Part 7 (1/2)
”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 hoa.r.s.e 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.”
The young man raised his head. He was dimly conscious of a handsome face, of a pair of bold eyes staring into his.
”Come. Why are you waiting? Do you want to be murdered?” she cried imperiously.
He struggled to his feet and she dragged him into the pa.s.sage and closed the door. Scarcely had she done so when the clatter of feet and a confused sound of voices told that his pursuers were approaching. Had they tracked him to the house? The point was at once settled by a loud hammering at the door.
The woman half turned her head and cast a scornful look over her shoulder.
”Knock away, you devils. You won't break those panels in a hurry. For all that, the place isn't safe for you, Mr. Vane.”
”What, you know me?”
She laughed. Her laughter was loud rather than musical.
”Haven't I seen you with many a merry party at Spring Gardens? Don't you remember that mad night when one of your friends was full of wine?
Didn't I cut off the end of his periwig and throw it to the mob to be scrambled for?”
Lancelot Vane's pale face flushed slightly. He hadn't a very precise recollection of what had happened on that night of frolic and revelry.
Like the rest he had had his bottle or two. The full blooded handsome woman whom nothing abashed, who could take her liquor like a man, whose beauty fired the souls of the gallants hovering about her wrangling for her smiles, was part of the confused picture that had remained in his memory. He had some vague remembrance of having kissed her or that she had kissed him--it didn't matter which it was, nothing mattered very much when the wine was in and the wit was out.
Yet now when both were sober and her round, plump arm was round his shoulders on the plea of supporting him he felt embarra.s.sed, ashamed.