Part 27 (1/2)
She held out her hand and he pressed it between both his, his eyes fixed earnestly on her face.
”I don't like leaving you,” he pleaded. ”You're pale. Your hand's cold.
You look as if you might faint again. Please ...”
”No--no--no,” exclaimed Lavinia vehemently. ”We must part here.
Good-night.”
Vane was loth to let her hand go but she s.n.a.t.c.hed it away and ran off, turning her head and throwing him a smile over her shoulder--a picture of natural grace and charming womanly wile and tenderness which dwelt in his memory for many a long day.
Vane stood watching the fleeting figure until it vanished in the obscurity of Ludgate Hill and then with a deep sigh turned towards Cheapside.
”That settles it. I won't write a line for that rascal Curll. I've promised my divinity and by G.o.d, I'll keep my promise.”
But the next instant came the dismal reflection that apart from Curll he hadn't the slightest notion where his next s.h.i.+lling was to come from.
”Tus.h.!.+ I won't think of the dolefuls,” he muttered. ”'Tis an insult to the loveliest--the kindest--the warmest hearted--the ...”
He suddenly ceased his panegyric and wheeled round swiftly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Absorbed though he had been in his thoughts of Lavinia, in some sub-conscious way the sound of footsteps behind him keeping pace with his own reached his ear. It was no unusual thing for foot pa.s.sengers to be set upon and Vane was on the alert. His suspicions were confirmed by the sight of a man cloaked and with his slouch hat pulled over his forehead gliding into a narrow pa.s.sage leading into Paternoster Row.
”Just as well, my friend, you've taken to your heels. I've nothing to lose and you'd have nothing to gain, save may be a sword thrust.”
Congratulating himself on his escape from what might have been an ugly encounter, Vane plodded back to Grub Street. He lingered in front of a Cripples' Gate tavern where he knew he should find some of his friends, but he thought of Lavinia's words and he resisted temptation. That night he did that which with him was a rarity--he went to bed sober.
He had forgotten the cloaked man whom he had taken for an ordinary footpad. The fellow must have altered his mind if his intention was to follow Vane. No sooner was the latter past the pa.s.sage than he darted back into St. Paul's Churchyard and hastened westward. He overtook Lavinia just as she was turning into the Old Bailey and cautiously followed her.
CHAPTER XVI
”THEY'RE TO MEET AT ROSAMOND'S POND”
A masquerade was in full swing at a mansion in Leicester Square. The air of the ball-room was hot and stuffy. Ventilation was a thing of little account. The light, albeit there were a hundred candles or so in the sconces, on the panelled walls, and in the chandelier hanging from the decorated ceiling, and despite the a.s.siduous snuffing by the servants, was dim. The subdued illumination was not without its advantage. It was merciful to the painted faces and softened the crudity of their raw colouring. A mixture of odours offended the nostrils. Powder came off in clouds, not only from the hair of the belles but also from the wigs of the beaux. Its peculiar scent mingled with a dozen varieties of the strong perfumes in vogue, and the combination was punctuated by a dash of oil from a smoky lamp or two in the vestibule and an occasional waft of burnt tallow and pitch from the torches of the link boys outside.
The masquerade was public and the company was mixed. The establishment provided punch, strong waters and cordials and some of the visitors had indulged themselves without scruple. The effect was seen in the cheeks of matrons and damsels where they were not daubed. It added brilliancy to many an eye--it gave a piquancy and freedom to talk, greatly appreciated by the gallants. As for the dancing, in that crowded room owing to the s.p.a.ce monopolised by the prodigious hoops and the general exhilaration, the stately minuet and sarabande were out of the question, and the jig and country dance were much more in favour.
In a side room cards and dicing were going on and the gamblers were not to be drawn from the tables while they had money in their pockets. Most of them were women, and when the grey dawn came stealing between the curtains of the long narrow windows, overpowering the candlelight and turning it of a pale sickly yellow, the players were still seated, with feverish hands, haggard faces and hawk-like eyes, pursuing their race after excitement. A silence had come over the party. The play was high and the gamesters too absorbed to note anything but the game. From the ball-room came the sound of violin, flute and harpsichord, shrieks of shrill laughter, oaths from drunken wranglers and the continual thump of feet.
Then the servants brought in coffee, extinguished the candles and drew back the curtains.
”Good lord, we're more like a party of painted corpses than creatures of flesh and blood,” cried a lady with excessively rouged cheeks, bright bird-like eyes and a long, thin hooked nose. ”I declare positively I'll play no more. Besides the luck's all one way, but 'tis not my fault. I don't want to win every time.”
”How generous--how thoughtful of your ladys.h.i.+p,” sarcastically remarked a handsome woman on the other side of the table.
”What do you mean, madam?” fiercely inquired the first speaker who was now standing.
”Oh, nothing madam,” was the retort accompanied by a curtsey of mock humility. ”Everybody knows Lady Anastasia's pleasant way of drawing off when she has won and the luck's beginning to turn against her.”
”I despise your insinuations madam,” loftily replied Lady Anastasia, her face where it was not rouged turning the colour of putty. ”So common a creature as Mistress Salisbury--I prefer not to soil my lips by addressing you as _Sally_ Salisbury--I think that is the name by which you are best known among the Cheapside 'prentices and my lord's lackeys--ought to feel vastly honoured by being permitted to sit at the same table with a woman of my rank.”