"Merciful Heaven, what a fright you've put me in to be sure," she whispered, throwing her arms about Lavinia. "Come in you truant. Lord, I do believe you was born to plague me out of my seven senses. You look tired to death. What have you been a-doing of? But don't worry to tell me now. You must eat something first. Why, you're all of a tremble. Was you frightened of that rascal as was d.o.g.g.i.ng you?"

"Was there one? I didn't know it."

"One? I wonder there wasn't a dozen. A pretty young thing like you to be in the streets at this unG.o.dly hour. There he is a stopping now and looking this way. Let him look. He won't see nought."

And Hannah shut to the door with more noise than she intended, much to Lavinia's alarm lest her mother should be aroused.

"No fear o' that, child. Your mother's had as much gin an' beer as she can carry. It was as good as I could do to get her up the stairs to her bedroom. Sure she's mad about your running away out of reach. I've had a nice time with her. But it 'ud take all the trumpets as blowed down the walls of Jericho to wake her now."

When the door was securely locked and bolted there was more hugging, and Hannah's strong arms half led, half carried the girl into the kitchen where a fire was smouldering which a bellows soon fanned into a blaze.

Eggs and bacon were put on to cook and Lavinia, curled in a roomy chair, watched the kindly young woman's proceedings with great contentment.

Lavinia told Hannah her story in fragments, saying nothing about Lancelot Vane. Hannah's mind was a blank as to Pope and Gay and she was more interested in the encounter with the highwayman. She did not ask much about Giles, but Lavinia guessed it was a subject dear to her heart and she did not forget to describe his mother, his cottage, and everything about them very minutely. Nor did she omit to praise his respectful civility and his good heart.

"And now all's said and done, Hannah," she cried, "what's to become of me?"

"Aye, bless your heart, that's the trouble. This morning I put on my considering cap an' was a-thinking and a-thinking when who should pop her face in but my cousin Betty Higgins as lives at Hampstead. 'La, Betty,' I says, 'where have you dropped from?' 'Ah,' says she, 'you may well say that. I've been a-comin' for goodness knows how long knowin' as my clothes line was a-gettin' as rotten as rotten could be. Yesterday the wind caught the sheets and blankets as I'd just hung out an' down they all plumped on a muddy patch an' had to be dropped in the tub again. I wasn't a-goin' to have that happen a second time so I've come up to buy a new line in Long Lane an' some soap at Couplands an' here I be as large as life.' That put a notion in my head, Lavvy, my dear. I told her about you and she's promised me a little room as she don't use much, an' that's where you're going when you've had a sleep."

"Oh, Hannah, how good you are," cried Lavinia between her kisses. "But Hampstead! Why, that's where all the fashion goes! The Hampstead water cures everything they say."

"May be," rejoined Hannah dryly. "But there's other things besides as I'll warrant the quality like better than the well water--nasty stuff it is. I once drank a gla.s.s at Sam's coffee house at Ludgate where it's brought fresh every morning and it nearly turned my stomach. There's music an' dancing in the Pump Room and dicing and cards at Mother Huff's near the Spaniards, aye an' lovemaking in the summer time by moonlight.

I dunno if it's a safe place for a mad young thing like you to be living at when the sparks are roaming about."

"Pooh!" retorted Lavinia tossing her head. "I ought to know how to take care of myself."

"Yes, you ought. But can you?"

"You silly old Hannah. Hampstead can't be worse for me than London."

"Perhaps not. If you couldn't be guarded at the Queen Square boarding school with a female dragon as can use her eyes, why there's no place in the world where the men won't chase you."

"Well, it's not my fault. _I_ don't chase _them_."

"There's no need for you to do that, you baggage. You've only got to give any one of them a glance and he gallops after you."

"What am I to do if I can't alter myself?"

"Goodness knows. Things must go their own way I suppose. You can't stop here, that's sure. It'll have to be Hampstead. But don't forget I've warned you."

Then they both crept up to Hannah's room, and at six o'clock the next morning they were astir, Lavinia making a hurried breakfast and preparing to set out on her long walk. There was no conveyance as the stage coach on the Great North Road through Highgate and Finchley did not start until later in the day, and Hannah, a good hearted soul never so happy as when helping others, gave Lavinia all the money she could spare with which to pay her sister-in-law a small sum every week.

"I don't know what I should do but for you, Hannah dear," said Lavinia gratefully. "It's shameful to take your money, but I swear I'll pay back every penny, and before long too."

"Yes, when you've married a rich man."

"No, no. I'm not thinking of being married. I shall be earning money soon."

"Tilly vally! How, miss, may I ask?"

"Ah, that's a secret. Mr. Gay says so and he ought to know."

"It's well if he does. Your Mr. Gay seems to be taking a mighty deal of notice of you. I only hope it'll all end well," said Hannah with a solemn shake of the head.

"End well? Indeed it will. Why shouldn't it?"

Lavinia laughed confidently, and her joyful tone and her face so bright with its contrast with her desolate condition brought a furtive tear to Hannah's eye, but she took care not to let the girl see it.

The morning had broken fair and by seven o'clock Lavinia was trudging along Holborn on her way to Hampstead through what is known now as Tottenham Court Road, then little more than a wide country lane.

At Great Turnstile she lingered and her eyes wandered down the narrow pa.s.sage. Great Turnstile led to Lincoln's Inn Fields, and in Portugal Row on the south side of the "Fields" was the Duke's Theatre.

a.s.sociation of ideas was too strong to be resisted. Thinking of the theatre, how could she help also thinking of Gay's encouragement as to herself--of Lancelot Vane and his tragedy?

Another thought was lurking at the back of her mind. She had gone to sleep dwelling upon her promise to meet Vane at Rosamond's Pond. Did she mean to keep that promise? She could not decide. She had given her consent under a sort of compulsion. Was it therefore binding? At any rate if she went to Hampstead the meeting was impossible.

It was this last reflection which made her linger. Reasons for altering her plans chased each other through her brain. The poor fellow would be so disappointed if he did not see her. How long would he wait? How wretched his garret would appear when he returned disconsolate! His despondency might drive him to break _his_ promise to her. Where was the harm in keeping her appointment instead of going to Hampstead? No harm at all save that she would be behaving ungratefully to Hannah. But Hannah would understand. Hannah was never without a sweetheart of a sort.

A sweetheart? That was the important point for Lavinia. Was Lancelot her sweetheart? She wondered. She blushed at the idea. It agitated her. She had not felt agitated when she ran away with Dorrimore--just a pleasant thrill of excitement, a sense of adventure; that was all. Dorrimore had made downright love to her; he had called her all the pet names in fashion. His admiration flattered and amused her, nothing more. Vane hadn't made love--at least it didn't seem to her that he had. But there are so many ways of making love!

"Hampstead's miles away," she mused. "If I go there we shall hardly ever see each other. At all events I ought to tell him where I shall be living. It won't be a surprise. He thinks I'm a fine lady and it's the fashion for fine ladies to go to Hampstead at this time of the year. It might make him jealous though," she added thoughtfully, "if he knows of the lovemaking by moonlight Hannah talked about."

She could decide upon nothing, and rather than loiter in Holborn while trying to solve the problem she entered Great Turnstile pa.s.sage and presently was in the quietude of Lincoln's Inn Fields. At night she would not have ventured to cross this big open s.p.a.ce haunted as it was after dark by footpads and pickpockets, but at that early hour of the morning there was nothing to fear. Only a few people were about and in the enclosure railed off from the roadway by posts was a horse being broken in. The theatre was a link between her and Lancelot Vane and thinking of him she walked towards it.

The Fields were crossed by two roads running diagonally from opposite corners and intersecting each other at the centre. Lavinia took the road which led to the southwestern angle. Close by this angle was the Duke's Theatre.

Lavinia reached the plain unpretending structure which looked at from the outside might be mistaken for a warehouse, and she gazed at its blank front wondering if fate meant to be kind and give her the chance her soul longed for. But in spite of Mr. Gay's encouraging hints it seemed impossible that she would ever sing within its walls.

She turned away sorrowfully and came cheek by jowl with a slenderly built thin-faced man whose eyes twinkled humorously, and with mobile lips that somehow suggested comicality. He stopped and stared; apparently trying to recall some remembrance of her. She recognised him at once. He was Jemmy Spiller the most popular comedian of the day.

Everybody who had any acquaintance with Clare Market knew Jem Spiller.

So much so that a tavern there was called after him.

"Faith, young madam, I've seen you before," said he. "Where, pray, was it?"

"I've sung inside the 'Spiller's Head' more than once a year and more ago," returned Lavinia with the demure look which was so characteristic and at the same time so engaging.

"What, are you that saucy little baggage? By the Lord, let me look at you again."

Spiller's laughing eyes roamed over her from head to foot and his shrewd face wrinkled into the quizzical expression which had often times sent his audience into a roar. Lavinia laughed too.

"Aye, you haven't lost the trick of sending a look that goes straight as an arrow to a man's heart. Tell me, was it not you that Mr. Gay took under his wing? At the 'Maiden Head,' wasn't it?"

"Yes. I've much to thank Mr. Gay for and you as well, Mr. Spiller. You and your friends from the market saved me from a clawed face."

"Why to be sure. That fury Sal Salisbury had her spurs on. She'd have half killed you but for us coming to the spot at the right time. But, child, what have you been doing? Hang me if you haven't sprung into a woman in a few months."

It was true. When Spiller last saw her she was hardly better than a waif and stray. She was thin and bony, her growth impeded by insufficient food, irregular hours and not a little ill usage. At Miss Pinwell's she had lived well, she was happy, she had had love illusions and Nature had a.s.serted its sway.

Lavinia coloured with pleasure. To be complimented by Spiller, the idol of the public--an actor--and she adored actors--was like the condescension of a G.o.d. She dropped him a low curtsey.