Now and again she wrote
to her old friend Gay and he replied with encouraging letters. His opera
was finished, he told her, Colley Cibber had refused to have anything
to do with it and it was now in the hands of John Rich.
"I can see thee, my dear, in Polly Peachum. I've had you in mind in the
songs. You're doing well, I hear, but I'd have you do better. The
duchess has forgiven you. She is on your side against Rich, who does not
care a farthing for the music. He would alter his mind could he but hear
you. Huddy must let you go. The Duke's Theatre is waiting for you."
In all Gay's letters there was not a word about Lancelot Vane. Lavinia
would like to have known the fate of his play and the next instant was
angry with herself for still feeling an interest in her faithless swain.
"Let him waste himself on Sally Salisbury if he likes," she cried
scornfully. "He's nothing to me."
Gay's assertion that Rich's theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields waited for
her was soon verified. One of Rich's staff waited upon her when Huddy's
company was playing at Woolwich, and she went off with him in high
spirits and amid much growling from Huddy. Rich was pleased to express
his approval of her appearance.
"I'll put on a play for you and that'll tell me if you knows your
business," grunted the ungrammatical Rich.
The play was a poor thing--"The Wits," one of D'Avenant's comedies.
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