be virtuous for

a week won't last a day unless you strengthen it. And what strengthens

the wit more than wine?"

"Get thee gone Satan. I'm not to be tempted by a paradox."

Vane did not speak with conviction. His spirits were low. Curll's offer

was worrying him. To be in the service of such a man, whose personal

character was as infamous as some of the books he published, was a

humiliation. It meant the prostitution of his faculties. He shuddered at

the prospect of becoming one of Curll's slaves to some of whom he paid a

mere pittance and who were sunk so low they had no alternative but to do

his bidding.

Meanwhile the second man had thrust his arm within Vane's and had led

him along a few paces, when suddenly the imprisoned arm was withdrawn

and Vane pulled himself up. He had caught sight of a Nithsdale cloak

with the face he had been dreaming about all day peeping from beneath

the hood.

"Jarvis--Compton--let me go," he exclaimed, "another time."

He violently wrenched himself free. They followed his eyes and

instinctively guessed the reason of his objection. The figure in the

cloak had turned but there was an unmistakeable suggestion of lingering

in her attitude.

"Man alive," laughed Jarvis, "your argument's unanswerable. We give you

best. Woman has conquered as she always does. Good luck."

Vane did not stay to listen to the banter of his friends but hastened

towards the cloak.

"You're my good angel," he whispered holding out both his hands.

"I'm afraid I've come at a wrong moment. I'm taking you from your

friends," said the girl in the cloak a little coldly.

"You're offended. Pray forgive me if I've done anything wrong."

"Not to me. Perhaps to yourself. But I ought not to say ... no, what you

do is nothing to me."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Why not? You know it as well as I do--may be better."

"Indeed, I don't. Forgive me if I've allowed myself to think that I was

of some interest to you. Of course I was foolish to have such fancies.

Still, you've been so kind.... I hardly like to ask you if you have seen

Mr. Gay ... and ... and ... my tragedy...."

Vane could not conceal his agitation. Lavinia took pity on him and her

manner softened in that subtle inexplicable way which women have.

"Yes, I've seen him and I gave him your play."

"Ah, I can never thank you sufficiently. And what did he say?"

"He put the play in his pocket and promised to read it. He could not do

any more, could he?" Lavinia quickly added seeing disappointment written

in the young dramatist's face.

"No, indeed. But did he give hopes that he would speak to Mr. Rich at

the Duke's Theatre or to Mr. Cibber at Drury Lane?"

"I don't think he did. I can't remember. He told me he was himself

writing a play--an opera--but he was not sanguine he should get it

performed."

"An opera? It is a waste of time. Operas are written by foreigners and

the music and the singers are foreign too. What do the English care

about operas written in their own tongue? It's not wonderful that Mr.

Gay should be doubtful. Now a tragedy is a different thing. That's

something everybody understands!"

"Do they? I fear then I'm very stupid. I saw a tragedy once and I'm not

sure I knew what it was about. The people on the stage made such long

speeches to each other they tired me to death. But I'm sure yours would

not be like that."

"Ah, you say that because you want to put me in good heart. We'll talk

no more about it, nor about myself either."

"Oh, but I do want to talk about you. I've something to say and I don't

know how to say it without hurting you," said Lavinia, hesitatingly.

"You don't mean you're going to bid me good-bye?" he burst out. "I won't

say _that_. You're the only one I've ever met who's encouraged me out of

pure good nature. When I've had money to spend on them, friends have

sought me out fawning and flattering. After they'd emptied my purse they

vanished."

"Yes, yes, and that's why I want to talk to you. Aren't you easily led

to take too much wine?"

"Perhaps--perhaps, but no more than other men."

"I hope so, at least not more than the men I saw you with last night."

"You saw me! Where?"

"In a coffee house near St. Paul's. The man who left you a few minutes

ago was making you drink and the others were helping him. Your glass was

never empty save when you yourself had emptied it. I don't like that

white-faced squinting man. His voice is horrid. His vulgar talk--oh, it

made me put my fingers to my ears and run out of the house. He doesn't

mean you well."

"I--I like him no more than you," stammered Vane. "But he wants me to

write for him. It would put money in my pocket. How could I refuse to

drink with him?"

"Why not? He would not employ you if he did not think it was to his own

good. And have you promised?"

"No--not yet. He was persuading me just now but I've not consented."

"Then don't. He's a bad, a wicked man I feel sure. Have nothing to do

with him."

"I swear to you I've no desire. But a penniless scribbler has no choice

if he has to live--that is if life be worth living, which I sometimes

doubt."

"You shouldn't think like that. It's cowardly. A man should fight his

way through the world. Now a woman...."

"She's armed better than a man. Her charm--her beauty--her wit. Nature

bestows on her all conquering weapons."

"Which she as often as not misuses and turns against herself. But Mr.

Vane," the note of bitterness had vanished; her voice was now earnest,

almost grave, "you weren't despondent when you were facing an angry mob

after doing me a service I shall never forget. You underrate yourself."

"Oh, I admit that when alone I'm like a boat at the mercy of wind and

wave, but with some one to inspire--to guide--bah, 'tis useless talking

of the unattainable."

Vane uttered the last words in a reckless tone and with a shrug of the

shoulders. His eyes gazed yearningly, despairingly into hers, and there

had never been a time in Lavinia's life when she was less able to

withstand a wave of heartfelt emotion.

Her nerves at that moment were terribly unstrung. She had had a most

exhausting day lasting from early dawn. The strain of the trying

interview at Twickenham; the anxious ordeal of singing before such

supreme judges as she deemed them; the jubilation of success and the

praise they had bestowed upon her, and Gay's promises as to her future

had turned her brain for the time being. Then the episode of the

highwayman--that in itself was sufficiently disturbing.

As a matter of fact the girl's strength was ebbing fast when she reached

Moor Fields, but she nerved herself to go on, confident of her reward in

relieving the young author's anxiety and his joy at the success--up to a

point--of her errand. Things had not quite turned out as she had

pictured them. The sight of the coarse speeched, malevolent-looking man

with his squinting eye and unhealthy complexion, brought back the scene

of the night before which she would willingly have forgotten, and down

went her spirits to zero.

While she had been talking with Vane her heart was fluttering strangely.

She had eaten nothing since she had left Twickenham and she was

conscious of a weakness, of a trembling of the limbs. That passionate,

yearning look in Vane's eyes had aroused an excess of tenderness towards

him which overwhelmed her. She suddenly turned dizzy. She swooned.

When consciousness came back she was in his arms. He was as tremulous as

she and was looking at her pallid face with eyes of terror--a terror

which disappeared instantly when he saw life returning.

"My God," he cried, "I thought you were dead. I'd have killed myself had

it been so."

Lavinia gazed at him mutely. It was pleasant to have his arms round her,

and the feel of them gave her a sense of peace and rest. In her fancy

she had gone through an interminable period of oblivion--in reality it

was but a few seconds--and the struggle into life was painful. But she

was strengthened by his vitality and she gently withdrew herself from

his embrace, smoothed her hair and drew forward her hood which had

fallen back. Despite her pallor, or may be because of it, she never

looked more fascinating than at that moment with her hair tumbled, her

large dreamy eyes, and the delicious languor so charmingly suggestive of

helplessness, and of an appeal to him for protection.

"Are you better?" he whispered anxiously.

"Yes, thank you. It was very silly to faint. I don't know what made me."

"Take my arm; do, please. Why, you can hardly stand."

It was true, and the arm which went round her waist was not wholly

unnecessary. She submitted without protest and they slowly walked a few

paces.

"Though it's hard to part from you 'tis best you should get home

quickly. Have you far to go? Shall I call a coach?"

These pertinent questions threw the girl into a sudden state of

confusion. She had no home. She had but little money, for Gay's guinea

was nearly gone after she had paid her fare from Hounslow and the

incidental expenses of the journey. But she dared not say as much to her

companion. He thought her a fine lady. It might be wise to keep him in

this mind. If he knew she was as poor as he, there would be an end to

the pleasure of helping him. She felt sure he would accept nothing more

from her.

What was she to say? She could think of nothing. She felt bewildered.

At the same time the effort to face the difficulty did her good. It

revived her energy.

"Indeed there's no necessity for me to ride. I can walk quite well and

it is but a little distance to my home. You may see me across the fields

if you will and then we will say good-night."

"I'd better walk with you beyond the fields," he urged. "The streets are

just as dangerous for you as this desolate place."

"Oh no. There are sure to be plenty of people about! You shall go as far

as Cheapside, but not a step further."

Vane accepted the compromise, but when Cheapside was reached it was full

of a noisy throng and most of the crowd, both men and women, were the

worse for drink. He easily overcame her protest that she could proceed

alone and they went on to St. Paul's. Here it was comparatively quiet,

and she flatly refused to permit him to accompany her beyond the

Cathedral.

They passed the Chapter coffee house. Lavinia's thoughts reverted to her

warning to Vane on Moor Fields.

"You've not given me your promise to have nothing to do with that man--I

don't know his name and I don't want to--who made you drink too much

last night in there."

"I'll promise you anything," he cried pressing the arm which was within

his.

"Thank you, but that's not all. Swear that you will never drink too much

again. It makes me sad."

"On my honour I never will. I'd rather die than hurt you by word or

deed."

"Are you sure?" she returned with more concern in her voice than she

suspected.

"Sure? If I don't keep my word I should fear to face your anger."

"I shouldn't be angry, only sorry."

"I'd rather have your anger than your pity. I might pacify the first but

the second--while you are pitying me you might also despise me. I could

never endure that."

His voice trembled with genuine emotion. Lavinia put out her hand and he

caught it eagerly and raised it to his lips.

"You've made me happy," he cried, "you've given me fresh hope. I'll

promise you all you've asked. You must promise me one thing in return. I

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.