CHAPTER XXI

"IF WE FIGHT.... WHAT SAY YOU TO LAVINIA FENTON?"

The big room of the "Angel and Sun" hard by Cripples Gate was the scene

of loud talk, louder laughter and the clank of pewter mugs on the solid

oaken table. The fat landlord, divested of his wig, which he only wore

on high days and holidays, was rubbing his shiny pate with satisfaction.

The Grub Street writers were his best customers, and when they had money

in their pockets they were uneasy until it was gone.

The room was low pitched; its big chimney beams projected so much that

it behoved a tall man to be careful of his movements; it was full of

dark shadows thrown by the two candles in iron sconces on the walls; a

high settle was on either side of the fire in front of which stood the

bow-legged host, his eyes beaming on the rapidly emptying bottles.

A slight sound, a movement, caused the landlord to glance towards the

door. A stranger had entered. He was not of the Grub Street fraternity.

He had too much swagger. His clothes were too fine, despite their

tawdriness, his sword hilt too much in evidence. What could be seen of

his dark face, the upper half of which his slouched hat concealed, was

rather that of a fighter than of a writer. The landlord summed up the

signs of a swashbuckler and approached him deferentially.

"Good evenin', sir. What's your pleasure?"

The stranger cast a rapid glance over the revellers sitting round the

long, narrow table before he replied.

"Half a pint of gin, landlord," said he, in the deep, husky voice of

Captain Jeremy Rofflash, and he strode towards the chimney corner of one

of the settles, whence he could see the noisy party of drinkers and not

be seen himself very well.

The landlord brought the gin in a pewter pot and set it down on a ledge

fixed to the chimney jamb.

"See here, landlord," growled Rofflash, "d'ye know Mr. Jarvis?"

"Sure, sir; 'tis he yonder with the lantern-jawed phizog."

"Aye. Watch your chance when he's not talking to the rest and bid him

look where I'm sitting. There's a shilling ready for you if you don't

blunder."

The landlord nodded and waddled towards the man he had pointed out.

Jeremy Rofflash, it may be remarked, was a born spy and informer. His

blood was tainted with treachery. Ten years before he had been employed

by the Whig Government of George of Hanover to ferret out

evidence--which not infrequently meant manufacturing it--against the

Jacobites. Posing as a Jacobite, Rofflash wormed himself into the

secrets of the conspirators, and he figured as an important witness

against the rebel lords Derwentwater, Nithsdale, Carnwath and Wintoun.

It was nothing for him to serve two masters and to play false to both,

according as it best suited his own pocket. Sally Salisbury and

Archibald Dorrimore were working in two different directions, and the

ingenious Jeremy accommodated both. His scheming in Sally's interest had

turned out to his and to her satisfaction, but not so that on behalf of

Dorrimore. The captain had not reckoned upon Lavinia taking flight

before he and his employer arrived on the scene.

The plot of which she was the objective was common enough in those days

of free and easy lovemaking. Merely an abduction. Rofflash had an

intimate knowledge of Whitefriars, not then, perhaps, so lawless a place

as in the times of the Stuarts, but sufficiently lawless for his

purpose. Its ancient privileges which made it a sanctuary for all that

was vile and criminal had not been entirely swept away. Rofflash knew of

more than one infamous den to which Lavinia could be conveyed, and

nobody be the wiser.

The abduction plot had failed--for the present--and Rofflash, to pacify

Dorrimore, went on another tack. In this he was personally interested.

He saw his way to make use of Dorrimore to punish Vane for the

humiliation Vane had cast upon him when they encountered each other on

London Bridge. This humiliation was a double one. Vane had not merely

knocked him down, but had rescued Lavinia under his very nose.

The insult could only be washed out in blood, and the captain had been

nursing his wrath ever since. But he was as great a coward as he was a

braggart, and a fair fight was not to his taste. He was more at home in

a stealthy approach under the cover of night, and a swift plunge of his

sword before the enemy could turn and defend himself.

With Dorrimore it was different. To do him justice, fop as he was, he

did not want for courage, and, moreover, he was a good swordsman. So

when Rofflash made out that he could bring Vane to Spring Gardens,

where Dorrimore could easily find an excuse for provoking his rival to a

duel, the Templar eagerly approved the idea.

It was to carry out this plan practically that Rofflash, after quitting

his patron in St. James's Park, made his way to Moorfields. Though he

knew that Sally had extracted a promise from Vane to meet her in Spring

Gardens, he was by no means certain that Vane would keep his word. But

Rofflash was never without resources, and he thought he could devise a

plan to bring the meeting about. His scheme proved easier to execute

than he expected. Vane unconsciously played into his hands.

After his bitter disappointment through not meeting Lavinia at

Rosamond's Pond, Vane walked back to his Grub Street lodgings plunged in

fits of melancholy, alternated with moralisings on the faithlessness of

women. He did not believe Lavinia had kept the appointment. As for Sally

Salisbury, well, it was unfortunate that he should run across her at a

wrong moment, but he never imagined that the meeting with her was one of

design and not of accident.

Vane had the poetic temperament. He was human and emotional and--he was

weak. Had he lived two centuries later he might have fancied, and may be

with truth, that he suffered from neurasthenia. In the full-blooded days

of the early Georges the complaint was "vapours," otherwise liver, but

no one troubled about nerves. The ghastly heads of Jacobite rebels stuck

on Temple Bar were looked upon with indifference by the passers-by. The

crowds which thronged to Tyburn to witness the half hangings and the

hideous disembowelling which followed, while the poor wretches, found

guilty of treason, were yet alive, had pretty much the sensation with

which a gathering nowadays sees a dangerous acrobatic performance.

Vane had none of this brutish callousness. He was more susceptible to

sex influences. Despite his worship of Lavinia, whom he elevated into a

sort of divinity, and who satisfied the more refined part of his nature

and his love of romance, he was not insensible to the animal charms of

Sally Salisbury. The cunning jade was familiar with all the arts of her

profession. She knew how to kiss, and the kiss she bestowed upon him in

the park haunted him just as did the kiss he had received whether he

would or not on the night when she sheltered him in her house.

Thus it came about that the despondent young man was torn between

varying emotions, and by the time he was within hail of Grub Street he

was without will of his own and at the mercy of any who chose to

exercise influence over him.

Chance led him to encounter a party of boon companions whose company he

had vowed to relinquish. One of these was in funds, having abandoned

political pamphleteering for the writing of biographies of notorious

personages, both men and women--the latter preferably--in which truth

and fiction were audaciously blended, and the whole dashed with

scandalous anecdotes which found for such stuff a ready sale.

Jarvis and his friends having had their fill of liquor at one tavern,

were proceeding to another when they met Lancelot Vane, and they bore

him away without much protest. It was by no means the first time that

Vane had drowned his sorrows in drink.

Meanwhile Rofflash was on the prowl. He was not unacquainted with some

of the Grub Street scribblers. One man he had employed three or four

years before, when Jacobitism was rampant, in running to earth the

writers of seditious pamphlets and broad sheets. The man was Tom Jarvis.

Rofflash knew Tom's favourite haunts, and after looking in at various

taverns, lighted upon him at the "Angel and Sun." He also lighted upon

Vane. Vane he could see was well on the way towards forgetfulness, but

Captain Jeremy wasn't one to run any risks, so he held aloof from the

party, and waited while the landlord went about his errand.

Presently Jarvis looked in the direction of the fireplace, and Rofflash

beckoned him and laid his fingers on his lip in token of silence. Jarvis

quietly slipped away and joined Rofflash.

"Devil take it, my gallant captain!" growled Jarvis, "but you look in

fine feather. Hang me if you haven't tumbled on your feet, and that's

more than Tom Jarvis can say. Since the Jacks have swallowed King George

and his Hanoverian progeny things have been precious dull for the likes

o' me."

"Aye, though it mayn't be for long. Meanwhile, I can put you in the way

of a guinea. Are you friendly with that young fool, Lancelot Vane?"

"Friendly? Why, to be sure. He's always good for a bottle if he chance

to have the wherewithal about him. And he's the best company in the

world when that comes about. A couple o' glasses knocks him over, and

you can finish the rest of the bottle at your ease."

"Gad! He's one of your feather-brained, lily-livered fellows, is he? So

much the better for my purpose. Look you here, Tom; bring Vane to-morrow

evening to Spring Gardens, and there's a guinea ready for you."

Jarvis looked down his long nose and frowned.

"Not so easy as you think, captain. I know Vane. To-morrow he'll be

chock full of repentance. He'll be calling himself all the fools he can

lay his tongue to. How am I to get him to Spring Gardens in that mood?"

"'Tis as easy as lying, Tom. When a man's down as Peter Grievous, he's

ready to get up if he have but a couple of hairs of the dog that bit

him."

"I grant you that, bully captain. But Vane's pocket's as empty as mine.

Where's the coin to come from?"

"You're a damned liar and an ingrained rogue by nature, Tom Jarvis, but

I'll have to trust you for once. Here's half a guinea. It should more

than pay for the wine and the wherry to Spring Gardens. Keep faith with

me, you rascal, or I'll half wring your head from your shoulders and

give you a free taste of what's bound to come to you some day--the rope

at Tyburn."

Jarvis grinned in sickly fashion and swore by all that was unholy to

carry out his orders strictly. Rofflash then strode away.

How Jarvis contrived to lure Vane to Spring Gardens is not of much

consequence. The fellow had a soft, slimy tongue and an oily manner.

Moreover, Rofflash's shrewd guess at Vane's absence of will power after

a drinking bout was verified to the letter.

The passage up the river from St. Paul's Stairs was pleasant enough. The

wherry made its way through a crowd of boats bound for the Gardens,

though the season had hardly begun. Not a few of the craft had for their

passengers fashionable ladies masked and unmasked, with their cavaliers

more or less noisy with wine. Numberless and not particularly refined

were the jests exchanged between the occupants of the various boats.

Sometimes the watermen struck in and masters of slang and coarse wit as

they were, and possessed of infinite impudence, the journey was marked

by plenty of liveliness.

Well did Spring Gardens--afterwards known as Vauxhall, or Fauxhall,

years later--deserve the patronage bestowed upon them. Delightful

groves, cosy little arbours, lawns like velvet, rippling fountains were

among its attractions, music albeit it was confined to the limited

instruments of the day--singing came about afterwards--aided the

enchantment.

A dose of hot brandy and water before starting had renewed Vane's

drooping spirits and had dissipated his headache and nausea. A glass of

punch prescribed by Jarvis when inside the Gardens sent him into a mood

of recklessness which made him ready for any adventure amorous or

otherwise. He looked upon Lavinia as lost to him. He would like to kill

his remembrance of her. What better way than by thoughts of some other

woman? His brain had become so bemused by his potations of the previous

night that he had at first only vague recollections of Sally Salisbury

and how he had engaged to meet her. But now that he was in the Gardens

association of ideas brought her handsome, enticing face to his mind.

She would do as well as another to entertain him for the moment, and his

eyes roved restlessly towards every woman he passed.

The orchestra was playing a dance tune, and Vane eagerly scanned the

dancers, but saw no woman resembling Sally Salisbury. Meanwhile Jarvis

had left him with a parting drink, which by no means helped to clear his

muddled brain. Then suddenly Sally stood before him, unmasked and

looking more fascinating than ever.

"You wicked man," said she with reproachful eyes, the dark silky lashes

drooping momentarily on her painted cheeks. "I've been searching for you

everywhere. But my heart told me you would come, and my heart rarely

deceives me."

Sally spoke in a tone of sincerity, and maybe for once she was sincere.

Vane did not trouble one way or the other. He was in that condition of

nervous excitement to be strongly affected by her sensuous beauty. He

was stammering something in reply when a man in a puce satin coat and a

flowered brocaded waistcoat thrust himself rudely between them.

"I fear, sir, you don't know all the transcendent virtues of this

_lady_. Permit me to enlighten you."

He spoke in an insolent tone, and Sally turned upon him in fury and bade

him begone.

"Mind your own business, Mr. Dorrimore, and don't thrust your nose into

what doesn't concern you," she cried, her eyes blazing with wrath.

"Oh, I've no quarrel with you, madam. I only wish to warn your poor

dupe----"

He wasn't able to finish the sentence. Vane had struck him a violent

blow in the face.

Vane's sudden attack fairly took Dorrimore by surprise. He stared

blankly at Vane, and then apparently seized by some ludicrous idea, he

burst into a sarcastic laugh.

"Faith, sir--you must excuse me--you really must. Ha--ha--ha! The idea

of your championing this wanton jade! It's too good a joke--'pon honour,

it is--but since you will have it so--why----"

His hand went to his side, and the next moment his sword flashed in the

crimson light of the coloured lamps. Just then Jarvis and another man

interposed, and the latter caught Dorrimore's sword arm.

"Forbear, gentlemen!" cried Jarvis. "If you must fight, don't let it be

here. In public 'twould be little better than a vulgar brawl."

"Let me alone," shouted Dorrimore. "He struck me and in the devil's name

he shall answer it."

"Whenever you please. I did but defend the lady whom this coward

insulted," said Vane, pale, and speaking in a voice low and vibrating

with passion.

He felt a pressure on his arm and heard in soft tones:

"Thank you, but you mustn't risk your life for me. Come away."

"What, and leave the fellow's challenge unanswered. Never! Sir, I am at

your command. When and where you please."

"Don't be a fool, Vane--Sally's not worth it," whispered Jarvis. "Don't

you know she's any man's money?"

For a moment Vane wavered as though Jarvis had convinced him. In the

meantime Dorrimore had sheathed his sword and stepping close to Vane in

front of Sally Salisbury, he said, dropping his voice so that Sally

should not hear:

"Your friend's right. If we fight it should be over somebody better than

a common trull. What say you to Lavinia Fenton?"

Vane staggered as though Dorrimore had struck him.

"Lavinia Fenton?" he faltered. "What--what do you know--about her? What

is she to you?"

"Simply this--she's mine, and I'll have the blood of any man who

attempts to rob me of her. You tried once, and this follows."

Dorrimore tapped the hilt of his sword.

"I never saw you before, sir, but I take you at your word. I can see now

you've forced this quarrel on me, and for aught I know Mistress

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.