Madame Flirt | Page 2

Twenty-five years before it was not so. He was then the gayest of the gay and in the heyday of his career. Much had happened since then. Disappointed political ambitions and political flirtations with the Jacobite party had ended in exile in France, from which, having been pardoned, he had not long returned.
Meeting Gay, the latter suggested a prowl in St. Giles, where life was in more than its usual turmoil consequent upon the execution of Jack Sheppard; so Viscount Bolingbroke revisited the slums of St. Giles, which had been the scene of many an orgy in his hot youth.
The nobleman returned no answer to Gay's question. His thoughts had gone back to his early manhood when he took his pleasure wherever he found it. In some of his mad moods St. Giles was more to his taste than St. James's. So long as the face was beautiful, and the tongue given to piquant raillery, any girl was good enough for him. He was of the time when a love intrigue was a necessary part of a man's life, and not infrequently of a woman's too.
Successful lover though he had been he was not all conquering. The ballad singer's tender liquid tones carried his memory back to the low-born girl with the laughing eyes who had captured his heart. She sold oranges about the door of the Court of Requests, she sang ballads in the street, she was a little better than a light of love, yet Bolingbroke could never claim her as his own. It angered him sorely that she had a smile for others. But he bore her no malice, or he would hardly have written his poetical tribute commencing:--
"Dear, thoughtless Clara, to my verse attend, Believe for once the lover and the friend."
So Gay's words were unheeded. A heavy step sounded on the sanded floor. A big man with features formed on an ample mould had entered. Gay was entranced by the singer and did not hear him. The newcomer stood silently behind the poet. He too, was listening intently.
The girl's voice died into a cadence. Gay beckoned to her and she came up to the window.
"Finely sung, Polly," cried Gay. "Who taught thee, child?"
"I taught myself, sir," said she dropping a curtsey.
"Then you had a good teacher. There's a crown for you."
"Oh sir ... it's too much."
"Nay, Polly--if your name isn't Polly it ought to be. What does your mother call you?"
"Mostly an idle slut, sir."
Her face remained unmoved save her eyes, which danced with sly merriment.
The men at the window burst into a roar of laughter. He who had entered last laughed the loudest and deepest, and loud and deep as was that laugh it was full of music. At its sound Gay turned sharply.
"What? Dick Leveridge? You've come at the right moment. We need someone who knows good music when he hears it. What of this pretty child's voice. Is it good?"
"Is it good? I'll answer your question, Mr. Gay, by asking you another. Are you good at verses?"
"'Tis said my 'Fables' will be pretty well. The young Prince William will have the dedication of it and if his mother, the Princess of Wales approves, methinks my fortune's made," cried Gay buoyantly.
"Glad to hear it," replied Leveridge, dryly. "If I know anything about His Royal Highness you'll gain a fortune sooner by writing a ballad or two for this pretty songster. Make her famous as you made me with 'All in the Downs' and 'T'was when the seas were roaring.'"
Gay's face brightened.
"Faith, Dick, you've set my brain working. I'll think on't, but that means I must keep my eye on the wench."
"Oh, I'll trust you for that," rejoined Leveridge, the ghost of a smile flitting across his solemn visage.
Meanwhile the girl had retreated a yard or two from the window, her gaze fixed wistfully on Gay and Leveridge. She knew from their looks that she was the subject of their talk.
Gay turned from his friend Richard Leveridge, the great bass singer of the day, and rested his hands on the window sill. Bolingbroke had sunk into his chair, and buried in his thoughts, was slowly sipping his wine. Lancelot Vane continued to breathe heavily.
"Come here, child," said Gay through the open window and sinking his voice. The crowd had pressed round her and were clamourous for her to sing again. Some had thrown her a few pence for which a couple of urchins were groping on the ground.
The girl approached.
"Now Polly----"
"My name's Lavinia--Lavinia Fenton, sir," she interrupted.
"Too fine--too fine. I like Polly better. Never mind. If it's Lavinia, Lavinia it must be. What's your mother? Where does she live?"
"At the coffee house in Bedfordbury."
"Does she keep it?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you do?"
"Wait on the customers--sometimes."
"And sometimes you sing in the streets--round the taverns, eh?"
"Only