CHAPTER XX

"WHAT DID I TELL THEE, POLLY?"

Lavinia went to her first rehearsal in a strange confusion of spirits,

but came through the ordeal successfully. She was letter perfect, and

she remembered all Spiller's instructions. Mr. Huddy was pleased to say

that he thought she would do.

She left the theatre for her lodgings in Little Queen Street in a

flutter of excitement. Otway's "Orphan" might be dull and lachrymose,

the part of Serina might be insignificant, but to Lavinia the play was

the most wonderful thing. It meant a beginning. She had got the chance

she had longed for. She saw herself in imagination a leading lady.

But when she returned to her lodgings a reaction set in. She was

depressed. Life had suddenly become drab and dull. She was thinking of

Lancelot Vane, but not angrily, as was the case the previous night when

she walked away her head high in the air after seeing Sally

Salisbury--of all women in the world!--in his arms. She was in a tumult

of passion, and when that subsided tears of indignation rushed to her

eyes. She made no excuses for her recreant lover, no allowances for

accidents and misadventures. She did not, indeed, think he had set out

to insult her, but the unhappy fact was patent that he knew the wanton

Sally, and that he had a tender regard for her. Lavinia's reading of the

thing was that in her anxiety she had arrived at the trysting place too

soon. Ten minutes later and Vane would have got rid of his old love and

taken on with his new one. Oh, it was humiliating to think of!

Lavinia walked away in her rage. By the time she reached Little Queen

Street, the storm had passed. She had arrived at the conclusion that all

men were faithless, selfish, dishonourable. For the future she would

have naught to do with them.

The excitement of the rehearsal, the sense of independence she felt when

all was got through with credit, lent her buoyancy, but it did not last.

The dream she had once had of playing to an audience and seeing only

Lancelot Vane in the first row of the pit applauding and eager to

congratulate her, was gone. She was done with him for ever. So she told

herself. And to strengthen this resolve she recalled his weaknesses, his

vacillation, his distrust in himself, his lapses into inebriety. Yet no

sooner had she gone over his sins than she felt pity and inclined to

forgiveness. But not forgiveness for his faithlessness. That was

unpardonable.

Mrs. Egleton, her fellow lodger, had the night before gone to bed sober

and was inclined to be complaisant and to interest herself in Lavinia.

She was pleased to hear that Huddy had praised her.

"If he asks you to join his company, don't you refuse," said Mrs.

Egleton. "He's got a rough tongue when he's put out, but he knows his

business. Three months' experience will do wonders. I must come and see

you on _the_ night. When is it to be?"

Lavinia said she hadn't the least idea.

"Oh, well, you'll soon know."

Mrs. Egleton was right. In the next issue of the _Daily Post_ appeared

this advertisement:--

"At the desire of several persons of quality for the benefit of Mr.

Huddy, at the New Theatre in the Haymarket. To-morrow being

Thursday, the 24th day of February, will be presented a tragedy

called 'The Orphan; or, the Unhappy Marriage,' written by the late

Mr. Otway, with a new prologue to be spoken by Mr. Roger, who plays

the part of Chamont. The part of Acasto by Mr. Huddy; Monimia, Mrs.

Haughton; the page, Miss Tollet; and the part of Serina by a

gentlewoman who never appear'd on any stage before. With singing in

Italian and English by Mrs. Fitzgerald. And the original trumpet

song of sound fame, as set to musick by Mr. Henry Purcel, to be

performed by Mr. Amesbury."

Lavinia read this over twice and thrilled with delight. She ran with the

paper to Mrs. Egleton.

"Mercy on me, child!" cried the actress. "So you're a gentlewoman, are

you?"

"The paper says I am, so I suppose it's true," said Lavinia, casting

down her eyes demurely.

"If you are, it'll be a wonder. Not many women players are, I may tell

you for your satisfaction. Who was your father?"

"I don't know. I can't remember him."

"Well, you're in the fashion there. Few of us are better off than you.

But what matters father or mother? You're in the world, and after all

that's as much as you need trouble about. As for your mother--but I

won't bother you about _her_. A mother's not much good to her daughter.

She mostly looks to make money out of her by a rich marriage, not that

she's over particular about the marriage so long as there's plenty of

coin."

Lavinia did not contradict Mrs. Egleton's cynical views. From her own

experience she knew it was very often true.

The 24th was a fortnight ahead--plenty of time for the play to be in

readiness. Huddy had no fear about the performance. What concerned him

more nearly was his "benefit" money. He busied himself in canvassing his

patrons and the disposal of tickets.

The night came. Lavinia was wrought to a high pitch of excitement, but

her excitement was pleasurable. The scenery, albeit it would be scoffed

at nowadays, was to her magnificent. The costumes were gorgeous. It was

nothing that they smelt musty from having laid long in the theatre

wardrobe. The incongruity of many of the garments gave her no pang of

uneasiness. "The Orphan" was of no particular period. Dresses which had

done duty in Shakespearean tragedies, in classical plays of the Cato

type, in the comedies of the Restoration dramatists, were equally

admissible. The circumscribed space afforded the players by the

intrusion on the stage of the seats for the "quality" did not embarrass

her. The combined odours of oranges and candle snuff had their charm.

The house was full, but in the dim and smoky candlelight the faces of

the audience were little better than rows of shadowy masks. The pit

occupied the entire floor of the house right up to the orchestra. Here

the critics were to be found. The pit could make or mar the destiny of

plays, and the reputation of players. Dozens of regular playgoers knew

the traditions of the theatre better than many actors and actresses.

They were sticklers for the preservation of the stage "business" to

which they had been accustomed. They knew certain lines of their

favourite plays by heart, and how those lines ought to be delivered.

The curtain rose. Acasto, Monimia, Chamont mouthed their various parts,

and did exactly what was expected from them. Curiosity was excited only

when Serina, the daughter of Acasto, in love with Chamont, made her

appearance. Lavinia's winsome face, her eyes half tender, half alluring,

her pretty mouth with not an atom of ill nature in its curves, her

sympathetic voice, at once attracted the audience. It was a pity,

everyone felt, she had so little to say and do. Her few lines expressed

but one sentiment--her love for Chamont.

Lavinia played the part as if she felt it, which was indeed the fact,

for she was thinking of Lancelot Vane all the time. When she came to her

final words in the fifth act--

"If any of my family have done thee injury,

I'll be revenged and love thee better for it"

the house thundered its applause, so naturally and with such genuine

pathos were they delivered.

The curtain fell. The gallants who had seats on the stage crowded round

the "young gentlewoman" and showered compliments. A few privileged

people from the front of the house who found their way behind were

equally enthusiastic. Even Mrs. Haughton--the Monimia of the

play--deigned to smile approvingly.

"What did I tell thee, Polly?" she heard a pleasant if somewhat husky

voice whisper in her ear.

She knew the tones and turned quickly. John Gay's kindly eyes were

beaming upon her. He had come with Jemmy Spiller, and with a stout man

from whose broad red face a look of drollery was rarely absent. This was

Hippisley, a comedian with a natural humour which was wont to set an

audience in a roar.

Lavinia blushed with pleasure and cast a grateful look at Spiller, whose

hints had proved so valuable.

"Was I not right, Spiller?" went on Gay. "You've read my opera, what

there is of it that's finished. Won't Polly Peachum fit her like a

glove?"

"Aye, if she can sing as prettily as she acted to-night," said Spiller,

with a quizzical glance at the girl.

"Sing? My lad, she has the voice of a nightingale. Pepusch agrees with

me. I'll swear there's no singing woman outside the King's Theatre--or

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.