Madame Flirt
Salisbury may be in the plot. But that doesn't matter. If Miss Fenton is
the cause, I shall fight with a better heart. Jarvis--please arrange
this affair for me. You've a friend at hand, sir, I presume."
Dorrimore dropped his insolent, foppish air. He recognised that Vane,
poverty stricken scribbler though he might be, was a gentleman. He bowed
and turned towards the man who, with Jarvis, had interposed in the early
stages of the altercation. This man was Rofflash. He had dragged Sally
Salisbury some three or four yards away probably to prevent her
interfering and persuading Vane not to fight. Whatever their talk might
have been about, just as Dorrimore turned Vane saw Sally tear herself
from Captain Jeremy's grasp and hurry away, and he became more than ever
persuaded that she had betrayed him. What did it matter? One woman or
another--they were all the same.
He walked apart while Jarvis and Rofflash arranged the preliminaries.
His brain was numbed. He did not care whether he lived or died. Five
minutes later Vane was joined by Jarvis.
"We've settled the business very comfortably," said Jarvis. "Seven
o'clock at Battersea Fields. It's now nearly midnight. We'll get a rest
at the nearest tavern; have a few hours sleep, and you'll wake as fresh
as a lark."
Vane made no reply, and Jarvis sliding his arm within that of his
companion, led him out of the gardens. They took the direction of
Wandsworth, keeping by the river bank, and Jarvis made a halt at a
tumbledown rookery of a waterside tavern--the "Feathers." Vane was so
overwhelmed by the prospect of a possible tragedy that he scarcely
noticed the dirt, the squalidness, the hot and foetid air and the
evil-looking fellows who stared at them when he and Jarvis entered.
On the strength of the order of a bottle of wine the landlord gave them
the use of his own room, and Vane threw himself on a hard settee, but
not to sleep. He was worn and haggard when it was time to rise, and
Jarvis called for brandy. It was vile stuff, and Vane swallowed scarcely
a mouthful.
The bill paid, they got into a boat moored off the bank opposite the
tavern.
It was only just daylight. A slight mist hung upon the river, and the
marshy land on the south side and the scattered houses leading to
Chelsea on the north side looked dreary enough. The only sound was the
plash of the waterman's sculls and the grinding of the rowlocks. At last
they came upon Battersea Fields.
"The pollard oaks, waterman," said Jarvis. "Do you know 'em?"
"Right well, your honour. You're not the first gentlemen I've took
there. More'n than have come back, I'll swear."
The fellow's words weren't encouraging, but Vane did not seem affected
by them. He felt strangely calm. Before he started his head was hot; now
it was as cold as ice. Jarvis asked him how he was.
"Feel my pulse and tell me," said he.
"Steady as a rock, but devilish cold. A little thrust and parry'll warm
you. Here we are, and there's your man and his second waiting."
The boat scraped the rushes and the waterman held it while the two men
scrambled on to the bank.
The ground was fairly well chosen for the purpose. It was a tolerably
firm piece of turf about a hundred yards long by some twenty broad and
almost as smooth as a bowling green. It was the only solid piece of
earth for some distance, all around being at a lower level and boggy.
Not forgetful of the usual courtesies, the combatants bowed and took off
their coats and vests. It was then that Vane caught sight of Rofflash.
"You're the fellow whom I knocked down on London Bridge on a certain
night some little time ago," said he.
"The very same," rejoined Rofflash with a grin which made his ugly face
still uglier. "You took me unawares. If you've the mind to try
conclusions a second time, fair and square and no surprises, by God,
sir, I'll be pleased to oblige you when you've despatched Mr.
Dorrimore."
The bully's braggart manner and sneering voice made no impression on
Vane. The suspicion that he was the victim of a plot was strengthened by
the presence of Rofflash and his words. For ought he could tell Jarvis
might be in the conspiracy too. But there was no way out of the trap,
and turning on his heel, he walked to his ground.
The duel began. The combatants were about equal in youth, height and
build; in skill they were unfairly matched. Vane was comparatively a
novice in the use of the "white arm." Dorrimore, on the other hand, was
a practised swordsman, though he was not so accomplished as he fancied
he was.
The two, after the preliminary salute, advanced to the attack. Dorrimore
handled his weapon with a slightly contemptuous air, as if he did not
think it worth while to take much trouble over so inferior an opponent.
To a certain extent he was right. Vane, however, was shrewd enough to
see that this carelessness was but assumed, and he did not take
advantage of one or two opportunities of thrusting given him by
Dorrimore, evidently with the intention of leading him into a trap.
So they went on cautiously, their blades rasping against each other, and
neither man gaining any advantage, although once or twice Vane found his
antagonist's weapon perilously near his body. Then all at once Dorrimore
changed his methods. He began fencing in earnest, and so rapid was the
play of his sword that the eye could scarcely follow it. Suddenly he
muttered an oath as a red stain appeared on his arm. Vane had been lucky
enough to scratch him, probably more by accident than dexterity.
Dorrimore roused himself and his fencing became more vigorous. Vane was
being pressed very closely, and Dorrimore's thrusts were becoming more
and more difficult to parry. Moreover, Vane's nerves were unsteady and
his movements were flustered. The gleaming steel danced, he grew
confused, faltered, and then came a cold biting sensation in his chest,
he fell and knew no more.
"An ugly thrust, Mr. Dorrimore," growled Rofflash five minutes
afterwards. "What's to be done?"
"Is he dead?" asked Dorrimore anxiously. "I'd no intention of going as
far as that, but it was the fool's own fault. He was rushing upon me
when my point touched him. I couldn't withdraw it in time."
Rofflash, while with Marlborough's army, had acquired some rough
knowledge of surgery. His hands had gone over Vane's chest in the region
of the heart. The wound was on the right side.
"There's life left," said the captain, "but he won't last long without a
surgeon. The blade's touched the lungs, I'll swear. Look ye here, sir.
If the man dies it'll be awkward for us all round. The fight was fair
enough, but the devil only knows what a dozen fools in a jury box may
think. Besides, there's Sally--she'll have something to say, I'll
swear."
"Sally? What the deuce has she to do with us?"
"More than you think, Mr. Dorrimore. She's as like as not to make out
that the quarrel was forced upon the fellow to get him out of the way.
You see, she's set her heart on him."
"Sally Salisbury's heart? What, has the saucy jade got one?" demanded
Dorrimore derisively.
"She thinks so, and with Sally that's as good as having one. You might
find it prudent to take refuge in France for a while till the affair
blows over. It would be bad enough to kill the man right out, but a
thousand times worse to leave him to bleed to death. I'm not so sure
what Jarvis might say to save his skin. You see, he was paid to bring
his man to Spring Gardens, so that you might affront him and get him to
fight you," added Rofflash dropping his voice significantly.
"Devil take it! Where's a surgeon to be got?" returned Dorrimore in
alarm.
"Leave it to me, sir. I can take him to a doctor who'll attend him and
who'll hold his tongue, which is more to the purpose. It'll mean a few
guineas, but 'twill be money well spent."
"See to it, then, Rofflash. Where's the man to be found?"
"His house is on London Bridge. The tide's running down fairly, and the
waterman ought to get us to the bridge in half an hour."
Dorrimore assented gloomily. He was thinking that the gratification of
his spite would cost him a pretty penny. Not only would the doctor,
Rofflash and Jarvis have to be paid for their silence, but the waterman
also.
Vane's wound was roughly bandaged, and he was taken to the boat still
unconscious. The journey by water was made, and he was landed safely at
the foot of London Bridge and consigned to the care of Dr. Mountchance,
whose scruples at taking charge of a wounded man who might probably die
in his house were easily overcome.
A few days later the following paragraph appeared in the _Daily Post_:
"We learn that an affair of honour has taken place between A----d
D----e, Esqr., of the Temple, and Mr. L----t V----e, a young
gentleman lately come from Cambridge University, in which the said
young gentleman made the acquaintance of the Templar's sword,
causing him temporary inconvenience. The cause of the difference
was the fair S----y S----y, well known to many men of fashion."
It was this paragraph which sent Lavinia into a paroxysm of emotion and
made her tear the newspaper in twain.
CHAPTER XXII
"MOLL'S SINGIN' BROUGHT HER LUCK AND MAY BE YOURS WILL TOO"
The months went over. Huddy's "travelling" theatrical troupe had been
paying a round of visits to various towns in the home counties,
performing in innyards, barns, any place suitable for the purpose and
where no objections were raised by the justices. Actors and actresses
were "rogues and vagabonds" when it suited prim puritans to call them
so, and more than once Huddy and his company had to take a hurried
departure from some town where play-acting was looked upon as ungodly
and a device of Satan to ensnare the unsuspecting.
All this was in the day's work. Lavinia thought nothing of it. She had
been in her youthful days harried from pillar to post and knew what it
meant. The important thing to her was that she was getting a vast amount
of stage experience, and as she was a quick "study" she had no
difficulty in taking on a new role at a day's notice.
Lavinia remained with Huddy's until she had all the devices of the stage
at her finger's ends. In a way theatrical training was easier then than
now. Acting was largely a question of tradition. What Betterton, Wilks,
Barton Booth, Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Oldfield did others had
to do. Audiences expected certain characters to be represented in a
certain way and were slow to accept "new readings." Comedy, however, had
more latitude than tragedy, and as comedy was Lavinia's line her winsome
face and pleasing smile and her melodious voice were always welcome, and
when she had a "singing" part she brought down the house.
Of course the life was hard--especially when the share of the receipts
which fell to the minor members was small--but it was full of variety
and sometimes of excitement. If the work did not entirely drive away the
remembrance of Lancelot Vane it enabled her to look upon the romance of
her early maidenhood with equanimity. Her love affair had become a
regret tinged with a pleasureable sadness.
She was beginning to be known in the profession. 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."