CHAPTER II

"GO YOUR OWN WAY YOU UNGRATEFUL MINX"

The mob roared approval at the prospect of a fight, and though the

combatants were unfairly matched some of the ruffians urged the girl to

retaliate.

"Go for her hair, little un," one shouted. "There's plenty of it. Once

you get a fair hold and tear out a handful she'll squeak, I'll warrant."

The advice was not taken and maybe nobody expected it would be. Anyway,

before Sally could renew the attack her arm was seized by a man, slight

in stature and with a naturally humorous expression on his lean narrow

face and in his bright twinkling eyes.

"Enough of this brawling, mistress. If you _must_ fight choose someone

as big and as strong as yourself, not a lambkin."

The crowd knew him and whispers went round. "That's Spiller--Jemmy

Spiller the famous play actor." "No, is it though. Lord, he can make

folks laugh--ah, split their sides a'most. I see him last Saturday at

Master Rich's theayter in the Fields, and I thought I should ha' died."

Spiller was better at making people laugh than at holding an infuriated

woman. But he had two friends with him, stalwart butchers from Clare

Market, and he turned the task over to them with the remark that they

were used to handling mad cattle.

At this point Gay and Leveridge forced their way through the crowd. Gay

saw the red angry mark on the girl's pallid face and guessed the cause.

He drew her gently to him.

"Run inside the house. I'll join you presently," he whispered.

She thanked him with her eyes and vanished. Gay turned to Spiller.

"You deserve a double benefit at Drury Lane, Jemmy, for what you did

just now. That wild cat was about to use her claws," said he.

"Aye, and her teeth too, Mr. Gay."

"You'll need a mouthful of mountain port after that tussle. And your

friends as well, when they've disposed of Mistress Salisbury."

The butchers had removed her out of harm's way. Some of her lady friends

and sympathisers had joined her; and a couple of young "bloods" who had

come to see the fun of an execution, with money burning holes in their

pockets, being captured, the party subsided into the "Bowl" where a

bottle of wine washed away the remembrance of Sally Salisbury's

grievance. But she vowed vengeance on the "squalling chit" sooner or

later.

Meanwhile the object of Sally Salisbury's hoped for revenge was sitting

in a dark corner of the coffee room of the Maiden Head tavern. She felt

terribly embarrassed and answered Bolingbroke's compliments in

monosyllables. He pressed her to take some wine but she refused. To her

great relief he did not trouble her with attentions.

Then Gay entering with Spiller and his butcher friends, and Leveridge,

as soon as he could, approached her.

"Tell me, Polly,--my tongue refuses to say Lavinia--how you have

offended that vulgar passionate woman?"

"I don't know. Jealousy, I suppose. She's burning to sing but she can't.

Sing, why she sets one's teeth on edge! It might be the sharpening of a

knife on a grindstone. She would be a play actress, and Mrs. Barry at

Drury Lane promised to help her, but they quarrelled. Sally wanted to be

a great actress all at once, but you can't be, can you, sir?"

She looked at the poet earnestly. Her large grey eyes were wonderfully

expressive, and Gay did not at once answer. He was thinking how sweet

was the face, and how musical and appealing the voice.

"True, child, and that you should say it shows your good sense. Wait

here a few minutes and then you shall take me to your mother."

Gay crossed the room to his friends, and they talked together in low

voices. Spiller and Leveridge had much to say--indeed it was to these

two, who had practical knowledge of the theatre, to whom he appealed.

Bolingbroke sat silently listening.

Gay's project concerning his new found protégée was such as would only

have entered into the brain of a dreamy and impecunious poet. He saw in

Lavinia Fenton the making of a fine actress--not in tragedy but in

comedy--and of an enchanting singer. But to be proficient she must be

taught not only music, but how to pronounce the English language

properly. She had to a certain extent picked up the accent of the

vulgar. It was impossible, considering her surroundings and

associations, to be otherwise. But proper treatment and proper

companions would soon rid her of this defect.

Both Spiller and Leveridge agreed she was fitted for the stage. But how

was she to be educated? And what was the use of education while she was

living in a Bedfordbury coffee house!

"She must be sent to a boarding school and be among gentlefolk,"

declared Gay energetically.

"Excellent," said Bolingbroke, speaking for the first time, "and may I

ask who will pay for the inestimable privilege of placing her among the

quality?"

The irony in St. John's voice did not go unnoticed by Gay, but he

continued bravely.

"I will, if her mother won't."

"You? My good friend, you can scarce keep yourself. But 'tis like you to

add to the burden of debt round your neck rather than reduce it. Have

you been left a fortune? Have your dead South Sea Shares come back to

life?"

"Nay, Bolingbroke, don't remind me of my folly," rejoined Gay, a little

piqued. "We can't always be wise. Thou thyself--but let that pass, the

future is the foundation of hope. Before long I shall be in funds. The

'Fables' will be in the booksellers' hands ere the month is out."

"Oh, that's well. But the booksellers, though eager enough to sell their

wares, are not so ready to pay the writer his due. Moreover if I know

anything of John Gay, of a certainty all the money he puts in his pocket

will go out of the hole at the other end."

"I know--I know," rejoined the poet hastily. "But I'm not thinking alone

of the booksellers. It is a 'place' I shall have and an annual income

that will sweep away all my anxieties."

"Then you're in favour with the Princess and her obedient servant Sir

Robert--or is Walpole her master? What will the Dean of St. Patrick and

Mr. Pope say to your surrender?"

"No, no. I will never write a word in praise of either. There's not a

word in the 'Fables' that can be twisted into bolstering up the

Government."

"And you think to receive your comfortable 'place' out of pure

admiration of your poetical gifts? My poor Gay!"

"No. Friendship."

"Well, well, you must go your own way or you wouldn't be a poet. I leave

you to your commendable work of rescuing damsels in distress."

And after refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff Bolingbroke with a

wave of the hand to Gay and his friends strode from the room leaving the

poet with his pleasant face somewhat overcast.

But his chagrin did not last long. His natural buoyancy asserted itself

and he beckoned to Lavinia who was sitting primly on the edge of the

hard chair, her folded hands resting on her lap. Before she could cross

the room Spiller and Leveridge took up Bolingbroke's argument, and urged

Gay not to meddle further in the matter.

"Nay, why should I not? It would be a shame and a pity that so much good

talent should be wasted on the groundlings of St. Giles. Besides, there

is the girl herself," Gay lowered his voice. "You wouldn't have her be

like Sally Salisbury, Jemmy, would you? She has a good and innocent

nature. It will be torn to tatters if she be not looked after now. No.

Neither you nor Dick Leveridge will talk me out of my intent. Do you see

what misguided youth may easily come to? Look at your friend Vane."

Gay pointed to the sleeping young man.

"I know--I know. The young fool," returned Spiller a little angrily.

"Wine is Lancelot Vane's only weakness--well, not the only one, any

pretty face turns his head."

"He's not the worse for that provided a good heart goes with the pretty

face."

"Aye, _if_."

"Look after him then. When he awakens from his drunken fit he'll be like

clay in the hands of the potters."

"Faith, you're right, Mr. Gay, but there's one thing that'll protect

him--his empty purse. I doubt if he has a stiver left. I know he drew

some money from the _Craftsman_ yesterday."

"What, does he write for that scurrilous, venomous print?" cried Gay,

visibly disturbed.

"Not of his own will. He hates the paper and he hates Amherst, who owns

it. But what is a man to do when poverty knocks at the door?"

"That may be. Still--I wish he had nothing to do with that abusive

fellow, Nicholas Amherst, who calls himself 'Caleb D'Anvers,' why I know

not, unless he's ashamed of the name his father gave him. Do you know

that the _Craftsman_ is always attacking my friends, Mr. Pope, Dr.

Swift, Dr. Arbuthnot? As for myself--but that's no matter."

"Oh, Amherst's a gadfly, no doubt. But your friends can take care of

themselves. For every blow they get they can if it so pleases them, give

two in return."

"That's true, and I'll say nothing more. I wish your friend well rid of

the rascally D'Anvers. Look after him, Jemmy. Come Polly--let us to your

mother."

Both Spiller and Leveridge saw that Gay was not to be turned from his

resolution to help the girl, and presently she and her new found friend

were threading their way through a network of courts and alleys finally

emerging into the squalid thoroughfare between New Street and Chandos

Street.

The dirt and the poverty-stricken aspect of the locality did not deter

the poet from his intention. Bedfordbury was not worse than St. Giles.

The girl led him to a shabby coffee shop from the interior of which

issued a hot and sickly air.

"That's mother," she whispered when they were in the doorway.

A buxom woman not too neatly dressed, whose apron bore traces of

miscellaneous kitchen work, scowled when her eyes lighted on her

daughter.

"So you've come home, you lazy good-for-nothing hussy," she screamed.

"Where have you been? You don't care how hard I have to work so long as

you can go a pleasuring. There's plenty for you to do here. Set about

washing these plates if you don't want a trouncing."

Mrs. Fenton was in a vile temper and Gay's heart somewhat failed at the

sight of her. Then he glanced at the girl and her frightened face gave

him courage.

"Madame," said he advancing with a polite bow, "I should like with your

permission to have a few words with you in private. My business here

concerns your daughter in whom I take an interest."

"Oh, and who may you be?" asked the woman ungraciously.

"My name is Gay--John Gay--but I'll tell you more when we're alone."

He cast a look around at the rough Covent Garden porters with which the

place was fairly full. One of the boxes was empty and Mrs. Fenton

pointed to it, at the same time ordering her daughter to go into the

kitchen and make herself useful. Then she flopped down opposite Gay,

separated from him by a table marked by innumerable rings left by coffee

mugs.

Gay put forward his ideas and painted a glorious future for Lavinia. Her

mother did not seem particularly impressed. It was doubtful indeed if

she believed him.

"You'll find the wench a handful. She's been no good to me. I'd as lieve

let her go her own way as keep her. A young 'oman with a pretty face

hasn't got no need to trouble about getting a living. Sooner or later

she'll give me the slip--but--well--if you takes her and makes a lady of

her what do I get out of it?"

This was a view of the matter which had not occurred to the poet. He

felt decidedly embarrassed. His project appeared to be more costly than

he had at first imagined.

"It is for the benefit of your daughter," he stammered.

"Her benefit, indeed. Fiddle-de-dee! Your own you mean. I know what men

are. If she was an ugly slut you wouldn't take no notice of her. Don't

talk rubbish. What are you a going to give me for saying, yes. That's

business, mister. Come, how much?"

The poet saw there was no other way but talking business. This

embarrassed him still more for he was the last man qualified to act in

such a capacity.

"I'll see what I can do," said he nervously, "but you mustn't forget

that Lavinia will have to be quite two years at school, and there is her

music master----"

"Oh I dare say," rejoined the lady scoffingly, "and the mantle maker,

and the milliner, and the glover, and the hairdresser. That's your

affair, not mine. Name a round sum and I'll try to meet you. What d'ye

say?"

"Would five guineas----?"

"What!" shrieked Lavinia's mother. "And you call yourself a gentleman?"

"The sum I admit is a small one, but as you seemed anxious to get your

daughter off your hands I thought I was doing you a service by putting

the girl in a way to earn a good living."

"I dare say. I'm not to be taken in like that. Fine words butter no

parsnips. While Lavinia's in the house I'll go bail I'll make her work.

If she goes away I've got to pay someone in her place, haven't I? Twenty

guineas is the very lowest I'll take, and if you was anything like the

gentleman you look you'd make it double."

The haggling over such a matter and the coarse mercenary nature of the

woman jarred upon the poet's sensitive soul. The plain fact that he

hadn't got twenty guineas in the world could not be gainsaid. But he had

rich friends. If he could only interest them in this protégée of his

something might be done. And there were the "Fables."

"Twenty guineas," he repeated. "Well, I'll do my best. In two days'

time, Mrs. Fenton, I will come and see you and most likely all will be

settled to your satisfaction."

"Two days. Aye. No longer or maybe my price'll go up."

"I shall not fail. Now, Mrs. Fenton, before I go I'd like to see Lavinia

once more."

"No, this business is between you an' me, mister. The hussy's naught to

do with it. She'll have to behave herself while she's with me. That's

all I have to say about _her_."

So Gay rose and walked out of the box feeling as though he'd been

through a severe drubbing. He might have been sufficiently disheartened

to shatter his castle in the air had he not seen Lavinia's big sorrowful

eyes fixed upon him from the kitchen. He dared not disobey her mother's

behest not to speak to her so he tried to smile encouragingly, and to

intimate by his expression that all was going well. Whether he succeeded

in so doing he was by no means sure.

On leaving the coffee house Gay walked towards Charing Cross and thence

along the Haymarket to Piccadilly. His destination was Queensberry House

to the north of Burlington Gardens. Here lived Gay's good friends the

Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, and indeed Gay himself, save when he

was at Twickenham with Pope.

At dinner that evening Gay broached the subject of the phenomenal singer

whom he had discovered in the streets of St. Giles and his scheme

concerning her. The duke laughed at the poet's visions, but the duchess

was fascinated. Anything of the unusual at once appealed to the

warmhearted, impulsive, somewhat eccentric, lady. Her enthusiasm where

she was interested always carried her away, and her impatience and

energy would not let her rest until her object was accomplished.

"I would vastly like to hear Mr. Gay's pretty nightingale. You must

bring her to-morrow. I am dying to see if she is really the wonder you

pretend she is. You know that the best judge of a woman is another

woman. A man is apt to be partial."

"And a woman to be prejudiced," said Gay smilingly.

"Faith, Kitty," laughed the duke, "our poet has thee there."

"I deny it. But we will discuss the question after we've seen the

paragon. When shall she come?"

Gay for once was shrewd.

"Not until we've settled with the mother. She's a harpy. If she knows

that your grace has anything to do with the affair she'll double her

price."

"Why, our Gay is teaching us something," said the Duke banteringly. "He

is giving us a lesson in financial economy. Duchess, you must keep your

eye on the next post vacant in the Exchequer."

"Pish!" retorted her grace. "Mr. Gay is only exercising commonsense. We

all of us have a little of that commodity. If we could only have it

handy when it's wanted how much better the world would be."

Neither of the men disputed the lady's proposition, and the duchess

rising, left them to their wine.

Armed with the twenty guineas, Gay presented himself the following day

at the Bedfordbury coffee house. Mrs. Fenton was still ungracious, but

the sight of the little pile of gold and the chink of the coins

mollified her humour.

"Where and when are you going to take her?" she demanded.

Gay had arranged a plan with the duchess and he replied promptly.

"She will stay here for a few days while her wardrobe is being got

ready, then she is to go to Miss Pinwell's boarding school in Queen

Square."

"Carry me out and bury me decent," ejaculated Mrs. Fenton. "Then I'm to

be the mother of a fine lady, am I?"

"I don't say that, but a clever one if I'm not mistaken."

"Clever! Oh la! Much good will her cleverness do her. Clever! Aye in

always having a crowd o' sparks a dangling after her. That Miss

What's-her-name in Queen Square'll have to get up early to best Lavinia

when there's a man about."

"A mother shouldn't say such ill-natured things of her own child," said

Gay reprovingly. "She's hardly a woman yet."

"But she knows as much. Well, you've got your bargain. Make your best of

it. What about her clothes? She's but a rag-bag though it's no fault o'

mine. Pray who's going to buy her gowns, her hats, her petticoats, her

laces and frills. You?"

"I? Bless me! no, woman. I know nothing about such things," rejoined Gay

colouring slightly. "I will send a woman who understands the business."

"It's all one to me. Maybe you'd better tell your tale to Lavinia with

your own lips. I've done with her."

"By all means. I should like to see her."

Mrs. Fenton, whose eyes all the while had been gloating over the gold on

the table now swept it into her pocket. It was a windfall which had come

at the right moment. She was tired of Bedfordbury. She aimed at a step

higher. There was a coffee house business in the Old Bailey going cheap,

the twenty pounds would enable her to buy it.

As for her daughter, she had no scruple about letting her go with a man

who was quite a stranger. The girl's future didn't trouble her. Since

Lavinia had entered her teens, mother and daughter had wrangled

incessantly. Lavinia was amiable enough, but constant snubbing had

roused a spirit which guided her according to her moods. Sometimes she

was full of defiance, at others she would run out of the house, and

ramble about the streets until she was dead tired.

Lavinia was shrewd enough to discover why her mother did not want her at

home. Mrs. Fenton, still good-looking, was not averse to flirting with

the more presentable of her customers, and as Lavinia developed into

womanhood she became a serious rival to her mother, so on the whole,

Gay's proposition suited Mrs. Fenton admirably, and she certainly never

bothered to find out if he spoke the truth. She was not inclined to

accept his story of the boarding school as a stepping-stone to the

stage, but to pretend to believe it in a way quieted what little

conscience she possessed. If the scheme turned out badly, why, no one

could say _she_ was to blame.

Lavinia, tremulous with excitement and looking prettier than ever, came

into the room where the poet was awaiting her. Her face fell when Gay

talked about the boarding school and of the possibility of her having to

remain there a long time, but she brightened up on his going on to say

that the period might be considerably shortened if she made a rapid

improvement.

"And do you really think, sir, I shall ever be good enough to act in a

theatre like Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Oldfield, and--oh, and Mrs.

Bracegurdle?" cried the girl, her eyes blazing with anxious ambition.

"I don't say you'll act like them. You'll act in your own way, and if

you work hard your own way will be good enough. If you succeed the

friends who are now helping you will be more than rewarded."

"Ah, I will do anything to please you, sir."

She caught his hand and impulsively raised it to her lips.

Gay was a little embarrassed at this outburst. Did it mean that the girl

had fallen in love with him? He checked the rising thought. Yet there

was nothing outrageous in such a possibility. Lavinia was only sixteen,

it is true, and romantic sixteen might see nothing incongruous in

thirty-seven, which was Gay's age.

"What pleases me, child, doesn't matter," he returned hastily. "I want

to see you please others--in the play house I mean."

She looked at him wistfully.

"But," he continued, "it will be time enough to talk of that when I see

how you get on. Now is it all settled? You're leaving this place and

your mother of your own free will--isn't that so?"

Lavinia said nothing, but pinched her lips and nodded her head

vigorously. The action was sufficiently expressive and Gay was

satisfied.

Three days went by. Her Grace of Queensberry's maid, a hard-faced

Scotswoman who was not to be intimidated nor betrayed into confidences,

superintended Lavinia's shopping and turned a deaf ear to Mrs. Fenton's

scoffs and innuendoes.

The girl was transformed. Her new gowns, hats, aprons, and what not sent

her into high spirits and she bade her mother adieu with a light heart.

"Go your own way, you ungrateful minx," was Mrs. Fenton's parting shot,

"and when you're tired of your fine gentleman or he's tired of you,

don't think you're coming back here 'cause I won't have you."

Lavinia smiled triumphantly and tripped into the hackney coach that was

awaiting her.