Madame Flirt Part 46

In the hurry and scramble Sally had been wedged against the wall surmounting the central and largest arch. Upon this arch no house had been built. Below the spot where she was held a prisoner the river was rus.h.i.+ng with its monotonous roar as if rejoicing at or indifferent to the terrible tragedy above. At first she saw nothing but clouds of suffocating smoke pouring from the windows, then showers of sparks floating downwards and vanis.h.i.+ng in the water, and finally tongues of fire hissing and roaring from within the house and mingling in one huge flaring flame.

Looking over the parapet she caught sight of a gaunt figure on the abutment now strongly illuminated, now in deep shadow according to the height and strength of the flames and the wayward wind. So fantastic, so grotesque was this figure, his gesticulations, his waving hands, he suggested a demon rather than a human being. Now and again he put a curved hand to his mouth. Doubtless he was shouting but the roar of the fire and the howling of the mob smothered every sound.

It was Rofflash--his true character revealed, nerve stricken, a coward at heart. Yet he was in no immediate danger. The fire could not reach him. The only thing he had to fear was the rising tide should it chance to wash over the abutment and sweep him off his feet.

But it is always the unexpected that happens. Some receptacle with inflammable contents which the fire had overlooked--probably it was stored in one of the upper rooms--exploded with terrific violence. Roof, rafters, tiles, brickwork, shot into the air and fell in every direction. Sally with many others was sent prostrate by the shock, but was uninjured. When she was able to rise and look over the parapet no one was on the abutment. Jeremy Rofflash had met his fate.

"The Beggar's Opera" continued on its triumphant way. Night after night the theatre was packed. Night after night Polly was listened to with increasing delight. She had never sung her plaintive ditties with such pathos. No one suspected the reason. No one knew that she had given her heart to the poor young man killed in a brawl--so the newspapers described it--in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Polly's love for Lancelot Vane was a secret sacred to herself. She gave her confidence to n.o.body--not even to Gay. She had been happy in her love dreams, happier perhaps than if they had become realities. Her roaming life had not brought romance to her until she met Lancelot Vane. The sweetheartings of others had always seemed sordid and commonplace. Had Vane been presumptuous she would have had nothing to say to him, but she was drawn towards him because he was drifting to his ruin and she yearned to save him. That she should see him no more deadened her heart and numbed her brain. So she made no effort to find out the why and wherefore of his death and the story never reached her.

Sally Salisbury could have told her, but Sally, to her credit, be it said, did not seek to inflict a wound for the mere satisfaction of witnessing the agony of her rival. Vane was dead and retribution had swiftly overtaken his a.s.sa.s.sin. What was left? Nothing. Sally had also found romance, and some tender womanly instinct--an instinct too often blunted by her life and temptations--sealed her lips. She had avenged the death of the only man she ever loved with anything like purity. Let that suffice.

The opera had an unprecedented run of sixty-two nights. Every one marvelled. Such a thing had never happened before and when the next season the run was continued its attractions were undimmed, save in one particular--the original Polly Peachum was no longer to be seen or heard. Gradually it became gossipped about that the Duke of Bolton's suit had succeeded. The Polly over whom everybody, rich and poor, high and low, for nearly five months had lost their heads and their hearts, had quitted the stage for ever. Twenty-three years later the duke was able to prove his devotion by making her his d.u.c.h.ess. Even then she rarely took part in fas.h.i.+onable functions. Her simple tastes and dislike of display never deserted her. Yet she was not and is not forgotten, though nearly two hundred years have pa.s.sed away since she burst into the full flush of fame. Her memory is preserved in every one of her innumerable successors who have succeeded in reproducing in any degree her charm and artlessness. This memory is not attached to Lavinia d.u.c.h.ess of Bolton, but to "Pretty Polly Peachum."

THE END.