"I WISH I WERE A RICH LADY FOR YOUR SAKE"
Lavina awoke to find Hannah in the room. The maid had brought in a cup
of chocolate and something to eat.
"I'm a dreadful sight, Hannah," said she dolefully.
"You'll be better when you've had a wash and done your hair. Your
cloak's spoilt. What a pity! Take it off and let me brush away the mud
and see if I can smooth out the creases."
Lavinia stretched herself, yawned and slowly pulled herself up, sitting
on the side of the bed for a minute or two before she commenced her
toilette. Hannah helped her to dress to the accompaniment of a running
commentary on the state of her clothing.
"What am I to do about shoes?" asked Lavinia, when this part of her
wearing apparel was reached.
"You won't be wanting any for a time I'm thinking, Miss Lavvy."
"Not wanting any shoes? Whatever do you mean?"
"Your mother means to lock you in this room for a while. She was for
keeping you for a day or two on bread and water, but I talked her out of
it."
Lavinia started in dismay. Then she burst out:--
"I won't endure such treatment. I won't, Hannah! You'll help me to run
away, won't you?"
"Not till I know what's going to become of you."
"But if I'm a prisoner you're my gaoler and you can let me out whenever
you choose."
"No I can't. I've to hand over the key to your mother."
"So you can after I'm gone."
"And what do you suppose I'm to say to her when that happens?"
"Oh, what you like, Hannah. I don't believe you're afraid of anybody.
You're so brave," said Lavinia, coaxingly.
"Well, well, we'll see. But I warn you, child, I'm not going to let you
come to harm."
Lavinia laughed and shrugged her plump shoulders. After what she had
gone through the night before she felt she could face anything. She knew
she could talk over the good-natured Hannah and she heard the latter
lock the door without feeling much troubled.
For all that Lavinia had a good deal to worry about, and she sat sipping
the chocolate while she pondered over what she should do. She could
think of no one she could go to besides Mr. Gay. How would he receive
her after her escapade?
"He knows so many play actors," she murmured,--"didn't he say I had a
stage face? I wonder--I wonder."
And still wondering she rose and straightened the bed. Shifting the
pillow she found beneath it the purse she had placed there before going
to sleep. Excitement and exhaustion had driven it out of her head. She
felt quite remorseful when the remembrance of the chivalrous young man
came into her mind.
"Ah me," she sighed. "I'll warrant I'll never set eyes on him again. I
do hope he wasn't hurt."
Lavinia looked at the purse wistfully. She had not had the opportunity
of seeing what it contained. It was of silk with a silver ring at each
end to keep the contents safe, and an opening between the rings. One end
had money in it, in the other a piece of paper crackled. She slipped the
ring at the money end over the opening and took out the coins--a guinea,
a crown and a shilling.
"I don't like taking it. He gave it me to pay the waterman and I hadn't
the chance. It isn't mine. I ought to return it to him. But how can I? I
don't know where he lives. I don't even know his name."
Then she fingered the other end. She slid the ring but hesitated to do
more. To look at the paper seemed like prying into the owner's affairs.
It must be something precious for him to carry it about with him.
Suppose it was a love letter from his sweetheart? She blushed at the
idea. Then curiosity was roused. Her fingers crept towards the papers,
for there were two. One ran thus:--
"The Duke's Theatre,
"Lincoln's Inn Fields.
"SIR,--
"I have read your play and herewith return it. I doubt not it has
merit but it will not suit me.
"I am your obedient humble servant,
Lancelot Vane, Esq. "JOHN RICH."
"Poor fellow--so he writes plays. How aggravating to have such a rude
letter. 'Obedient--humble--servant,' forsooth! I hate that John Rich.
He's a bear."
Then Lavinia unfolded the second letter. It was more depressing than the
first.
"Lancelot Vane, 3, Fletcher's Court, Grub Street," Lavinia read;
"Sir,--I give you notiss that if you do nott pay me my nine weeks' rent
you owe me by twelve o'clock to-morrer I shall at wunce take possesshun
and have innstruckted the sheriff's offiser in ackordance therewith.
Yours respeckfully, Solomon Moggs."
"Oh, a precious lot of respect indeed," cried Lavinia angrily.
The date of the letter was that of the day before. The money had
consequently to be paid that very day and it was already past twelve
o'clock. If the poor young man could not pay he would at that moment be
homeless in the street and maybe arrested for debt and taken to the
Fleet or even Newgate. Hadn't she seen the poor starving debtors stretch
their hands through the "Debtors' door" in the Old Bailey and beg for
alms from the passers-by with which to purchase food? She pictured the
poor young man going through this humiliation and it made her shudder.
He was so handsome!
And all for the want of a paltry twenty-seven shillings! Twenty-seven
shillings? Was not that the exact sum of money in the purse?
"Oh, that must have been for his rent," cried Lavinia, clasping her
hands in great distress. "And he gave it to me!"
She was overwhelmed. She must return the money at once. But how? She ran
to the door. It was locked sure enough. The window? Absurd. It looked
out upon a broad gutter and was three storeys from the street. If it
were possible to lower herself she certainly could not do so in the
daytime. And by nightfall it would be too late. She sat down on the
side of the bed, buried her face in her hands and abandoned herself to
despair.
But this feeling did not last long. Lavinia sprang to her feet, flung
back her hair and secured it. Then she went once more to the window and
clambered out into the broad gutter. She hadn't any clear idea what to
do beyond taking stock of her surroundings. She looked over the parapet.
It seemed a fearful depth down to the roadway. Even if she had a rope it
was doubtful if she could lower herself. Besides, rarely at any hour
even at night was the Old Bailey free from traffic. She would have to
think of some other way.
She crept along the gutter in front of the next house. Dirty curtains
hung at windows. There was no danger of her being seen even if the room
had any occupants. She crawled onward, feeling she was a sort of Jack
Sheppard whose daring escapes were still being talked about.
At the next window Lavinia hesitated and stopped. This window had no
curtains. The grime of many months, maybe of years, obscured the glass.
One of the small panes was broken. Gathering courage she craned her head
and looked through the opening. The room was empty. The paper on the
walls hung in strips. There was a little hole in the ceiling through
which the daylight streamed.
If the house should, like the room, be empty! The possibility opened up
all kinds of speculation in Lavinia's active brain. Why not explore the
premises? Up till now she had forgotten her lost shoe. To pursue her
investigations unsuitably dressed as she was would be absurd. Supposing
she had a chance of escaping into the street she must be properly
garbed.
She did not give herself time to think but hastened back to Hannah's
room. She tried on all the shoes she could find. One pair was smaller
than the rest. She put on that for the left foot. It was a little too
large but near enough. Then she hurried on her hooded cloak and once
more tackled the gutter. She was able to reach the window catch by
putting her hand through the aperture in the broken pane. In a minute or
so she was in the room, flushed, panting, hopeful.
A long, long time must have passed since that room had been swept. Flue
and dust had accumulated till they formed a soft covering of nearly a
quarter of an inch thick. A fusty, musty smell was in the room, in the
air of the staircase, everywhere.
She feared that only the upper part of the house was uninhabited but it
was not so. The place was terribly neglected and dilapidated. Holes were
in the walls, some of the twisted oak stair-rails had been torn away,
patches of the ceiling had fallen. But Lavinia hardly noticed anything
as she flew down the stairs. The lock could not be opened from the
outside without the key, but inside the handle had but to be pushed back
and she was in the street. She pulled her hood well over her head and
hastened towards Ludgate Hill. It was not the nearest route to Grub
Street which she knew was somewhere near Moorfields, but she dared not
pass her mother's house.
Lavinia knew more about London west of St. Paul's than she did east of
it, and she had to ask her way. Grub Street she found was outside the
city wall, many fragments of which were then standing, and she had to
pass through the Cripples Gate before she reached the squalid quarter
bordering Moor Fields westward, where distressed poets, scurrilous
pamphleteers, booksellers' hacks and literary ne'er-do-wells dragged out
an uncertain existence.
Lavinia found Fletcher's Court to be a narrow passage with old houses
dating from Elizabethan times, whose projecting storeys were so close
together that at the top floor one could jump across to the opposite
side without much difficulty. With beating heart she entered the house,
the door of which was open. She met an old woman descending a rickety
tortuous staircase and stopped her.
"Can you tell me if Mr. Vane lives here?" said she.
"Well, he do an' he don't," squeaked the old dame. "Leastways he won't
be here much longer. He's a bein' turned out 'cause he can't pay his
rent, pore young gentleman. We're all sorry for him, so civil spoken and
nice to everybody, not a bit like some o' them scribblers as do nothing
but drink gin day an' night. Street's full of 'em. I can't make out what
they does for a livin'! Scholards they be most of 'em I'm told. Mr.
Vane's lodgin's on the top floor. You goes right up. That's old Sol
Moggs' squeak as you can hear. Don't 'ee be afeared of 'im, dearie."
The old woman, who was laden with a big basket and a bundle, went out
and Lavinia with much misgiving ascended the stairs. She remembered the
name, Solomon Moggs. He was the landlord. If his nature was as harsh and
discordant as his voice poor Lancelot Vane was having an unpleasant
time.
"Ill, are ye?" she heard Moggs shrieking. "I can't help that. I didn't
make you ill, did I? Maybe you was in a drunken brawl last night. It
looks like it with that bandage round your head. You scribbling gentry,
the whole bunch of ye, aren't much good. I don't see the use of you. Why
don't ye do some honest work and pay what you owes? I can't afford to
keep you for nothing. Stump up or out ye go neck and crop."
Lavinia ran up the next flight. The landing at the top was low pitched
and dark. The only light was that which came from the open door of a
front room. In the doorway was a little man in a shabby coat which
reached down to his heels. His wig was frowsy, his three-cornered hat
was out of shape and he held a big stick with which he every now and
then thumped the floor to emphasise his words.
Beyond this unpleasant figure she could see a small untidy room with a
sloping roof. The floor, the chairs--not common ones but of the early
Queen Anne fashion with leathern seats--an old escritoire, were strewn
with papers. The occupant and owner was invisible. But she could hear
his voice. He was remonstrating with the little man in the doorway.
Lavinia touched the man on the shoulder. He turned, stared and seeing
only a pretty girl favoured her with a leer.
"How much does Mr. Vane owe you?" said Lavinia, chinking the coins.
"Eh, my dear? Are you going to pay his debt? Lucky young man. Nine weeks
at three shillings a week comes to twenty-seven shillings. There ought
to be a bit for the lawyer who wrote the notice to quit. But I'll let
you off that because of your pretty face."
Lavinia counted the money into the grimy outstretched paw. Moggs' face
wrinkled into a smirk.
"Much obleeged, my young madam. I'll wager as the spark you've saved
from being turned into the street'll thank you more to your liking than
an old fellow like me could."
Solomon Moggs made a low bow and was turning away when Lancelot Vane
suddenly appeared. His face was very pallid and he clutched the door to
steady himself. What with his evident weakness and his bandaged head he
presented rather a pitiable picture.
"What's all this?" he demanded. "I'm not going to take your money,
madam."
"It's not mine," cried Lavinia in a rather disappointed tone. She could
see he did not remember her.
"Faith an' that's gospel truth," chuckled Moggs. "It's mine and it's not
going into anybody else's pocket." And he hastily shuffled down the
staircase.
Lavinia turned to Vane a little ruffled.
"You don't recollect me," she said. "The money's ours. I didn't want it
but you did and so I brought it back. I'm so glad I was in time and
that you're rid of that horrid man."
Lancelot Vane stared fixedly at her. The events of the night before were
mixed up in his mind and he had but a dim remembrance of the girl's
face. Indeed he had caught only a momentary glimpse of it.
"Was it you, madam, who were pursued by those ruffians?" he stammered.
"I'm grateful that you've come to no harm."
"Oh, it was all your doing," cried Lavinia, eagerly, "you were so brave
and kind. I was too frightened last night to think of anything but
getting away and I didn't thank you. I want to do so now."
"No, no. It's you who should be thanked. Don't stand there, pray. Do
come inside. It's a frightfully dirty room but it's the best I have."
"But I--I must get back."
"You're in no hurry, I hope. I've so much I would like to say to you."
"What can you have? We're such strangers," she protested.
"Just now we are perhaps, but every minute we talk together makes us
less so. Please enter."
His voice was so entreating, his manner so deferential, she could not
resist. She ventured within a few steps and while he cleared a chair
from its books and papers her eyes wandered round. One end of the room
was curtained off and the opening between the curtains revealed a bed.
The furniture was not what one would expect to find in a garret. It was
good and solid but undusted and the upholstery was faded. The general
appearance was higgledy-piggledy--hand to mouth domesticity mixed up
with the work by which the young man earned, or tried to earn, his
living. No signs of a woman's neatness and touches of decoration could
be seen.
Lavinia's glances went to the owner of the garret. After all it was only
he who was of real interest. She noticed the difficulty he had in
lifting a big folio from the chair. He could hardly use his right arm.
She saw his hollow cheeks and the dark circles beneath his eyes. She
hadn't spent years in the streets amongst the poorest not to know that
his wistful look meant want of food--starvation may be.
"Won't you sit down?" he said.
She shook her head.
"This belongs to you," she said, holding out his purse. "I'm so sorry
it's empty."
"I'm sorry too. You haven't spent a farthing on yourself and I meant it
all for you."
"It was very foolish when you wanted money so badly."
"That doesn't matter. You wouldn't have been here now if I hadn't given
it you."
Her eyes lighted up. The same thought had crossed her mind.
"How did you know I lived here?" he went on.
"Well I--I opened the other end of the purse and read what was on the
papers inside. It was very wrong. You'll forgive me, won't you?"
"I'd forgive you anything. You descended upon me like an angel. Not many
young ladies of your station would have had the courage to set foot in
Grub Street."
A smile trembled on Lavinia's tempting lips.
"My station? What then do you think is my station?"
"How can I tell? I take you to be a lady, madam. I don't want to know
any more."
At this Lavinia laughed outright. Her clothes were of good quality and
of fashionable cut--the Duchess of Queensberry's maid had seen to
that--her manner and air were those of a lady of quality--thanks to Miss
Pinwell--but apart from these externals what was she? A coffee shop
waitress--a strolling singer--a waif and stray whose mother would not
break her heart if she got her living on the streets!
When she thought of the bitter truth the laughing face was clouded.
"I wish I were a lady--a rich one, I mean--for your sake," said she
softly. "You look so ill. You ought to have a doctor."
"I ought to have a good many things, I daresay, that I haven't got. I
have to do without."
Her eyes drooped. They remained fixed on a little gold brooch fastening
her cloak. The brooch was the gift of Dorrimore. The wonder was her
mother had not discovered it.
"I must go. I--I've forgotten something."
"But you'll come again, wont you?" said he imploringly. "Though to be
sure there's nothing in this hovel to tempt you? Besides, the difference
between us----"
"Please don't talk nonsense," she broke in. "Yes, I'll come again soon.
I don't know how long I shall be--a couple of hours perhaps."
"Do you really mean that?" he cried, joyfully.
"Yes, if nothing happens to prevent me. Good-bye for a while."
She waved her hand. He caught the tips of her fingers and kissed them.
One bright smile in response and she was gone.
With her heart fluttering strangely--a fluttering that Dorrimore had
never been able to inspire--Lavinia flew down the staircase and sped
through the streets in the direction of London Bridge.