CHAPTER XXVII

THE CURTAIN FALLS

Before the week was out the only topic in which the town took any

interest was "The Beggar's Opera," and the "all Conquering Polly," as an

advertisement setting forth the attractions of a miniature screen

designed as a memento of the opera, had it. In a score of ways

enterprising tradesmen adapted the scenes and the songs to their wares

and in all Polly was the principal feature. Polly became the fashion

everywhere. Amateur flautists played her songs, amateur vocalists

warbled them. Hardly a week passed without one daily journal or the

other burst into verse in her praise.

As for Polly herself she was inundated with love letters, some written

seriously, others purely out of admiration. Offers of marriage came both

personally and through the post. The world of gallants was at her feet.

She laughed at most of her would-be lovers and listened to none. The

good natured Duke of Bolton approached her constantly and was never

tired of going to the opera. Seated as he was on the stage it was easy

enough for him to express his adoration. He was also ever ready with

presents which he proffered with so respectful an air that she could

hardly refuse them. But what did the duke mean? Had he not a duchess

already? True, he was not on the best of terms with her. He had been

forced into marriage by his father and he and his wife had been

separated some six years. But this made no difference. The duchess was

still in the world.

Polly--henceforth she dropped the Lavinia--heard what his grace had to

say but gave him no encouragement beyond smiling bewitchingly now and

again. She did not dislike him, but she did not care for him. Lancelot

Vane was still the hero of her romance and that romance would never die.

Sometimes she amused herself and Lancelot too by telling him of the

offers of marriage she had received and how she had refused them, but

she never mentioned the Duke of Bolton.

One night--it was the twenty-second performance of the opera--Lancelot

Vane was in his accustomed place at the end of the second row in the

pit. There was a vacant seat on the other side of his, and half way

through the third act a late comer was heard growling and without saying

by your leave or with your leave attempted to force himself past Vane

into the empty seat.

Lance looked up angry at the rudeness of the fellow. He started. He

recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink,

very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him.

Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler. Archibald Dorrimore,

his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices.

Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very

bad luck. A bullet from a coach passenger's pistol had struck his knee

and he now limped. He was nearly always drunk and when drunk all his old

hatreds were uppermost. Directly he saw Vane, his bleary eyes glistened

and his lips tightened over his uneven teeth and the ugly gaps between.

"Devil take me, if it isn't the cockerel whose feathers I've sworn to

pluck. Come to ogle the young trollop on the stage, I'll swear. If I

know anything about the hussy, she'll turn you down for the first spark

who flings a handful of guineas in her lap."

Jeremy's gruff rasping tones were heard all over the house. Polly and

Lucy were singing their duet "Would I might be hanged," and both cast

indignant looks at the side of the pit whence the interruption came. But

they could only hear, not see, so dimly was the theatre lighted.

Meanwhile Vane had sprung to his feet.

"You lie you ruffian," he shouted and his hand went to his sword.

The people in the front and back benches rose; the women screamed; one

of the theatre attendants who chanced to be near seized Rofflash who

struggled violently and swore loudly. Some of the audience came to the

attendant's assistance and the fellow was flung out. The uproar soon

subsided--it had not lasted more than a couple of minutes, the music

went on and Polly thought no more about it. She had not the slightest

idea that the chief actors in it so nearly concerned herself.

The sequel to the discomposing interruption was totally unpremeditated.

Polly was the "toast of the town," the idol of the sparks of fashion.

Their applause was uproarious when she and Lucy recommenced the duet,

but this sympathetic encouragement was not enough for the more ardent

spirits. When she issued from the stage door she found awaiting her a

bodyguard of young aristocrats dressed in the height of the mode and in

the gayest of colours. At her appearance every man's sword flashed from

its scabbard and was uplifted to do her honour.

Never was such a triumph. No wonder her heart bounded and her cheeks

flushed with pleasure. She smiled right and left and bowed; the rapiers

on either side crossed each other over her head and formed a canopy

under which she walked with a dainty grace. She was not permitted to

pass from beneath its shelter. The canopy kept pace with her, closing

behind. And in this way the procession set out to cross Lincoln's Inn

Fields amid cheers and shouts of "Pretty Polly Peachum!"

It would seem as though the services of Polly's protectors were not

wholly unneeded. As she emerged from the door and the gallants closed

round her there was a sudden movement in the mob, a fellow forced his

way through, hurling curses at anyone who tried to stop him. Apparently

his object was to get to a man standing close to the bodyguard. Anyway,

when the intruder was behind this man a woman's scream pierced the din

of voices, then came the report of a pistol and the man staggered. Those

nearest him, seized with panic, fell back and he sank to the ground.

A woman was seen to fling herself on her knees, bend over the body and

gaze into the face already becoming ashen. The next instant she sprang

to her feet, her features drawn, her eyes blazing. Pointing to the

assassin who was rushing through the crowd she begged someone to stop

him, but the big pistol he was flourishing deterred them.

"Cowards!" she screamed in fury. "Will no one seize a murderer? If

you're men you'll help me."

She made a wild rush in the direction the ruffian had taken and a score

or so of apprentices and a handful of Clare Market butchers recovering

from their surprise joined her.

Meanwhile Polly and her escort gaily went on their way. They were dimly

conscious of the affray but such occurrences at night and especially in

Lincoln's Inn Fields were frequent, and not one of the party heeded. How

indeed could Polly imagine that her romance had ended in a tragedy, that

the man lying so still, his white face upturned to the moonlit sky, was

her lover, Lancelot Vane--that the man who had done him to death was

Jeremy Rofflash--that the woman in hot chase of his murderer was Sally

Salisbury?

Rofflash had made for the network of courts and allies of Clare Market

hoping to double upon his pursuers and gain the Strand, and then hurry

to the Alsatia of Whitefriars. But some of those following knew the

intricacies of Clare Market better than Rofflash, and he twisted and

turned like a hunted hare, his difficulties momentarily increasing, for

as the excited mob fought their way through the narrow lanes their

numbers swelled. True, Jeremy Rofflash made his way to the Strand

without being captured, but he failed to reach Whitefriars. The Strand

and Fleet Street gave his pursuers a better chance. But because of his

pistol none dared touch him.

Despite his limp he could run. Along Ludgate skirting St. Paul's, he was

soon in Cheapside. By this time Sally Salisbury was nearly exhausted,

and in St. Paul's Churchyard she jumped into a hackney coach and shaking

her purse at the driver bade him join in the pursuit. The Poultry, the

Royal Exchange were left behind, but the coach--with Sally inside

continually calling upon the driver to go faster, at the same time

promising him any reward he liked to ask--gradually drew upon the

fugitive. The latter was close to the road leading to London Bridge, and

turning, he fired his second barrel at the horse and the animal stumbled

and fell.

Rofflash thought he was safe, but he was not aware that the leader of

his pursuers was Sally Salisbury and that she knew perfectly well why he

was running towards the bridge. She sprang from the now useless coach

and called upon the crowd to follow her. Meanwhile Rofflash had

distanced his pursuers.

"The apothecary's shop on London Bridge," she screamed.

Dr. Mountchance at that moment was engaged in what to him was his

greatest pleasure in life--counting his gold. He was in the midst of

this absorbing occupation when he heard three separate knocks at his

outside door given in a peculiarly distinctive way. He knew Jeremy's

signal and he hurried his gold into an iron bound coffer which he

locked.

"If the captain's made a good haul so much the better," he muttered.

"It's time he did. He's had the devil's bad luck of late."

The old man shuffled to the door and shot back the bolts. Rofflash

precipitated himself inside with such haste and violence that he nearly

upset Mountchance.

"Lock the door," he gasped. "Quick. I've a pack of hungry wolves at my

heels."

He leaned against a heavy piece of furniture hardly able to speak while

the apothecary hastily fastened the door. Scarcely had he finished than

yells and heavy footsteps were heard; there came heavy thuds and fierce

kicks followed by repeated hammering. The door was well protected by

iron panels and besides its bolts a stout iron bar from post to post

helped to make it secure.

The two men looked at each other and Mountchance trembled. The crowd

outside were not officers of the law, neither were they soldiery. What

had caused them to hunt down Rofflash? Not because he had committed a

robbery on the King's highway. The rabble had a secret sympathy with

highwaymen.

"What have you done?" whispered the old man through his white lips.

"Shot a man. It was a fair fight--or might have been had it come to a

tussle."

Mountchance knew Rofflash to be a hardened liar. The truth probably was

that he had committed a murder. But there was no time to argue the

point. To judge by the terrific blows which came at regular intervals

something much more formidable than an ordinary hammer was being used.

Then there was the sound of splintering wood. The door sturdy as it was

would not stand much more. As a matter of fact the mob had procured a

stout wooden beam from somewhere, twelve or fourteen feet long and were

making it serve as a battering-ram.

"Damnation! I'm not going to be trapped," roared Rofflash, "I know the

secret way to the chapel. You stay here and face 'em."

"No. If that murderous mob doesn't find you they'll turn upon me. I'm an

old man but they'll have no mercy," whined Mountchance.

"You fool. Can't you see that some one _inside_ the house must have

bolted and barred the door? If they don't find you they'll search until

they do. You must tell them that I'm not in the place--that you haven't

seen me. That'll satisfy 'em and they'll go away quickly."

"It's you that's the fool. Somebody must have seen you enter--how else

did they know you were here?"

Another ominous splintering noise, then the sharp crack of ripping wood.

"No more of this damned nonsense," muttered Rofflash, and swinging his

arm he gave Mountchance a blow with the flat of his hand, toppling him

over. Without waiting to see what injury he had inflicted Rofflash

rushed to a tall cabinet, entered it and closed the doors after him just

as a yell of savage joy was raised outside. The iron bar was still

across the entrance but there was a jagged aperture above and below. A

couple of seconds more and the cabinet was empty. Rofflash had

disappeared through a secret door at the back.

Mountchance's house, as already mentioned, was really an adjunct of St.

Thomas's chapel, so far at least as the foundation was concerned. This

foundation had once formed the lower chapel or crypt and was then the

only distinctive relic of the bridge built by Peter of Colechurch, in

the thirteenth century. Rofflash descended the uneven loose bricks of

the narrow winding staircase into the dungeon-like apartment. The stone

floor was not much above the level of the river at high tide and a

lancet window on each side of the bridge admitted a glimmer of light in

the day time. It was now pitch dark.

Rofflash groped his way over the slimy floor to a small door which he

knew opened on to an abutment between two arches. He only did this by

feeling the wall as he went. He hoped when outside to hail a passing

wherry. At any rate it was unlikely his hiding place would be discovered

by any of the mob.

In the meantime the shop and room above were filled with a rabble more

than half of which was out for plunder. Mountchance was lying on the

floor unconscious, but no one bothered about him. In the opinion of some

it was perhaps as well, as he would be unable to prevent them doing as

they liked. This opinion was not held by Sally Salisbury. She was

convinced Rofflash was in the house though she had not seen him actually

enter. It angered her to think that Mountchance who could have told her

anything was as good as dead. She called upon the crowd to search for

the murderer but they turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. They were

much more interested in looting the place; and finding the iron bound

coffer and hearing the chink of coin within, they attacked it savagely

and succeeded in smashing the lock.

The sight of gold was too much for them. They scrambled, they fought,

they trampled upon each other. The yellow metal acted upon them like

strong drink. In the midst of the pandemonium came a deafening

explosion, a vivid flash of red, a volume of acrid suffocating vapour.

Another explosion and men came rushing from Mountchance's

laboratory--terror written in their faces. Helter-skelter the crowd

darted from the house forcing Sally Salisbury with them whether she

would or not. In the mad fight for gold large glass bottles filled with

acids, alcohol and other inflammable liquids had been upset and smashed,

and the smouldering fire in the furnace did the rest. What with the

bundles of dried herbs which burnt like so much tinder and the woodwork,

the panelled walls and furniture, nothing could save the house.

In the hurry and scramble Sally had been wedged against the wall

surmounting the central and largest arch. Upon this arch no house had

been built. Below the spot where she was held a prisoner the river was

rushing with its monotonous roar as if rejoicing at or indifferent to

the terrible tragedy above. At first she saw nothing but clouds of

suffocating smoke pouring from the windows, then showers of sparks

floating downwards and vanishing in the water, and finally tongues of

fire hissing and roaring from within the house and mingling in one huge

flaring flame.

Looking over the parapet she caught sight of a gaunt figure on the

abutment now strongly illuminated, now in deep shadow according to the

height and strength of the flames and the wayward wind. So fantastic, so

grotesque was this figure, his gesticulations, his waving hands, he

suggested a demon rather than a human being. Now and again he put a

curved hand to his mouth. Doubtless he was shouting but the roar of the

fire and the howling of the mob smothered every sound.

It was Rofflash--his true character revealed, nerve stricken, a coward

at heart. Yet he was in no immediate danger. The fire could not reach

him. The only thing he had to fear was the rising tide should it chance

to wash over the abutment and sweep him off his feet.

But it is always the unexpected that happens. Some receptacle with

inflammable contents which the fire had overlooked--probably it was

stored in one of the upper rooms--exploded with terrific violence. Roof,

rafters, tiles, brickwork, shot into the air and fell in every

direction. Sally with many others was sent prostrate by the shock, but

was uninjured. When she was able to rise and look over the parapet no

one was on the abutment. Jeremy Rofflash had met his fate.

"The Beggar's Opera" continued on its triumphant way. Night after night

the theatre was packed. Night after night Polly was listened to with

increasing delight. She had never sung her plaintive ditties with such

pathos. No one suspected the reason. No one knew that she had given her

heart to the poor young man killed in a brawl--so the newspapers

described it--in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Polly's love for Lancelot Vane

was a secret sacred to herself. She gave her confidence to nobody--not

even to Gay. She had been happy in her love dreams, happier perhaps than

if they had become realities. Her roaming life had not brought romance

to her until she met Lancelot Vane. The sweetheartings of others had

always seemed sordid and commonplace. Had Vane been presumptuous she

would have had nothing to say to him, but she was drawn towards him

because he was drifting to his ruin and she yearned to save him. That

she should see him no more deadened her heart and numbed her brain. So

she made no effort to find out the why and wherefore of his death and

the story never reached her.

Sally Salisbury could have told her, but Sally, to her credit, be it

said, did not seek to inflict a wound for the mere satisfaction of

witnessing the agony of her rival. Vane was dead and retribution had

swiftly overtaken his assassin. What was left? Nothing. Sally had also

found romance, and some tender womanly instinct--an instinct too often

blunted by her life and temptations--sealed her lips. She had avenged

the death of the only man she ever loved with anything like purity. Let

that suffice.

The opera had an unprecedented run of sixty-two nights. Every one

marvelled. Such a thing had never happened before and when the next

season the run was continued its attractions were undimmed, save in one

particular--the original Polly Peachum was no longer to be seen or

heard. Gradually it became gossipped about that the Duke of Bolton's

suit had succeeded. The Polly over whom everybody, rich and poor, high

and low, for nearly five months had lost their heads and their hearts,

had quitted the stage for ever. Twenty-three years later the duke was

able to prove his devotion by making her his duchess. Even then she

rarely took part in fashionable functions. Her simple tastes and dislike

of display never deserted her. Yet she was not and is not forgotten,

though nearly two hundred years have passed away since she burst into

the full flush of fame. Her memory is preserved in every one of her

innumerable successors who have succeeded in reproducing in any degree

her charm and artlessness. This memory is not attached to Lavinia

Duchess of Bolton, but to "Pretty Polly Peachum."

THE END.