Madame Flirt
She knew that for the time being she was helpless. What was the good of
wasting her strength in struggles, her spirit in remonstrance and be
laughed at for her pains? So she sat sullenly and turned a deaf ear to
Dorrimore's triumphant endearments.
That wrestle with the window strap had done one thing. It had told her
where she was. Lavinia knew her London well. Her rambles as a child had
not been confined to Charing Cross and St. Giles. She had often wandered
down to London Bridge. She loved the bustling life on the river; she
delighted in gazing into the shop windows of the quaint houses on the
bridge which to her youthful imagination seemed to be nodding at each
other, for so close were some that their projecting upper storeys nearly
touched.
She decided in that confused glance of hers through the window that the
coach was nearing the extreme end of the Poultry. She recognised the
Poultry Compter with its grim entrance and wondered whether the coach
would go straight on to Cornhill and then turn northward towards
Finsbury Fields, or southward to London Bridge.
For the moment all she thought of was her destination, and when she was
able without attracting her companion's, attention again to peep out of
the window she saw the coach was at the foot of London Bridge. The
driver had been compelled to walk his horses, so narrow and so dark was
the passage way.
The nightbirds of London were on their rambles looking out for prey; the
bridge was thronged. The people for the most part were half drunk--they
were the scourings from the low taverns in the Southwark Mint. Lavinia
had been revolving a plan of escape, but to launch herself among an
unruly mob ready for any devilry might be worse than remaining where she
was. But in spite of all that she did not cease to think about her plan
and watched for an opportunity when the worst of the rabble should have
passed.
Suddenly the coach came to a standstill. Shouts and oaths--more of the
latter than the former--were heard, and Dorrimore after fretting and
fuming lowered the window on his side and put out his head.
"What the devil's hindering you?" he demanded angrily, of the coachman.
"That monstrously clumsy waggon; the stubborn knave of a waggoner has
gotten the middle of the road and there he sticks. He'll draw neither to
the left or the right. I've a mind to get down and baste the surly
bumpkin's hide."
"Don't be a fool. Keep where you are. We must wait. Speak him fair."
Two things struck Lavinia. One was the open window. Evidently Dorrimore
had thought it only necessary to secure one window--that on the side
where she was sitting. If she were on the opposite side how easy to slip
her hand through the opening and turn the handle of the door. But this
was impossible. She could not hope to succeed.
The other thing which fixed itself in her mind was the familiar tone of
the coachman towards Dorrimore. It was more that of an equal than of a
menial. This impression confirmed her suspicion that she was trapped.
Dorrimore had doubtless enlisted the services of a confidential friend
rather than trust to a servant whose blabbing tongue might serve to
betray him.
Meanwhile Dorrimore's head was still out of the window. He was calling
to the waggoner and offering him a crown to pull his horses and load to
one side, but it was no easy task to move the gigantic lumbering wain
with its tilt as big as a haystack and its wheels a foot thick. Lavinia
had her eyes fixed at the window on her side, intent on watching a
little group of persons who were curious to see the result of the
deadlock. They were quietly disposed apparently.
Swiftly she bent down, slipped off one of her high heeled shoes and
straightened her body. The next moment there was the crash of broken
glass. She had struck the window with the heel of her shoe and had
thrust her hand through the jagged hole, turned the handle, opened the
door and had jumped out. Dorrimore, intent upon parleying with the
waggoner, had either not heard the smash or had attributed the cause to
anything but the real one.
The group were startled by the flying figure. In her haste and agitation
she had stumbled on alighting and would have fallen but for a man who
caught her.
"S'death madam, are you hurt?" she heard him say.
"No, no. For Heaven's sake don't stay me. I'm in great danger. I'm
running from an enemy. Oh, let me go--let me go!"
"But you're wounded. See."
Blood was on her arm. A drop or two had fallen on the man's ruffles. She
had cut herself in her wild thrust through the jagged hole in the door.
"It's nothing," she breathed. "Oh, if you've any pity don't keep me."
The man made no reply. He whipped out his handkerchief, tied it round
the cut and holding her arm tightly, forced a way through the crowd
towards the Southwark side of the bridge.
He might have got her away unobserved had it not been for Dorrimore's
coachman. The fellow uttered a yell and leaving his horses to take care
of themselves leaped from the box.
"A guinea to any one who stops that woman," he shouted.
Lavinia and her companion had nearly reached the obstructive waggon. A
dozen persons or so were between them and the yelling coachman. If they
succeeded in passing the waggon there might be a chance of escaping in
the darkness. But the onlookers crowding between the obstruction and the
shops--there were in those days no pavements--were too much interested
in what was going on to move, and the two found themselves wedged in a
greasy, ragged mob.
Then came a rush from behind by those eager to earn a guinea and things
became worse. The girl, helped by the young man--she had seen enough of
him to know that he was both young and good-looking--urged her way
through the crowd, and those in front, seeing she looked like a
gentlewoman and knowing nothing of the guinea offered for her capture
stood back and she passed through. At that moment she felt her
companion's grasp relax. Then his fingers slipped from her arm. Some one
had struck him.
"Run to the stairs and take a boat," he whispered. "Perhaps you haven't
any money. Here's my purse," and he pushed it into her hand.
"No, I won't have it," she faltered.
"You must. Quick! Fly!"
"But what of you?"
"I shall stay here, face the mob and give you time to get away."
She would have refused. She would have remained with her champion, but
the swaying mob ordered otherwise. She found herself separated from him
and carried onward whether she would or not. She was terribly frightened
and knew not what to do. Hoarse shouts pursued her; she heard the sound
of blows. Somehow no one seemed to notice her. Probably the fighting was
more to their taste. Suddenly she found herself alone. The archway
called the Traitors' Gate which then formed the entrance to the bridge
from the Surrey side was behind her. Crowds were pouring through the
Gate eager to see what the rumpus was about or to take part in it on the
chance of plunder, and they did not heed the shrinking figure in the
deep doorway of a house close to the bridge.
Lavinia was torn with anxiety. The young man whose purse she was holding
tightly--how was he faring? She could not help him by staying. Dorrimore
and Dorrimore's coachman with the guinea he had offered for her capture
had to be thought of. Her danger was by no means over. The roadway was
comparatively clear. Now was her chance if she was ever to have one.
She stole from the doorway; the stairs leading to the river were close
at hand and down these she sped.
The tide was at low ebb. She was standing on the shingle. But she looked
in vain for a waterman. There were plenty of boats on the river, most of
them loaded with merry parties returning from Spring Gardens, Vauxhall,
and no boats were plying for hire. She dared not ascend to the Borough.
Bullies and thieves abounded in the southern approaches to the bridge.
She crept down to one of the abutments of the bridge and tremulously
listened to the turmoil going on above.
Meanwhile the man who had come to her rescue was being hardly pressed.
He was surrounded by a mob led by Dorrimore's coachman. It was not the
leader who had struck the blow which made him lose his hold of Lavinia's
arm, but one of the mob for no motive other than a love for brutality.
The coachman had forced his way to the front a minute or so afterwards.
Almost at the same time a stone hit Lavinia's champion in the cheek,
cutting it and drawing blood.
"Cowards!" he shouted. "If you're for fighting at least fight fair. Who
did that?" and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"At your service, sir. Give me the credit of it. Captain Jeremy Rofflash
isn't the man to let the chance of a little pretty sword play go by."
The speaker was the man who acted as Dorrimore's coachman. He was every
inch a braggadocio. There were many such who had been with Marlborough
and had returned to their native country to earn their living by their
wits and by hiring out their swords.
The fellow who called himself Jeremy Rofflash had not time to draw his
sword; the fist of the man he had thought to frighten had shot out swift
as an arrow, catching him between the eyes and tumbling him backwards.
At the sight of the young gallant's spirit a number of the mob
instantly ranged themselves on his side. Others came on like infuriated
animals on the off chance of Captain Jeremy Rofflash rewarding them for
their services.
"You'd better show these ruffians a clean pair of heels," whispered a
friendly voice in the young man's ear. "To Winchester Stairs--now's your
chance before yonder bully's on his feet."
It was good advice and Lancelot Vane, the young man, budding poet and
playwright, who had found himself involved in a dangerous squabble,
which might mean his death, over a girl whom he had only seen for a few
minutes, had the sense to take it. But it was no easy task to extricate
himself. A burly ruffian was approaching him with arm uplifted and
whirling a bludgeon. Vane caught the fellow a blow in the waist and he
immediately collapsed. Before the prostrate man could get his wind, Vane
darted through the Traitors' Gate and racing towards the Borough with a
score or so of the rabble after him, darted into the first opening he
came to.
CHAPTER V
"MANY A MAN WOULD GIVE A HANDFUL OF GUINEAS FOR A KISS FROM SALLY
SALISBURY"
The fugitive found himself in a narrow ill-smelling, vilely paved alley
to the east of the Borough. Tall, ugly, dirty houses bordered it on each
side, a thick greasy mud covered the uneven stones. Dimly he was
conscious of the sound of a window being opened here and there, of
hoarse shouts and shrill screams, of shadowy beings who doubtless were
men and women but who were more like ghosts than creatures of flesh and
blood.
But no one molested him. This might be explained by the fact that those
who saw him running took him to be some criminal fleeing from justice to
take sanctuary in the Southwark slums, an impression quite sufficient to
ensure their sympathy. At least, this was what at first happened.
Afterwards the mob took it into their heads to pursue him and for no
particular reason save devilry.
The seething crowd poured into the narrow alley. Like a hunted deer the
young man ran up one court and down another, stumbling now and again
half from exhaustion and half from the greasy mud covered stones. He
could hear his pursuers coming nearer and nearer, but his strength was
gone. He dragged himself a few steps further and staggered into a
doorway, sinking on the steps in an almost fainting condition.
The next moment the door behind him opened, a hand gripped his shoulder
and a woman's voice whispered:--
"Come inside. Make haste before you're seen."