IN THE CHAPTER COFFEE HOUSE
It was nearly six o'clock when Lavinia stood on the broad steps of
Queensberry House behind Burlington Gardens. Now that she was staring at
the big door between the high railings with their funnel shaped link
extinguishers pointing downward at her on either side her courage
seemed to be slipping from her. The grotesque faces supporting the
triangular portico seemed to be mocking her, the enormous knocker
transformed itself into a formidable obstacle.
The adventures of the last forty-eight hours had suddenly presented
themselves to the girl's mind in all their enormity. It occurred to her
for the first time that she had not only thrown away the chance of her
life, but that she had been guilty of black ingratitude to her
benefactors. And her folly in permitting the fancy to rove towards
Archibald Dorrimore, for whose foppishness she had a contempt, simply
because he was rich! The recollection of this caused her the bitterest
pang of all.
How could she justify her conduct to Mr. Gay! Would he not look upon her
as a light o' love ready to bestow smiles upon any man who flattered
her? Well, she wouldn't attempt to justify herself. Mr. Gay was a poet.
He would understand. But the terrible duchess--Kitty of Queensberry who
feared nothing and in the plainest of terms, if she was so minded,
expressed her opinion on everything! Lavinia quaked in her shoes at the
thought of meeting the high-born uncompromising dame.
"But I've promised the poor fellow. I _must_ keep my word. I don't care
a bit about myself if I can do that," she murmured.
Lavinia had a sudden heartening, and lest the feeling should slacken she
seized the heavy bell-pull and gave it a violent tug.
The door was opened almost immediately by a fat hall porter who scowled
when he saw a girl instead of the footman of a fine lady in her chair.
"What d'ye want? A-ringing the bell like that one would think you was my
Lord Mayor."
"I'm neither the Lord Mayor nor the Lady Mayoress, as your own eyes
ought to tell you. I wish to see Mr. Gay."
"Well, you can't," said the porter gruffly. "He's not here. He's staying
with Mr. Pope at Twitnam."
"Twitnam? Where is Twitnam?"
"Up the river."
"How far? Can I walk there?"
"May be, but you hadn't better go on foot. It's a goodish step--ten or a
dozen miles. You might go by waggon, there isn't no other way save toe
and heel. An' let me give you warning, young 'oman, the roads aren't
safe after dark. D'rectly you get to Knightsbridge footpads is ten a
penny, let alone 'ighwaymen. Not that you're _their_ game--leastways by
the looks o' you."
"Thank you. I'm not afraid, but you mean your advice kindly and I'll not
forget it. Mr. Gay's at Mr. Pope's house you say?"
"Mr. Pope's villa--he calls it. Mr. Pope's the great writer."
"I've heard of him. Which is the way after I've left Knightsbridge?"
"Why, straight along. Don't 'ee turn nayther to the right or the left,
Kensington--'Ammersmith--Turn'am Green--Brentford--you goes through 'em
all, if you don't get a knock on the 'ead on the way or a bullet through
ye. One's as likely to 'appen as the other. I wouldn't answer fer your
getting safe and sound to Twitnam unless you goes by daylight."
"That's what I must do then," said Lavinia resignedly. "Thank you
kindly."
"You're welcome, I hope as how that pretty face o' yours won't get ye
into trouble. It's mighty temptin'. I'd like a kiss myself."
"Would you? Then you won't have one. As for my face, I haven't any other
so I must put up with it."
Dropping a curtsey of mock politeness Lavinia hastened away and did not
slacken her pace till she reached Piccadilly and was facing the large
open space now known as the Green Park.
It was a lovely evening and the western sun though beginning to descend,
still shone brightly. The long grass invited repose and Lavinia sat down
on a gentle hillock to think what her next step must be.
She was greatly disappointed at not finding Mr. Gay. She was sure he
would have forgiven her escapade; he would have helped her over the two
difficulties facing her--very little money and no shelter for the night.
Of the two the latter was most to be dreaded.
"A year ago," she thought, "it wouldn't have mattered very much. The
Covent Garden women and men from the country are kind-hearted. I'd have
had a corner in a waggon and some hay to lie upon without any bother,
and breakfast the next morning into the bargain. But now--in these
clothes--what would they take me for?"
These reflections, all the same, wouldn't solve the problem which was
troubling her and it _had_ to be solved. She must either walk about the
streets or brave the tempest of her mother's wrath. This wrath, however,
didn't frighten her so much as the prospect of being again made a
prisoner. Her mother, she felt sure, had some deep design concerning
her, though what it was she could not conceive.
Tired of pondering over herself and her embarrassing situation Lavinia
turned her mind to something far more agreeable--her promise to Lancelot
Vane which of course meant thinking about Vane himself.
She couldn't help contrasting Vane with Dorrimore. She hated to remember
having listened seriously to the latter's flatteries. By the light of
what had happened it seemed now to her perfectly monstrous that she
could ever have consented to marry him. It angered her when she thought
of it--but her anger was directed more against herself than against
Dorrimore.
"I suppose I ought to go back to Mr. Vane. He'll be waiting anxiously to
know how I've fared, but no--I'll go to Twitenham first."
She sat for some time watching the sunset. She wove fanciful dreams in
which the pallid face and large gleaming eyes of the young poet were
strangely involved. With what courtly grace and reverence he had kissed
her hand! Vane was a gentleman by nature; Dorrimore merely called
himself one and what was more boasted of it.
But what did it matter to her? Vane had done her a service and it was
only right she should repay him in some sort. This was how she tried to
sum up the position. Whether Mr. Gay befriended him or not, their
acquaintance would have to cease. He was penniless and so was she. If
she confessed as much as this to him he would be embarrassed and
distressed because he could not help her.
"I dursn't tell him," she sighed. "I'll have to do something for myself.
Oh, if I could only earn some money by singing! I would love it. Not in
the streets though. No, I could never do that again. Never!"
She clasped her hands tightly and her face became sad. Then her thoughts
went back to Vane and she pictured him in his lonely garret perhaps
dreaming of the glorious future awaiting him if his tragedy was a
success, or perhaps he was dejected. After so many disappointments what
ground had he for hope? Lavinia longed to whisper in his ear words of
encouragement. She had treasured that look when his face lighted up at
something she had said that had pleased him. And his sadness she
remembered too. She was really inclined to think she liked him better
when he was sad than when he was joyful. But this was because she
gloried in chasing that sadness away. It was a tribute to her power of
witchery.
Dusk was creeping on. She must not remain longer in that solitary
expanse. She rose and sped towards Charing Cross. In the Strand citizens
and their wives, apprentices and their lasses were taking the air. The
scraps of talk, the laughter, gave her a sense of security. But the
problem of how to pass the night was still before her. She dared not
linger to think it out. She must go on. Young gallants gorgeously
arrayed were swaggering arm in arm in pursuit of adventure, in plain
words in pursuit of women, the prettier the better. Lavinia had
scornfully repelled the advances of more than one and to loiter would
but invite further unwelcome attention.
The night was come but fortunately the sky was clear, for the Strand was
ill lighted. St. Mary's Church, not long since consecrated, St.
Clement's Church, loomed large and shadowy in the narrow roadway,
narrowing still more towards Temple Bar past the ill-favoured and
unsavoury Butcher's Row on the north side of the street, where the
houses of rotting plaster and timber with overhanging storeys frowned
upon the passer-by and suggested deeds of violence and robbery.
Butcher's Row and its evil reputation, even the ruffians and dissolute
men lurking in the deep doorways did not frighten Lavinia so much as the
silk-coated and bewigged cavaliers. The days of the Mohocks were gone it
was true, but lawlessness still remained.
Lavinia was perfectly conscious that she was being followed by a spark
of this class. She did not dare look round lest he should think she
encouraged him, but she knew all the same that he was keeping on her
heels. Along Fleet Street he kept close to her and on Ludgate Bridge
where the traffic was blocked by the crowd gazing into the Fleet river
at some urchin's paddling in the muddy stream he spoke to her. She
hadn't the least idea what he said, she was too terrified.
In the darkness of St. Paul's Churchyard she had the good luck to avoid
him and she darted into Paternoster Row, and took shelter in a deep
doorway. Either he had not noticed the way she went or he had given up
the chase, for she saw no more of him.
The doorway in which she had sought refuge was a kind of lobby with an
inner door covered with green baize. From the other side came the sound
of loud talking and laughter, and the clinking of glasses. It was the
Chapter Coffee House, the meeting place of booksellers, authors who had
made their names, and struggling scribblers hanging on to the skirts of
the muses.
The air was close. Inside the revellers may have found it insufferable.
The door was suddenly opened and fastened back by one of the servants.
The man looked inquiringly at the shrinking figure in the lobby.
Evidently she was not a beggar and he said nothing.
Lavinia glanced inside from no feeling other than that of curiosity. At
the same time she was reluctant to leave the protection of the house
until she was sure her persecutor was not lurking near.
The candles cast a lurid yellowish light; the shadows were deep; only
the faces of those nearest the flame could be clearly distinguished. One
table was surrounded by a boisterous group in the centre of which was a
fat man in a frowsy wig. He had a malicious glint in his squinting eyes
and was evidently of some importance. When he spoke the others listened
with respect.
This pompous personage was Edmund Curll, bookseller, whose coarse and
infamous publications once brought him within the law. Curll, we are
told, possessed himself of a command over all authors whatever; he
caused them to write what he pleased; they could not call their very
names their own. Curll was the deadly enemy of Pope and his friends, and
his unlimited scurrility drew from the poet of Twickenham a retaliation
every whit as coarse and as biting as anything the bookseller's warped
mind ever conceived.
Had Lavinia been told this was the notorious Curll, the name would have
conveyed nothing. The quarrels of poets and publishers were to her a
sealed book. All that she knew was that she disliked the man at first
sight, while his vile speech made her ears tingle with shame. Despite
the danger possibly awaiting her in the gloom of Paternoster Row she
would have fled had not the sight of one of the group at the table
rooted her to the spot.
This was Lancelot Vane whom her maiden fancy had elevated into a god
endowed with all the virtues and laden with misfortunes which had so
drawn him towards her. Vane--alas that it should have to be written--had
taken much wine--far too much!
Lavinia knew the signs. Often in the old days in St. Giles had she seen
them--the eyes unnaturally bright, the face unnaturally flushed, the
laugh unnaturally empty. And she had pictured Vane so sad, so depressed!
The sight of him thus came upon her as a shock.
At first she was angry and then full of excuses for him. It was not his
fault, she argued, but that of his companions and especially of the
squint-eyed, foul-tongued man who no sooner saw that the bottle was
getting low than he ordered another one.
What could she do to help him? Nothing. He was out of her reach. She
remembered how he looked when she first saw him at the Maiden Head inn.
He would probably look like that again before the night was ended. She
could not bear to gaze upon him as he was now and she crept away with
the old wives' words in her mind--Providence looks after drunken men and
babes.
She stole from the lobby sad at heart. She had no longer the courage to
face the dangers of the street. The deep shadow of great St. Paul's,
sacred building though it was, afforded her no protection; it spoke
rather of cut-throats, footpads, ruffians ready for any outrage. The din
of voices, the sounds of brawling reached her from Cheapside. The London
'prentices let loose from toil and routine were out for boisterous
enjoyment and may be devilry. She dared not go further eastward.
The only goal of safety she could think of was the coffee house in the
Old Bailey. Why should she be afraid of her mother?
"She won't lock me up again. I'll take good care of that. I suppose she
thinks I'm still a child. Mother's mistaken as she'll find out."
So she wheeled round and went back to Ludgate Hill, keeping close to the
houses so that she should not attract attention.