Part 17 (1/2)

”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 s.p.a.ce now known as the Green Park.

It was a lovely evening and the western sun though beginning to descend, still shone brightly. The long gra.s.s 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 embarra.s.sing 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 embarra.s.sed 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 la.s.ses were taking the air. The sc.r.a.ps of talk, the laughter, gave her a sense of security. But the problem of how to pa.s.s 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 pa.s.ser-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 cla.s.s. 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 gla.s.ses. 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.