CHAPTER VI

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

A London night in the first quarter of the eighteenth century had very

little rest. Until long past midnight a noisy, lawless, drunken rabble

made the streets hideous. It was quite three o'clock, when as

physiologists tell us the vital forces are at their lowest, before it

could be said that the city was asleep. And that sleep did not last

long. Soon the creaking of market cart and waggon wheels, the shouts of

drovers and waggoners, tramping horses, bellowing cattle and bleating

sheep would dispel the stillness and proclaim the beginning of another

day.

Business in the approaches to the markets was in full swing before four

o'clock. Carters and waggoners were thirsty and hungry souls and the

eating houses and saloop stalls were thronged. The Old Bailey, from its

nearness to Smithfield was crowded, and the buxom proprietress of

Fenton's coffee house was hard put to it to serve her clamorous

customers and to see that she wasn't cheated or robbed.

Mrs. Fenton had improved in appearance as well as in circumstances since

she had come from Bedfordbury to the Old Bailey. She was a good-looking

woman of the fleshly type, with a bosom such as Rowlandson loved to

depict. She was high coloured, her eyes were deep blue, full and without

a trace of softness. Her lips were red and well shaped, her teeth white

and even. She was on the shady side of forty, but looked ten years

younger. Her customers admired her and loved to exchange a little coarse

badinage in which the good woman more than held her own.

There was a Mr. Fenton somewhere in the world, but his wife was quite

indifferent to his existence. He might be in the West Indian plantations

or the hulks for what she cared. She had always gone her own way and

meant to do so to the end of her days.

Apparently she was not in the best of tempers this morning. A drover who

attempted to jest with her was unmercifully snubbed, and so also was a

master butcher from Marylebone, who as a rule was received with favour.

But the lady was not in an ill temper with everybody--certainly not with

the stolid farmer-like man who was plodding his way through a rumpsteak

washed down by small beer.

The coffee shop was divided into boxes and the farmer-like man was

seated in one near the door which opened into the kitchen. Mrs. Fenton

had constantly to pass in and out and his seat was conveniently placed

so as to permit her to bestow a smile upon him as she went by or to

exchange a hurried word.

"The mistress is a bit sweet in that quarter, eh?" whispered a customer

with a jerk of the head and a wink to Hannah the waitress, whom Mrs.

Fenton had brought with her from Bedfordbury.

"I should just think she was," returned the girl contemptuously. "It

makes one sick. She ought to be a done with sweetheartin'."

"A woman's never too old for that, my girl, as you'll find when you're

her age. She might do worse. Dobson's got a tidy little purse put by.

There aren't many in the market as does better than him. He's brought up

twenty head o' cattle from his farm at Romford an' he'll sell 'em all

afore night--money down on the nail, mind ye. That'll buy Mistress

Fenton a few fallals if she's a mind for 'em."

"An' if she's fool enough. Why, he isn't much more than half her years

and she with a grown up daughter too."

"Aye. May be the gal 'ud be more a match for Dobson than her mother."

"Don't you let my mistress hear you say that. Why she's that jealous of

Lavinia she could bite the girl's head off. My! Well I never!"

Hannah started visibly and fixed her eyes on the entrance.

"What's the matter, wench?" growled the man.

"I don't believe in ghosts," returned the girl, paling a little and her

hands trembling in a fashion which rather belied her words, "or I'd say

as I'd just seen Miss Lavinia's sperrit look in at the door. If it isn't

her ghost it's her double."

"Why don't you run outside and settle your mind?"

"'Cause it's impossible it could be her. The girl's at boarding school."

"What's that got to do with it? You go and see."

Hannah hesitated, but at last plucked up her courage and went to the

door. She saw close to the wall some few yards away a somewhat

draggle-tail figure in cloak and hood. Within the hood was Lavinia's

face, though one would hardly recognise it as hers, so white, so drawn,

were the cheeks.

"Saints alive, surely it isn't you, Miss Lavvy?" cried Hannah, clasping

her hands as she ran to the fugitive.

"Indeed it is, worse luck. I'm in sad straits, Hannah. I wouldn't have

come here--I know what mother is--but I couldn't think what to do."

"But good lord--the school--mercy on us child, they haven't turned you

out, have they?"

"No, but they will if I go back. I dursn't do that. I couldn't get in.

I've been robbed of the key. It was inside my reticule that a rogue

snatched from my wrist on London Bridge."

"London Bridge! Gracious! What mischief took 'ee there and at this time

o' the mornin'?"

"I don't know," sighed the girl, half wearily, half pettishly. "I can't

tell you. Don't bother me any more. I'm tired to death. Take me inside

Hannah, or I'll drop. I suppose mother'll be in a fury when she sees me,

but it can't be helped. I don't think I care. It's nothing to do with

her."

Hannah forebore pestering the girl with more questions and led her to

the open door. The waitress had been with Mrs. Fenton in the squalid

days of six months before at the Bedfordbury coffee shop and she well

knew how Lavinia was constantly getting into a scrape, not from

viciousness, but from pure recklessness and love of excitement. Her

mother's treatment of her "to cure her of her ways," as the lady put it,

was simply brutal.

Hannah was not a little afraid of what would happen when Mrs. Fenton set

eyes on her wilful daughter. At the same time, Lavinia was not the same

girl who at Bedfordbury used to run wild, half clad and half starved,

and yet never looked like a beggar, so pretty and so attractive was she.

Six months had developed her into a woman and the training of Miss

Pinwell, the pink of gentility, had given her the modish airs of a lady

of quality. True, her appearance just now had little of this "quality,"

her walk being in fact somewhat limping and one-sided. But there was

good reason for this defect. She had lost one of her high-heeled shoes,

that with which she had battered the coach window.

In spite of her protest of not caring, Lavinia's heart went pit-a-pat

when she entered the hot, frowsy, greasy air of the coffee house.

Customers were clamouring to be served and there was no Hannah to wait

upon them. Mrs. Fenton, her eyes flashing fire, was bustling up and down

between the rows of boxes and denouncing the truant waitress in vigorous

Billingsgate.

Mrs. Fenton had her back turned to the door when Hannah entered with

Lavinia and the two were half way down the gangway before the lady

noticed them. At the sight of her daughter she dropped the dish of eggs

and bacon she was about to deposit in front of a customer and stared

aghast.

Every eye was turned upon Lavinia who, shaking herself free from

Hannah's friendly support, hastened towards her astonished mother,

anxious to avoid a scene under which in her shattered nerves she might

break down.

"Devil fetch me," Mrs. Fenton ejaculated before she had recovered from

the shock. "Why, you hussy----"

Lavinia did not wait to hear more. She brushed past her mother and then

her strength failing her for a moment, she clutched the back of the last

box to steady herself.

This box was that in which Dobson, the young cattle dealer was seated.

Dobson was human. He fell instantly under the spell of those limpid,

imploring eyes, the tremulous lips, and he rose and proffered his seat.

The act of courtesy was unfortunate. It accentuated Mrs. Fenton's rage.

Her heart was torn by jealousy. That Lavinia had shaken her head and

refused the seat made not the slightest difference. The girl had become

surpassingly handsome. Despite her fury Mrs. Fenton had eyes for this.

Her own daughter had attracted the notice of _her_ man! The offence was

unpardonable.

Lavinia knew nothing about this. All she wanted was to escape

observation and she darted into the kitchen, Betty the cook receiving

her with open mouth.

A narrow, ricketty staircase in a corner of the kitchen shut in by a

door which a stranger would take for that of a cupboard led to the upper

part of the house. Lavinia guessed as much. She darted to this door,

flung it open and ran up the creaking stairs just as her mother, shaking

with passion, entered and caught sight of her flying skirt.

"Good laux, mistress," Betty was beginning, but she could get no

further. Mrs. Fenton jumped down her throat.

"Hold your silly tongue. Don't talk to me. I--the smelling salts! Quick,

you slut, or I'll faint," screamed the lady.

No one could look less like fainting than did Mrs. Fenton, and so Betty

thought, but she kept her thoughts to herself and fetched the restorer

at which her mistress vigorously sniffed, after sinking, seemingly

prostrate, into a chair. Then she fell to fanning her hot face with her

apron, now and again relieving her feelings with language quite

appropriate to the neighbourhood of the Old Bailey.

Meanwhile Hannah wisely kept aloof and only went to the kitchen when

necessary to execute her customers' orders. Directly the fainting lady

inside saw the waitress she revived.

"What's this about Lavinia? Tell me. Everything mind," she cried.

"What I don't know I can't tell, mistress. Ask her yourself," returned

Hannah.

"Don't try to bamboozle me. You _do_ know."

"I say I don't. I found her outside more dead than alive, and I brought

her in. I wasn't going to let her be and all the scum of Newgate about."

"Oh, that was it. And pray how did you come to learn she was outside?"

"Because she'd looked in at the door a minute afore and was afeared to

come in 'cause of you, mistress. Give me that dish o' bacon, Betty. The

man who saw his breakfast tumbling on the floor is in a sad pother."

This was a shot for Mrs. Fenton. Hannah rarely sought to have words with

her mistress, but when she did she stood up to her boldly. Mrs. Fenton

was discomfited and Hannah, snatching the dish Betty handed to her,

vanished to appease the hungry customer, leaving the angry woman to chew

over her wrath as best she might.

Mrs. Fenton gradually cooled down. In half an hour's time the market

would be in full swing and most of her customers would be gone. Though

she was dying to know what had brought her daughter home, the story

would not spoil by keeping. Besides, though she was in a pet with

Dobson, she did not want to give him offence and she tried to make

amends for her angry outburst by bestowing upon him extra graciousness.

Before long Hannah was quite able to attend single-handed to the few

lingerers, and Mrs. Fenton went upstairs, eager to empty her vial of

suppressed temper on "that chit," as she generally called Lavinia.

She entered her own bedroom expecting to find the girl there, but

Lavinia had no fancy for invading her mother's domains and had gone into

the garret where Hannah slept. Dead with fatigue, mentally and bodily,

she had thrown herself dressed as she was on Hannah's bed and in a few

minutes was in a heavy sleep. But before doing so she slipped under the

bolster something she was holding in her left hand. It was the purse

forced upon her by Lancelot Vane.

Mrs. Fenton stood for a minute or so looking at her daughter. She could

not deny that the girl was very pretty, but that prettiness gave her no

satisfaction. She felt instinctively that Lavinia was her rival.

"The baggage is handsomer than I was at her age, and I wasn't a fright

either or the men wouldn't ha' been always dangling after me. With that

face she ought to get a rich husband, but I'll warrant she's a silly

little fool and doesn't know her value," muttered the lady, her hands on

her hips.

Then her eyes travelled over the picturesque figure on the bed, noting

everything--the shoeless foot, the stockings wet to some inches above

the small ankles, the mud-stained skirt, the bedraggled cloak saturated

for quite a foot of its length. Her hair had lost its comb and had

fallen about her shoulders. Mrs. Fenton frowned as she saw these signs

of disorder.

Then she caught sight of a piece of paper peeping from the bosom of the

girl's dress. The next instant she had gently drawn it out and was

reading it. The paper was Dorrimore's letter.

"Of course, I knew there was a man at the bottom of the business. And a

marriage too. Hoity toity, that's another pair of shoes."

She threw back a fold of the cloak, and scrutinised Lavinia's left hand.

"No wedding ring!" she gasped. "I might ha' guessed as much. Oh, the

little fool! Why, she's worse than I was. _I_ wasn't to be taken in by

soft whispers and kisses--well--well--_well_!"

The lady bumped herself into the nearest chair, breathed heavily and

smoothed her apron distractedly. Then she looked at the letter again.

Her glance went to the top of the sheet.

"So, no address. That looks bad. Who's Archibald Dorrimore? May be that

isn't his right name. He's some worthless spark who's got hold of her

for his own amusement. Oh, the silly hussy! What could that prim

Mistress Pinwell have been about? A fine boarding school indeed! She

can't go back. But I won't have her here turning the heads of the men.

That dull lout, Bob Dobson, 'ud as lieve throw his money into her lap as

he'd swallow a mug of ale. What'll her fine friends do for her now?

Nothing. She's ruined herself. Well, I won't have her ruin me."

Mrs. Fenton worked her fury to such a height that she could no longer

contain herself, and seizing her daughter's shoulder she shook her

violently. The girl's tired eyelids slowly lifted and she looked

vaguely into the angry face bending over her.

"Tell me what all this means, you jade. What have you been up to? How is

it you're in such a state? Who's been making a fool of you? Who's this

Dorrimore? Are you married to him or not?"

The good lady might have spared herself the trouble of pouring out this

torrent of questions. The last was really the only one that mattered.

"Married? No, I'm not," said Lavinia drowsily. "Don't bother me, mother.

Let me sleep. I'll tell you everything, but not--not now. I'm too

tired."

"Tell me everything? I should think you will or I'll know the reason

why. And it'll have to be the truth or I'll beat it out of you. Get up."

There was no help for it. Lavinia knew her mother's temper when it was

roused. Slowly rubbing her eyes she sat up, a rueful and repentant

little beauty, but having withal an expression in her eyes which seemed

to suggest that she wasn't going to be brow-beaten without a struggle.

"I ran away from school to be married," said she with a little pause

between each word. "I thought I was being taken to the Fleet, but when I

saw the coach wasn't going the right way I knew I was being tricked. On

London Bridge I broke the coach window, opened the door and escaped."

"A parcel of lies! I don't believe one of 'em," interjected the irate

dame.

"I can't help that. It's the truth all the same. I cut my arm with the

broken glass. Perhaps that'll convince you."

Lavinia held out her bandaged arm.

"No, it won't. What's become of your shoe?"

"I took it off to break the window with the heel and afterwards lost

it."

Mrs. Fenton was silent. If Lavinia were telling false-hoods she told

them remarkably well. She spoke without the slightest hesitation and the

story certainly hung together.

"After I jumped from the coach I ran to the river, down the stairs at

the foot of the bridge. The water was low and I stood under the bridge

afraid to move. A terrible fight was going on above me. I don't know

what it was about. The shooting and yelling went on for a long time and

I dursn't stir. I would have taken a wherry but no waterman came near.

Then the tide turned; the water came about my feet and I crept up the

stairs. I was in the Borough, but I dursn't go far. The street was full

of drunken people and I crept into a doorway and hid there. I suppose I

looked like a beggar, for no one noticed me. Then when the streets were

quieter I came here."

It will be noticed that Lavinia did not think it necessary to mention

the handsome young man who had rescued her.

While she was recounting her adventures her mother, though listening

attentively, was also pondering over the possible consequences. The

story might be true or it might not, whichever it was did not matter. It

was good enough for the purpose she had in her mind.

"Why didn't you go back to Miss Pinwell's?" Mrs. Fenton demanded

sharply. "I see by this scrawl that it isn't the first time you've

stolen out to meet this precious gallant of yours."

And Mrs. Fenton, suddenly producing the letter which she had hitherto

concealed, waved it in her daughter's face. Lavinia flushed angrily and

burst out:--

"You'd no right to read that letter any more than you had to steal it."

"Steal it? Tillyvalley! It's my duty to look after you and I'm going to

do it. Why didn't you go back to the school as you seem to have done

before?"

"Because the key of the front door was in my reticule, and that was

snatched from me or it slipped from my wrist in the scuffle on the

bridge."

"A pretty how de do, my young madam, upon my word. Miss Pinwell'll

never take you back. Goodness knows what may happen. What'll Mr. Gay,

who's been so good to you, think of your base ingratitude?"

Lavinia's eyes filled with tears. She broke down when she thought of the

gentle, good-natured poet. She could only weep silently.

Mrs. Fenton saw the sign of penitence with much satisfaction and while

twirling her wedding ring to assist her thoughts, suddenly said:--

"You haven't told me a word about this spark of yours. Who is he? What

is he? Some draper's 'prentice, I suppose, or footman, may be out of a

place for robbing his master and thinking of turning highwayman."

"Nothing of the kind," cried Lavinia, furious that her mother should

think she would so bemean herself. "I hate him for his falseness, but

he's a born gentleman all the same."

"Oh, is he? Let's hear all about him. There's no address on his letter.

Where does he live?"

"I shan't tell you."

"Because you're ashamed. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't a trull's bully

from Lewknor's Lane or Whetstone Park. The rascals pass themselves off

as sparks of fashion at ridottos, masquerades and what not and live by

robbery and blood money. I warrant I'll soon run your fine gentleman to

earth. He talks about telling his father. Pooh! That was but to bait the

trap and you walked into it nicely."

Her mother's insinuations maddened poor Lavinia. The mention of

Lewknor's Lane and Whetstone Park, two of the most infamous places in

London, was amply sufficient to break her spirit, which indeed was Mrs.

Fenton's intention. The worst of it was that after what had happened she

had in her secret heart come round to the same opinion so far as the

baiting of the trap was concerned. She was far too cast down to make

any reply and wept copiously, purely through injured pride and

humiliation.

"You must leave me to deal with this business, child," said Mrs. Fenton

loftily. "If the young man really belongs to the quality and what he

writes about his father is true, then his father must be made to pay for

the injury his son's done you. I suppose he's told you who his father is

and where he lives, and _I_ want to know too. If I'm to get you out of

the mess you're in you must help me."

"I won't," gasped Lavinia between her sobs. "I don't want to hear

anything more about him or his father either. I wish to forget both of

them."

"Humph! That won't be so easy as you'll find, you stubborn little fool.

Keep your mouth shut if you like. I'll ferret out the truth without

you."

And stuffing the letter into her capacious pocket, Mrs. Fenton stalked

out of the room and directly she was outside she turned the key in the

lock. Lavinia, too exhausted in body and too depressed in mind to think,

sobbed herself to sleep.