CHAPTER IX

"YOU WERE BRAVE AND FOUGHT FOR ME"

Meanwhile Lavinia was hastening to Grub Street. On her way she bought a

pair of shoes which if not quite in the _mode_ were at least fellows.

She also cleverly talked the shopkeeper into allowing her something on

the discarded odd ones and thereby saved a shilling.

The girl's old life in roaming about the streets had sharpened her wits.

Adversity had taught her much. It had given her a knowledge of persons

and things denied to those to whom life had always been made easy. She

had had sundry acquaintances among the pretty orange girls who plied

their trade at Drury Lane and the Duke's theatres and had got to know

how useful Dr. Mountchance was in buying presents bestowed upon them by

young bloods flushed with wine, and in other ways. Hence when in want of

money she looked upon her brooch she at once thought of the old man's

shop on London Bridge.

The taverns in those days were real houses of refreshment. Food could be

had at most of them as well as drink. Still a girl needed some courage

to enter. The men she might meet were ready to make free in far too

familiar a fashion. Lavinia stopped in front of the "Green Dragon" near

the Cripples Gate, but hesitated. Many months had passed since the time

when she would have boldly walked into the galleried inn-yard and asked

for what she wanted. The refining influence of Miss Pinwell's genteel

establishment had made her loathe the low life in which her early years

had been passed.

"They can't eat me," she thought. "Besides, the poor fellow is

starving."

The place was fairly quiet. One or two men of a group drinking and

gossipping winked at each other when they caught sight of her pretty

face, but they said nothing and she got what she asked for, a cold

chicken, bread and a bottle of wine.

Lavinia hastened to Grub Street. She ran up the dirty narrow ricketty

stairs, her heart palpitating with excitement, and she knocked at the

garret door. It was opened immediately, Lancelot Vane stood in the

doorway, his fine eyes beaming. He looked very handsome, Lavinia

thought, and she blushed under his ardent gaze.

He had washed, he had shaved, he had put on his best suit and his wig

concealed the cut on his forehead. He was altogether a different

Lancelot from the bedraggled, woe-begone, haggard young man whom she had

found in the last stage of misery two hours ago. He had moreover,

enlisted the help of the old woman whom Lavinia had met on the stairs at

her first visit and the place was swept and tidied. The room as well as

its occupant was now quite presentable.

"I've brought you something to eat," stammered Lavinia quite shyly to

her own surprise. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not if you'll do me the honour to share it with me."

"Oh, but it will give you so much trouble. And I'm not hungry. I bought

it all for you."

Lavinia was busy emptying the contents of a rush basket which the

good-natured landlord of the "Green Dragon" had given her.

"Have you a plate and a knife and fork? You can't eat with your fingers,

you know."

"I've two plates and two knives and forks, but the knives are not pairs.

I apologise humbly for my poverty stricken household."

"That doesn't matter. I'm not going to touch a morsel."

"Neither am I then. And it isn't my hospitality, remember, but yours.

Why are you such a good Samaritan?"

"You were brave and fought for me. I shall never forget last

night--never."

"It will always be in my memory too, and I want our first meal together

to be in my memory also. Alas! I have no tablecloth."

"But you have plenty of paper," Lavinia laughingly said. "That will do

as well."

Lancelot laughed in unison and seizing a couple of sheets of foolscap he

opened and spread them on the table.

"One for you and one for me, but you see I've put them together," said

he with a roguish gleam in his eye.

"No, they must be separate."

But he had his way.

Soon the banquet was ready and it delighted Lavinia to see how

ravenously the young man ate. At the same time it pained her for it told

of days of privation. Before long they were perfectly at ease and

merrily chatting about nothing in particular, under some circumstances

the best kind of talk. Suddenly he said:

"I'm wondering where my next meal is to come from. I can't expect an

angel to visit me every day."

"Perhaps it will be a raven. Didn't ravens feed Elijah?" said Lavinia

mockingly.

"I believe so, but I'm not Elijah. I'm not even a prophet. I'm only a

poor scribbler."

"You write plays, don't you?"

"I've written one but I'm afraid it's poor stuff. I meant to show it to

Mr. Gay the great poet. I was told he was often to be found at the

Maiden Head in St. Giles, but unluckily I was persuaded by some friends

to see Jack Sheppard's last exploit at Tyburn. I drank too much--I own

it to my shame--and when I reached the inn where I hoped to see Mr. Gay

I fell dead asleep and never saw him. He had gone when I awoke."

Lavinia clasped her hands. A shadow passed over her bright face leaving

it sad and pensive. The red mobile lips were tremulous and the eyes

moist and shining. She now knew why Lancelot Vane's features had seemed

so familiar to her. But not for worlds would she let him know she had

seen him in his degradation.

Besides she too had memories of that day she would like to forget--save

the remembrance of her meeting with Gay and his kindness to her, a

kindness which she felt she had repaid with folly and ingratitude.

"Then you know Mr. Gay?" said she presently.

"I was introduced to him by Spiller the actor one night at the Lamb and

Flag, Clare Market--I'll warrant you don't know Clare Market; 'tis a

dirty greasy ill-smelling place where everyone seems to be a

butcher----"

Lavinia said nothing. She knew Clare Market perfectly well.

"Mr. Gay was good enough to look at some poems I had with me. He praised

them and I told him I'd written a play and he said he would like to see

it. And then--but you know what happened. I feel I daren't face him

again after disgracing myself so. What must he think of me?"

"He'll forgive you," cried Lavinia enthusiastically. "He's the dearest,

the kindest, the most generous hearted man in the world. He is my best

friend and----"

She stopped. She was on the point of plunging into her history and there

was no necessity for doing this. She had not said a word to Lancelot

Vane about herself and she did not intend to do so. He must think what

he pleased about the adventure which had brought them together. He must

have seen her leap from Dorrimore's carriage--nay, he may have caught

sight of Dorrimore himself. Then there was the ruffian of a coachman who

had pursued her. The reason of the fellow's anxiety to capture her must

have puzzled Vane. Well, it must continue to puzzle him.

"Mr. Gay your friend?" returned Vane with a pang of envy. "Ah, then,

you're indeed fortunate. I--you've been such a benefactor to me, madam,

that I hesitate to ask another favour of you."

All familiarity had fled from him. He seemed to be no longer on an

equality with her. He was diffident, he was respectful. If this girl was

a friend of Mr. Gay the distinguished poet and dramatist whose latest

work, "The Fables," was being talked about at Button's, at Wills', at

every coffee-house where the wits gathered, she must be somebody in the

world of fashion and letters. Perhaps she was an actress. She had the

assured manner of one, he thought.

"What is it you want? If it's anything in my power I'd like to help

you," said Lavinia with an air of gracious condescension. The young

man's sudden deference amused her highly. It also pleased her.

"Thank you," he exclaimed eagerly. "I would ask you if you have

sufficient acquaintance to show him my play? I'm sure he would refuse

you nothing. Nobody could."

"Oh, this is very sad," said Lavinia shaking her head. "I'm afraid, Mr.

Vane, you're trying to bribe me with flattery. I warn you it will be of

no avail. All the same I'll take your play to Mr. Gay if you care to

trust it to me."

"Trust, madam, I'd trust you with anything."

"You shouldn't be so ready to believe in people you know nothing of.

But--where's this play of yours? May I look at it?"

"It would be the greatest honour you could confer upon me. I would

dearly love to have your opinion," he cried, his face flushing.

"My opinion isn't worth a button, but all the same the play would

interest me I'm sure."

He went to a bureau and took from one of the drawers a manuscript neatly

stitched together.

"I've copied it out fairly and I don't think you'll have much difficulty

in deciphering the writing."

Lavinia took the manuscript and glanced at the inscription on the first

page. It ran "Love's Blindness: A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Lancelot

Vane."

"Oh, it's a tragedy," she exclaimed.

He read the look of dismay that crept over her face and his heart fell.

"Yes. But the real tragic part doesn't come until the very last part of

the fifth act."

"And what happens then?"

"The lovers both die. They do not find out how much they love each other

until it is too late for them to be united, so Stephen kills Amanda and

then kills himself."

"How terribly sad. But wasn't there any other way? Why couldn't you have

made them happy?"

"Then it wouldn't have been a tragedy."

"Perhaps not. But what prevented them marrying?"

"Amanda, not knowing Stephen loved her, had married another man whom she

didn't care for."

"I see. There was a husband in the way. Still it would have been wiser

for her to have left him and run away with Stephen. It certainly would

have been more in the mode."

"Not on the stage. People like to see a play that makes them cry. How

they weep over the sorrows of Almeria in Mr. Congreve's 'Mourning

Bride!'"

"Yes, so I've heard. I've never seen the play. The title frightens me. I

don't like the notion of a mourning bride."

"Not in real life I grant you. But on the stage it's different. I'm

sorry you don't care for my tragedy," he went on disappointedly.

"I never said that. How could I when I haven't read a line? That's very

unjust of you."

"I humbly crave forgiveness. Nothing was further from my thoughts than

to accuse you of being unjust. I ought to have said that you didn't care

for tragedies, and if so mine would be included. Pray pardon me."

"How serious! You haven't offended me a bit. After all it isn't what I

think of your play that's of any consequence. It's what Mr. Gay thinks

and I'll do my best to take it to him."

"You will? Madam, you've made me the happiest of mortals. Let me wrap up

my poor attempt at play writing."

"Why do you call it poor? And am I not to read it?"

"No, no. Not a line. You would think it tedious. I'll wait for Mr. Gay's

opinion, and if that's favourable I would like with your permission to

introduce a part for you."

"What, in a tragedy? I can't see myself trying to make people weep."

"But it wouldn't be a tragic part. While we've been talking it has

occurred to me that the play would be improved by a little comedy."

"Yes," rejoined Lavinia eagerly, "by a character something like Cherry

in the 'Beaux Stratagem?'"

"H'm," rejoined Vane. "Not quite so broad and vivacious as Cherry. That

would be out of keeping."

"I'd dearly love to play Cherry," said Lavinia meditatively.

"You'd be admirable I doubt not, but----"

"Would the part you'd introduce have a song in it?"

"H'm," coughed the dramatist again. "Hardly. There are no songs in

tragedies."

"I don't see why there shouldn't be. I love singing. When I'm an actress

I must have songs. Mr. Gay says so."

"Then you've not been on the stage?"

"No, but I hope I shall be soon. I dream of nothing else."

Vane looked at her inquiringly. To his mind the girl seemed made for

love. Surely a love affair must have been the cause of the escapade on

London Bridge. How came she to be alone with a gallant in his carriage

at that time of night? But he dared not put any questions to her. Her

love affairs were nothing to him--so he tried to persuade himself.

He was now busy in tying up the manuscript in a sheet of paper and

Lavinia was thinking hard.

The question was, what was to become of her? She had no home, for she

had made up her mind she would not go back to her mother and Miss

Pinwell was equally impossible. This impeccable spinster would never

condone such an offence as that of which she had been guilty. Neither

did Lavinia wish the compromising affair to be known in the school and

talked about. She felt she had left conventional schooling for ever and

she yearned to go back to life--but not the same life in which her early

years had been passed.

Another worry was her shortness of money. She had but a trifle left out

of the guinea her brooch had fetched. In the old days she could have

soon earned a shilling or two by singing outside and inside taverns. But

what she had done as a beggar maid could not be thought of in her fine

clothes. And during the last six months, with good food, regular hours

and systematic drilling, she had shot up half a head. She was a grown

woman, and she felt instinctively that as such and with the winsome face

Nature had bestowed upon her, singing outside taverns would be

considered by men as a blind for something else. In addition she looked

back upon her former occupation with loathing. It could not be denied

that she was in an awkward plight.

She was so absorbed that she did not hear Vane who finished tieing up

the packet speaking to her. Suddenly she became aware of his voice and

she turned to him in some confusion.

"I beg your pardon. You were saying----"

"Pardon my presumption, I was asking whether I might have the privilege

of knowing your name."

"Oh yes. Lavinia Fenton. But that's all I can tell you. You mustn't ask

where I live."

"I'm not curious. I'm quite contented with what you choose to let me

know."

"And with that little are you quite sure you'll trust me with your play?

Suppose I lose it or am robbed?"

"I must take my chance. I've a rough draft of the whole and also all the

parts written out separately. I wouldn't think of doubting you. But do

you know where to find Mr. Gay?"

"Oh yes. He lives at the house of his friend, Her Grace the Duchess of

Queensberry."

"That is so," rejoined Vane in a tone of evident relief. Her answer

convinced him that what she said about knowing Gay was true.

"I can only promise to deliver it to him and if possible place it in his

own hands. Do you believe me?"

"Indeed I do. And will you see me again and bring me an answer?"

"Why, of course," said she smilingly.

He insisted upon attending her down the staircase and when they were in

the dark passage down below they bade each other adieu, he kissing her

extended hand with a courteous bow which became him well.

Vane watched her thread her way along poverty-stricken Grub Street, and

slowly ascended the staircase to his garret sighing deeply.