Madame Flirt Part 15

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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sed over her bright face leaving it sad and pensive. The red mobile lips were tremulous and the eyes moist and s.h.i.+ning. 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 ingrat.i.tude.

"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 b.u.t.ton's, at Wills', at every coffee-house where the wits gathered, she must be somebody in the world of fas.h.i.+on and letters. Perhaps she was an actress. She had the a.s.sured 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. n.o.body 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 flus.h.i.+ng.

"My opinion isn't worth a b.u.t.ton, 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 ma.n.u.script neatly st.i.tched together.

"I've copied it out fairly and I don't think you'll have much difficulty in deciphering the writing."

Lavinia took the ma.n.u.script 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 t.i.tle 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."