Chapter 4

"IF WE'RE NOT TO BE MARRIED TELL ME"

The rattle of the wheels over the loose, roughly laid cobble stones, and the swaying carriage hung on leathers, forbade talking. Lavinia heard her companion's voice but she did not know what he was saying. Not that it mattered for she was in too much of a flutter to heed anything but her own emotions, and these were so confused that they told her little.

Then Dorrimore's arm stole round her waist. Well, this was not unnatural. Would they not be soon man and wife? The puzzle was that she had no feeling of response. She would rather that he did not embrace her. She did not want to be noticed. Yet she could not find it in her heart to be unkind, so she allowed him to draw her nearer, to let her head droop on his shoulder. She tried to think it was pleasant to be so loved and she lowered her eyelashes when he kissed her again and again.

Two or three minutes of oblivion. The coach had raced down Red Lion Street. It was in Holborn going eastwards and here the din and clatter were heightened by the shouts of drunken roisterers. The overhanging houses cast deep shadows and the coach was travelling in the gloom. It was past midnight and the lamps hung at every tenth house were extinguished. This was the rule.

Then Lavinia became conscious that the carriage was going down hill. It had passed Fetter Lane into which it should have turned and was proceeding towards Holborn Bridge. Why was this? Fetter Lane led into Fleet Street and so to the Fleet. Had the coachman misunderstood his instructions? She wrenched herself free and looked out of the window. She recognised St. Andrew's Church in Holborn Valley. She turned swiftly and faced Dorrimore. The coach had crossed the bridge and had commenced the steep ascent of Holborn Hill on the other side. The horses had slackened their pace. The noise was less loud.

"You said we were going to the Fleet, but we're not. Where are you taking me?"

"Don't trouble about such a trifle, darling little one," he cried gaily. "Aren't you with me? What more do you want? Come, kiss me. Let us forget everything but our two selves."

He would have embraced her but she repulsed him angrily.

"No. If you've altered your mind--if we're not to be married tell me so, and I'll leave you to yourself," she cried agitatedly.

"Leave me? And d'you think I'll let you go when you're looking handsomer than ever? Faith, what d'you take me for? You dear fluttering little Venus. Why, you're trembling? But hang me, it must be with joy as I am."

Both his arms were round her. She struggled to free herself; pushed his face away and panting, strove to reach the window, but he was strong and prevented her.

"I'll go no further with you," she cried. "Set me down at once or I'll scream for help."

"You pretty little fool. Much help you'll get here. Oh, you shall look if you want to, but your wings must be clipped first."

He gripped both her wrists and held them fast. Her frightened eyes glanced through the window. She heard a confused thud of hoofs, now and again the deep bellowing of cattle, in the distance dogs barking, drivers yelling. She could see horned heads moving up and down. The coach was now moving very slowly. It was surrounded by a drove of bullocks from the Essex marshes going to Smithfield.

"You see?" laughed Dorrimore. "D'you suppose I would set you down to be tossed and gored by vulgar cattle. Why the sight of your red ribands would send them mad, as it's nearly sent me."

"I don't care. I'd rather be with them than with you. I hate you," she screamed with tears in her voice.

"Really? I'll warrant your hate'll turn to love before we part," he jeered. "I'm not going to see you come to harm, so I shall hold your pretty wrists tightly. How round and slender they are! So, you're my prisoner."

"I'm not and I won't be."

Somehow she dragged her right wrist away and dealt him a smart blow on his cheek.

"You would fight, would you? What a little spitfire it is! No matter. I love you all the better. For every smart you give me you shall be repaid with a dozen kisses. If that isn't returning good for evil may I never handle a dice box again. There, do as you like. Lay your white hand again on my face. The bigger debt you run up the better."

Despite his banter he was very savage and he flung her hands from him. She at once laid hold of the strap to open the window. He burst into a loud laugh.

"So the bird would escape," said he mockingly. "I thought as much."

She tugged at the strap but tugged in vain. The window refused to budge. Then it flashed across her mind that it was all part of a plan. She was to be trapped. The story of a Fleet marriage was a concoction to bait the trap. She flung herself in the corner, turned her back upon her captor and pulled her hood over her face.

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.