CHAPTER XXIII

"HALF LONDON WILL BE CALLING YOU POLLY"

And so it came about. Lavinia was sent for by Mr. Palmer, and she sang

to him. He was highly pleased with her voice, but he was afraid her

songs would not be to the fancy of his fashionable patrons.

"One half are mad to have nothing but Mr. Handel's music and t'other

half cry out for Signor Buononcini's. Your songs are like neither.

There's no taste for English ballads. They're out of fashion. Scales,

ornaments, shakes and flourishes are now the mode. For all that, I'd

like to make the venture with you just for once."

"Thank you, sir. If the people don't care for my songs, there's an end

on it. I'll have to wait as best I can till Mr. Rich opens his theatre.

I may have a singing part in Mr. Gay's opera. Mr. Gay has promised me.

Have you heard about his opera?" cried Lavinia eagerly.

"Oh, it's being talked of in the coffee houses, I'm told. But if Mr.

Rich has his way, it won't do. Maybe he'll cut out the songs. Mr. Rich

knows nothing about music. He can't tell 'Lilibullero' from 'Lumps of

pudding.' Still, it's something to be taken notice of by Mr. Gay."

Palmer was evidently impressed by Lavinia's talk, especially after she

had mentioned that she had sung to Dr. Pepusch at Mr. Pope's Villa. It

occurred to him that though Lavinia Fenton might be unknown now, a day

might come when she would be famous, and he could then take credit for

having recognised her talents.

Besides, the manager happened to know that Gay and Arbuthnot were at

that moment staying at Hampstead to drink the waters--the first to cure

his dyspepsia, and the second to ease his gout. Palmer decided to send

word to the poet-dramatist intimating that a young lady in whom he had

heard Mr. Gay was interested was about to sing at one of the Great Room

concerts and begging for the honour of his patronage. But he said

nothing to Lavinia about this. All he remarked was that she should sing

at his concert on the following Wednesday, and Lavinia went away in a

dream of pleasurable anticipation.

The eventful night came. Lavinia was full of enthusiasm but horribly

nervous. She felt she was competing with the two greatest composers of

music in the world. What if the audience hissed her? Audiences, as she

well knew, were not slow to express their likes and dislikes--and

especially their dislikes--in the most unmistakeable fashion.

The difficulty of her dress had been overcome. Palmer was shrewd. He had

an eye for contrast. He would have no finery and fallals, he said.

"Your songs are simple, so must your gown be. If the people take to you

in the one they will in t'other."

So Lavinia made her appearance in a plain dress, apron, mob cap, and of

course prodigious hoops. Her hair was arrayed neatly and not powdered.

There was powder enough and to spare on the wigs of the beaux in front,

and on the elaborate head-dresses of the belles.

Lavinia's unadorned dress suited her natural and easy carriage and made

her doubly attractive. Not a hand was raised when she bowed, but she

could see that every eye was turned upon her with expectancy and

curiosity. But there was also a certain amount of indifference which

provoked her. It could hardly be supposed that anything out of fashion

would be of interest to such modish folk.

Lavinia chose her favourite--"My lodging it is on the cold ground."

There were not a few aged bucks, painted and powdered and patched, aping

the airs and graces of younger gallants, who could remember Charles II.

and Moll Davies. They were startled when they heard Lavinia's liquid

notes in the old ballad--they felt that for a brief space they were

recovering their youth.

As for the rest, they were conscious of a pleasant surprise. Against the

simplicity and pathos of the old ballad Buononcini's stilted

artificialities sounded tame and monotonous. When Lavinia finished

applause filled the room. She had to sing again.

"You've caught 'em, my dear," said Palmer enthusiastically. "Before a

week's over you'll be the talk of Hampstead. You must stay here and sing

whenever I want you. Not every night--that would make you common. Only

now and again, just as a novelty. Do you understand?"

Lavinia knew the ways of showmen quite well. She smiled and nodded, and

her eyes wandering towards the door of the ante-room in which she and

Palmer had been talking, whom should her gaze light upon but Mr. Gay!

Palmer was very well acquainted with Gay by sight, and hastening towards

the visitor made him a low bow.

"I am highly honoured, sir, by your presence here to-night," said

Palmer, "I hope you did not think my sending you a ticket was taking a

liberty."

"Tut, tut, man! 'Twas very polite of you," returned Gay good-humouredly.

"I'm glad to be able to congratulate you on the success of your new

acquisition, especially as the little lady interests me greatly--as,

indeed, you mentioned in your note, though how you came to know of that

interest I'm at a loss to conceive, unless she told you so herself."

"Not directly, sir, I confess. But she chanced to remark that she had

sung to you and to Dr. Pepusch, whom I am fortunate in numbering among

my friends."

"Aye, aye. Well, she _can_ sing, eh? What d'ye think?"

"Admirable, sir, admirable. She has been gifted both by nature and art."

"And those gifts should put money in her pocket and yours too, Mr.

Palmer. I hope you'll reward her on a liberal scale."

"Why, certainly, sir. I shall be happy to oblige you."

"Oh, obliging me has nothing to do with the matter. But we will talk of

that later on. Pray pardon me."

With a slight bow Gay turned away and walked to where Lavinia was

standing, her cheeks glowing and her eyes glistening with pleasure at

the sight of the genial poet who had done so much to encourage her.

"Why, Polly," said Gay, extending his hand, "how came you here? I left

you making your way on the stage, and now I find you a songstress.

Faith, my dear, are you thinking of going back to your early days when

you did nothing but sing songs?" he added laughingly.

"Not quite that, sir, but I always did love singing, as you know. And so

do you, sir, or you would never have persuaded the good duchess to spend

so much money on me."

"Oh, maybe I was thinking of myself all the while," rejoined Gay. "I

admit I saw in you the very young woman I'd had in my mind for a long

time, for Polly Peachum in my opera. Did I not call thee Polly from the

very first?"

"Yes, indeed, sir. I've never forgotten it. I hope you'll always call me

Polly."

"Make your mind easy as to that. Why, if my dreams come true, half

London will some day be calling you Polly, too."

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Of course you don't. I'm not always sure that I know what I _do_ mean.

But never mind. Let us take a stroll on the heath. On such a summer

night as this it is a shame to be cooped up betwixt four walls. Besides,

I want to talk with you."

Manager Palmer bade Lavinia good-night with an air very different from

that with which he met her earlier in the evening. Her success and Gay's

evident friendship had worked wonders. He was quite deferential.

As Lavinia and Gay passed through the dimly lighted vestibule to the

entrance a man from among the audience stole after them. He was very

pale and his pallor accentuated his projecting cheek bones and the

hollows above, from the depths of which his large eyes gleamed with a

glassy light. Evidently in ill health, he could hardly have kept pace

with the couple he was shadowing had they not been walking very slowly.

"Everything is in our favour," Gay was saying. "Fortune has sent you

here at the right moment. You can act and you can sing. _I_ know it, but

John Rich and the Duchess of Queensberry must know it as well. Both your

acting and singing must be put to the proof, and you must show her grace

that she hasn't wasted her money."

"That's what I'm most anxious to do, sir."

"Aye, aye. Well, to-morrow I shall bring you some of the songs you'll

have to sing in my 'Beggar's Opera'--that is if we can talk that

curmudgeon Rich into the ideas that I and my friends have in our minds.

Are you lodging in Hampstead?"

"Oh, yes. I'm staying with Hannah's cousin. You remember Hannah, don't

you, Mr. Gay? I told you what a good friend she was to me and how she

saved me from my wicked mother and the designing fellow I was so silly

as to run away with. I shall never forget my mad fancies--never!"

"Best forget them, my dear, though I fear you'll be apt to drive out one

fit of madness by taking on another. 'Tis the way love has, and----"

"Oh," interrupted Lavinia hastily, "I don't believe it. I'm not going to

bother about love any more."

"Every woman has uttered those words, and has had to eat them. How many

times have you eaten yours, my pretty Polly, since last you resolved to

forswear love?"

"Not once. I've learned my lesson. I know it now by heart."

"So it doesn't interest you now to know anything about poor Lance Vane?"

It was not the pale moonlight that made Lavinia's cheeks at that moment

look so white. Gay, who was gazing fixedly at her, saw her lips quiver.

"Poor Lance Vane? Why do you speak of him like that? Has he had his play

accepted and has it made his fortune?" she exclaimed ironically.

"Neither the one nor the other. Ill luck's dogged him. I fear he wasn't

born under a prosperous star."

"I'm sorry if he's been unfortunate. Perhaps though it was his own

fault."

A note of sadness had crept into her voice as Gay did not fail to note.

"Well, it's hard to say. To be sure, his tragedy would not have taken

the town--neither Rich nor Cibber would have aught to do with it, but he

had worse misfortunes than that. He was denounced as a traitorous

Jacobite and thrown into Newgate."

"That horrible place! Oh, I can't believe it," cried Lavinia, clasping

her hands. "Mr. Vane was no traitor, I'm sure--although----"

She paused. Politically Lancelot Vane might be incapable of treason, but

where love was concerned--well, had he not acted traitorously towards

her?

"That's true. Vane was no traitor. He was accused out of spite. I went

to see him in Newgate. They had thrust him in the 'lion's den,' the most

filthy and abominable of infernos, and he was loaded with fetters. That

was because he hadn't a penny to 'garnish' his sharks of gaolers. You

know what 'garnish' means, child?"

"Yes, indeed--money to bribe the gaolers with."

"Aye, from the Governor downward, and not forgetting the chaplain. I was

able by flinging about a few guineas to better his condition, and as the

gaol fever was creeping upon the poor fellow, they were glad enough to

get rid of him. While I was there, he told me the whole story. It began

like most other stories with a woman."

"Oh, I know," burst out Lavinia, "you needn't tell me. The woman was

that worthless creature, Sally Salisbury."

"You're wrong there," returned Gay gravely, "the woman's name was

Lavinia Fenton."

"That's not so. It couldn't be so. The newspaper said that Vane fought

with Archibald Dorrimore, and that the quarrel was about Sally

Salisbury."

"The quarrel was part of the plot. It was concocted to hold up Vane to

your scorn. Dorrimore wanted revenge because he thought Vane had

succeeded where he had failed. True, Sally was present when the quarrel

began, but that might have been an accident. Indeed, it's possible she

was in the plot. Vane doesn't know one way or t'other."

Lavinia was silent for a few moments. Then she said:

"And is Mr. Vane in Newgate now?"

"No. He was brought to trial after innumerable delays. The evidence

against him amounted to nothing. The witnesses--one of them a lying

wretch who ought to be whipped at the cart's tail from Newgate to

Charing Cross, by name Jeremy Rofflash--were scoundrelly common

informers of the lowest type. Lancelot's father, a Whig clergyman and

strong supporter of King George, appeared in court to speak on behalf of

his son's character, and the lad was acquitted. But I fear he's broken

in health, and I doubt if he'll be the man he was before."

Again Lavinia was silent. It was all very sad, and she felt full of pity

for Lance. But at the back of her thoughts lurked the remembrance of

Sally Salisbury's mocking face, of her vulgar spite. She was not

altogether convinced that Lancelot Vane was insensible to Sally's

undoubted attractions. She sighed.

"To-morrow, then," went on Gay, "I shall bring you the songs I want you

to learn."

They had now come in sight of Betty's cottage. Lavinia pointed it out to

her companion, and Gay, bidding her adieu, turned in the direction of

Hampstead village.

Pensively Lavinia walked towards the cottage. She had told herself over

and over again that she cared no more for Lancelot--that she had blotted

him out of her life--that she wanted neither to see him nor to hear of

him. Yet now that he had gone through so terrible an ordeal she had a

yearning to offer him her sympathy, if not to forgive him.

"No, I can't do that," she murmured. "Accident or not, that vile woman

was with him--his arms were round her. I'll swear my eyes didn't play me

false."

Suddenly she heard a halting step behind her. The heath at night was a

favourite haunt of questionable characters from dissolute men of fashion

to footpads, and a lone woman had need to dread one as much as the

other. Betty's cottage was but a few yards away, and Lavinia quickened

her pace.

"Miss Fenton--one moment, I entreat," came in a panting whisper. "I--I

am Lancelot Vane. I must speak with you."