_In the which is rehearsed how Her Ladyship
did nimbly slip into man’s
attire and estate._
Through the fast gathering mist, through the smoke that’s London’s own,
the two women leaning behold a gay company of gallants rounding the far
corner, two hundred feet away; linked arms, swords a-touching, heels
a-clattering; one voice high and young, uplifted in a lilt like this:
Lady Peggy had heard that voice before.
_In years to come when gallants sing,
In praise of ladies fair,
All will allow, I pledge you square,
That brighter eyes n’er banished care,
Than those that bade us do and dare,
When George the Third was King!
Let roof and rafter chime and ring,
Let echo shout it back: we sing
The merry days, My Lords and Sirs!
When George the Third is King!_
And at the chorus, a brave dozen more of pairs of lusty lungs to take it
up and urge it on with flashing rapiers, knocking points, in the flare
of the lights from the coffee-house at hand; and good twelve of plumed
hats a-tossing in the air, and catch-again; and laughter loud and long,
then dying down as that fresh sweet voice begins its second verse, and
just so the old charwoman knocks hastily at the door, calling in Lady
Peggy’s head and Chockey’s from the open.
“’H’askin’ Your Ladyship’s parding,” says she, “but I thought it no
more’n my duty to acquaint Your Ladyship, as can’t see from this ’eight,
that Your Ladyship’s brother, Lord Kennaston’s a-comin’ ’ome, and
a-bringin’ with ’im ’is comrades, among ’em, Sir Percy de Bohun, and
mayhap ’er Ladyship’d like best,”—now addressing Chockey, as Lady Peggy
paced the floor in a too-evident agitation—“like best,” continued the
dame, “to ’ide ’erself, and h’if so, the noble gentlemen h’all of ’em,
I’m thinkin’, bein’ summat raised with wine, my ’umble bit of a place
h’is h’at Her Ladyship’s service for the night or as long as Her
Ladyship sees fit, for I am this minute sent for to go down into the
country immediate, where, God help us all! my tenth daughter what’s
married to her second husband lies at death’s door!”
And all the while the old charwoman is speaking between her bits of
broken teeth, Peggy hears that other voice uplifted, ringing, gay, glad,
care-free, as it seems to her strained ears, up and down the darkening
little street, tapping at the window-panes, tapping at her heart-strings
and stretching them to such a tension of anger, outraged pride, and
wounded affection as never Lady suffered before.
She thanks the old woman and hastily dismisses her; then facing about
from the window whence she has been able to descry the merry group
making a rush into the coffee-house, Her Ladyship, seized by a sudden
mad impulse, says to her woman:
“Chock, take my purse, tumble as fast as your two legs can carry you
down, out, across to the wigmaker’s we laughed at when we came in, buy
me the yellow wig, Chock, that adorns the front, an’ come not back
without it, an you love me, Chock; wheedle, coax, promise more’n there
is here,” sticking the purse in the astounded woman’s hand, “but get me
the wig that is the very double of dear Sir Robin’s own sweet pate!” She
pushes Chockey out on the landing with an impetus that sends her well on
her errand, and then, shutting and buttoning the door, Lady Peggy gets
herself out of her furbelows and petticoats, her stays, her bodice, her
collar, brooch, kerchief, pocket, hoop and hair pins, and into her
brother’s suit of grays, the new waistcoat and cravat she’s brought him
for a gift; she tips the coffee-pot and washes her face and pretty
throat and hands in the brown liquid; she plaits her long hair and winds
it close and tight about her head; she buckles on Kennaston’s
Court-rapier, she fetches his gray plumed hat with its paste buckle from
the press; she ogles herself in the six-inch mirror; she swaggers,
swings, struts; and, says she, dipping her finger in the soot of the old
chimney and marking out two black beetling brows over her own slender
ones,—
“An I know not how to play at being Sir Robin, Lady Peggy’s chosen
sweetheart, boldly and with a loud voice; know not how to swear and
prance and pick a pretty quarrel, crying ‘Match me your Lady Diana with
my Lady Peggy!’ then never did I dozen times for sport don my twin’s
breeches and coat and masquerade at being that sweet creature,—a man!
Ha! I have it all at fingers’ ends!” cries Peggy, fumbling in her
discarded pocket. “Here’s the very letter I writ for Sir Robin to take
and present to my brother. ’Twill stand me in good stead to-night that I
forgot to give it to him. If Chockey but succeed in cajoling the man out
of his wig, an’ if the gallants come not ere I can fit it to my
head!”—opening the door impetuously almost to bump against the returning
Chockey’s nose.
“Thou hast it! Oh Chock! ’Tis I! be not afraid. Come in; adjust it to my
poll,—so! Lose not a moment; pick up my petticoats, leave not a scrap
that bespeaks a woman; there! You’re dropping a hair-pin; now, up with
ye to the loft! an’ no matter if rats nibble your toes, Chock, or mice
come play bo-peep with your eye-winkers, or spiders weave across your
mouth, an you stir, cry out, move an inch to the creaking of a board,
I’ll leave you here your lone self to shift as best you may! Up girl!”
touching the speechless Chockey with the rapier-tip urgingly, “and ’tis
Sir Robin McTart that bids you!”
The obedient and trembling waiting-woman was not much sooner out of
sight in the loft, than again the voice echoed up to where Lady Peggy
stood in the gruesome ambush of the landing, well back in the darkest
corner behind a pile of boards and débris, bricks and dust, and
what-not-else tumbled there from the chimney during the last and many
previous storms.
Nearer came the song, then the chorus, broken now with more of chat and
laughter; the footsteps sound upon the street, the house-door opens,
slams, and up they troop, stumbling in the blackness but knowing well
the way, it seems; merry, jocund, up, up, with the refrain of the song
still lingering amid their talk in snatches, until they gain the top.
“Are we then indeed at your door, Kennaston?” cries the first to reach,
as he feels at the latch.
“Split me, Escombe, you’re there if you can go no farther. Egad! Sirs,”
cries the young host, “an I never reach to pinnacle of Fame’s ladder, at
the least do I lodge as high as I could get:—a roof that suits my empty
purse!”
“Nay, Kennaston.” Peggy, in her man’s gear, trembles at sound of that
tone, for ’tis Percy who speaks now, whiles they all push pell-mell into
her twin’s chambers, strike lights, pull out candles from cupboard, stir
the fire.
“Nay, Kennaston,” says this one, “while De Bohun lives there’s ever a
full purse lad, t’ exchange for thy empty one,—and well thou know’st
it.”
“Tut, tut!” answers the young man of letters, adding as he glances
about, “’pon my soul, gentlemen, my Hebe has been outdoing herself. Saw
we ever before in this room, stools lacking dust? floor, riff-raff?
walls their festoons? hearth its ashes? coffee-pot its rust? and, by my
life, the kettle filled and steaming!”
A peal of mirth greets this nimble sally, as the host pulls from the
table drawer a pack of cards and his guests from their pockets a dozen
bottles of Falernian.
“Dead broke, am I, My Lords and Gentlemen,” says he, “but here’s the
whole Court and the deuce,” flinging the pack in the midst of his
guests, “play away an ye’ve a shilling left amongst ye. Let it be
Commerce or Hazard; I’ll hold the counters; fill the glasses, as long as
there’s a drop to pour; keep a lookout for sharpers,” laughing, “and
thank God I’ve even a garret wherein to welcome men of vogue like
yourselves!”
A burst of applause follows this; plumed hats are tossed aside,
wrist-frills upturned; His Grace of Escombe is shuffling the pack; Sir
Percy stands with his back to the fire, coat-skirts held from the
cheerful blaze he’s made; stools are drawn up; the host takes his silk
kerchief from his throat and polishes the mugs. Chockey has her eye
glued to a chink in the cover that divides her loft from the scene of
revelry below;—when, a bold knock sounds at the door, and the master
with a cheery:
“Come along!” throws wide the portal.
The fine gentleman who stands before him makes a profound bow, to which
he responds with one not less magnificent.
“Allow me, Lord Kennaston of Kennaston, since it is, I am persuaded, the
brother of Lady Peggy Burgoyne whom I have the pleasure of addressing—?”
and at her name, Sir Percy lets his brocaded skirts flop and starts
forward eagerly—“of addressing, to present to you this note in the
hand-writing of Your Lordship’s adorable sister, the which she gave me,
wherewith to present and commend me to Your Lordship’s good offices
while I am up in town!”
Another salaam given and returned, while Kennaston, with grace, ushers
his new acquaintance in, sets him a stool, all the while eye
quick-perusing Lady Peggy’s scrawl.
“Gentlemen!” says their host, “allow me to introduce to you, and, Sir,
these gentlemen to you, Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent, His Grace
of Escombe, Sir Percy de Bohun, the Honorable Jack Chalmers, Sir Wyatt
Lovell,” etc., etc., etc. The which ceremony being concluded amid many
bows and all due forms of mutual delight, the new-comer was cordially
invited to take a hand in the game.
Now, as true ’twas that Lady Peggy had never been in a coach until the
morning to which this was evening, so true was it that Her Ladyship had
not a farthing to her pocket left, and although a good gamester’s
daughter, she hesitated, making pretense of hanging her hat and of
settling to its proper place her rapier, and pinching her ruffles. While
she did so, the rest chatting, Sir Percy crossed the room, and, in a
tone that was not heard save by the one he addressed, said to Kennaston:
“As I live, Sir, now’s my chance; I’ll pick a quarrel with this
jackanapes that’s dared to oust me from Peggy’s heart. Aye, will I! the
sooner the better; blood’ll spill, Kennaston, or ever that puppet and I
are thirty minutes older! Mark me! Your sister shall know and hear I’m
willing to die for her sake, or—to kill!”
Peggy, meantime, in this second, got her courage well screwed up, and,
with a laugh, fitly disguising her voice, said she, seating herself with
her legs well under the table—for, at this particular juncture, Her
Ladyship, looking down, had beheld with dismay the womanish and
forgotten fashion of her shoes.
“Rot me! Gentlemen, your humble servant’s fresh from Will’s, where, ’pon
my life! such an apt company of wits and beaux encountered I, as swept
my pockets clean and left me not the jingle of a shilling wherewith to
bless myself. Your Grace, My Lords, Sirs, and Gentlemen,” quoth Peggy
with a fine inclusive wave of her hand, “will, I’m sure, thus excuse me
from the game to-night.”
But she had counted without either host or guests, for all of these save
Sir Percy de Bohun on the instant pulled purses out and tendered them,
crying, as with a single voice,—
“Fie! Fie! Sir Robin! Are we highwaymen? tricksters? Honor us by using
our sovereigns as they were your own, eh, Sir Percy, have we not the
right of the matter?” asked Jack Chalmers, turning to the tall young
man, who, having crossed the room again, now stood leaning moodily
against the chimney-piece, frowning, tapping hearth with heel in too
evident impatience of the subject of discussion.
“I humbly ask your pardon, Mr. Chalmers,” he replies, “both for
differing with you all, and for expressing the same. To my way of
thinking”—adds Sir Percy, with deliberation, ill-matched by the flash of
his eyes as they take a scornful measure of the supposed Sir Robin—“to
my way of thinking, any gentleman who carries his company into any other
gentleman’s chambers without the means of a paltry game of loo or écarté
in ’s pocket’s not quite such a proper young man ’s he might be!” And
with this, Sir Percy laid his hand upon his sword hilt, and Kennaston
laid his upon that, attempting to stay the torrent.
“Tut! tut!” cried this one and that.
“His Lordship’s dead drunk with Cupid, Sir Robin, mind him not,”
whispers another.
“De Bohun breaks a joke,” exclaims a third, all at once.
And in the same moment, also, upsprings my Lady Peggy, hand on hilt too,
and says she loudly, same time as the rest:
“A pox on ye for a libeler! Sir Percy de Bohun, mayhap it’s the errand
Your Lordship’s up in town a-pursuing hath turned Your Lordship’s
brain?” Here Lady Peggy laughs in derision and stands full height
updrawn upon her girl’s red heels.
“Curse me! but you are impertinent, Sir,” responds Percy, taking a step
forward, his anger rising as he beholds his purpose galloping to the
goal of its quick fulfilment. “What then, an it please you, is my
‘errand up in town?’ since you are thus familiar with my gaits; tell ’em
off, Sir Robin McTart, I give ye leave!”
“With your leave, or without it,” cries Peggy in a voice that causes
Chockey to lift the loft-cover an inch higher, and so, kneeling with
nose flattened against floor, to behold her mistress’s fine and splendid
show of valor. “I’d have you hear, Sir, that to persons of fashion the
matter of your suit near Lady Diana Weston’s a jeer and jest of the
first flavour,—for ’twere easy seen a lady of her quality, Sir, ’d not
be a-wasting her time on you.”
“Damme! Sir!” cries Sir Percy, now thoroughly aroused and far more in
earnest than ever he was at the beginning. “You lie! Aye, My Lords,
Sirs, and Gentlemen! Nay, ye can not stop my mouth,” unsheathing his
rapier; Peggy does likewise, each pushing and warding from them the
restraining hands and words of their associates.
“A foul lie! My errand up in town, Sir Robin McTart, is to try to drown
my sorrows as I may, because the only lady that ever I loved set me the
pace to the devil by a-refusing of my suit come Easter-day, three months
to an hour ago.”
Lady Peggy flushes under the coffee stains; her arm trembles; but she is
valiantly happy and confident, and her heart goes beating the joyfullest
sort of a tune beneath the ’broidered waistcoat she’d made for her twin.
“And her name,” cries Sir Percy with a glance of imperious, aggressive
temper shot right into Peggy’s very face,—“her name’s not Lady Diana
Weston, but ’tis Lady Peggy Burgoyne!—”
Now Chock’s whole head slips leash, and she bends with bated breath and
heaving breast to listen closer.
Lady Peggy starts, but waving her rapier over her head, laughs loud,
long and derisively.
“Lady Peggy Burgoyne, Sir,” shaking the hilt of his weapon under Peg’s
nose, repeats Sir Percy. “And until you, Sir, with your damnable arts
and silly bumpkin ways, when she encountered you in Kent, had turned her
from me, she was to me kindest of ladies and of loves. Your servant, Sir
Robin McTart,” concludes Percy with a low bow, sticking the floor with
his rapier-point, “when and where you please!”
“Here and now!” cries Peg, her heart a-thumping for joy, but so
pleasured and alas! so puzzled with the getting out of a scrape, which
she has found so little difficulty in getting into, that she is feign
on, and make the best cut she can with her cloth.
“Here and now!” repeats Her Ladyship, “for I do throw back into Your
Lordship’s teeth the lie”—Peg bows low to her opponent—“you gave me
whiles, and affirm that for these many years, or ever you, Sir, set eyes
upon her, Lady Peggy Burgoyne’s been mine, heart and soul, Sir!”
“Damn you, Sir!” interrupts Percy hotly, unable to contain his
choler,—“to so defame the noblest lady that ever was born!”
“I repeat,” cries Peggy, glowing with suppressed delight at her lover’s
fidelity, and eager for as much more as he may have to vent. “Lady
Peggy’s eyes are glued fast of this face of mine! Peggy’s hands are my
hands! Peggy’s lips are my lips! Peggy’s kisses have ever been my
kisses!”
At this, Sir Percy tears off his coat, waistcoat, cravat; flings them
into the corner; rolls up his sleeves, while a confused murmur
circulates amid the gallants over their cards and Falernian wine.
“Peggy’s heart beats in my breast!” continues Her Ladyship, ranting and
swashing up and down the room; upsetting a couple of candles in her
path, and now all unrecking of her womanish shoes. “Gentlemen,” panting,
smiling, triumphant, saluting her companions with her weapon, “Lady
Peggy and I do so adore, love and worship one another that we are not
two but one!”
“Here and now!” shouts Sir Percy. “Off with your coat and ruffles, Sir,
and choose any two of these gentlemen to your seconds, Sir; I’ll take
who’s left!”
Chalmers and Kennaston press forward to Lady Peggy, while His Grace of
Escombe and Mr. Wyatt cross to Sir Percy.
“Lord Kennaston, I pray you pace off the distance,” says Lady Peggy, now
at the top of her bent and delirious with joy over Percy’s love of her,
with no least intention of touching him, good fencer though she be, and
willing enough—such a woman is she—to risk a prick at his hands for sake
of the after-salve of the mighty gratitude and passion the minx is now
sure of.
“Off with your trappings, Sir,” cries Percy.
“That will I not!” cries Peggy, taking the first position on the field
of honor in all the bravery of her twin’s suit of gray velvets. “You’ll
kill me, an you do’t at all, with my clothes on ready to my burial, and
I swear ye all, with my latest breath, Lady Peggy and I’ll lie in the
same coffin when it comes to that ceremony.”
Then in the smoky flare from the dying fire and the slovening candles
stuck in their bottles; ’mid the murmur and succeeding hush of the
gallants, some with cups, some with cards in their hands, Peggy and her
lover salute and take their stands.
Says she: “What’s the word, My Lord?”
Says he: “If you like, let Lord Kennaston shake the dice-box; at the
third throw, Sir, I’m here, ready food for your steel to flesh in!”
“It suits me well,” answers Peg, as her twin rattles the ivories.
“Here’s for Lady Peggy!” cries she.
“Here’s for Lady Peggy Burgoyne!” shouts he, as Kennaston makes the
third throw, and Chockey, like to swoon and she a stout heart, never-ail
or afeard of even a churchyard on the darkest night, shaking like an
aspen-leaf, puts foot on the top rung of the ladder; and Peg and Percy
thrust, lunge, withdraw, riposte, hither, yon, keen-eyed, pitched to
highest note, nerves strung to cracking—just for a few seconds, shorter
time’n it takes to set it down, far.
“A touch, a hit!” cry all at once as a spurt of blood darts up the
supposed Sir Robin’s blade, and Percy bows, declaring himself quite
satisfied, as he must, though ’tis a state of mind he’s very remote from
enjoying.
[Illustration: A touch, a hit!...]
My Lady Peggy winces under her wound, but she has not been Kennaston’s
playfellow for naught, and as ugly pricks as this one have been her
portion in the past; Chockey, nevertheless, from her nest, pales and
utters a smothered shriek which is quite lost in the loud talking that
follows, while Chalmers winds the kerchief Sir Percy tenders about the
wrist of the wounded.
“Now to the cards, gentlemen,” cries His Grace of Escombe, pulling out
his purse. “To such a gallant as our friend Sir Robin here, my fingers
itch to lose ten, twenty, nay as many pounds as his skill can rid me of;
for such a pretty play of the steel as his must argue a lucky throw of
the dice.”
“Hear! hear! hear!” shout they all, drinking brimming mugs to the two
who have lately fought, and settling themselves at the tables with a
rattle and a rush of laughter and merry humor.
Lady Peggy sits, gritting her teeth at the slit in her white flesh, with
her back to the door and, betwixt the uproar and clinking and shuffling,
she hears footsteps coming up the stairs. Some intuition bids her be the
one to respond to the rapping that presently sounds out.
“Asking your pardon,” murmurs Her Ladyship to her companions as she
quits the table. When, as she opens, a new-caught street urchin speaks
sharp, with saucer eyes in-peering at the quality.
“An it please yer Lordships, there’s a fine gentlemen below as his name
is Sir Robin McTart.”
Peggy draws in, bangs the door in the boy’s face, squares about, and
says:
“By your leave, gentlemen, a most particular messenger awaits me below;
for a few moments only, I crave your indulgence for my absence. I’ll be
with you in ten minutes.”
“No! no! no!” cry they all, save De Bohun, who is counting his cards,
and Sir Wyatt who exclaims:
“Yes, an it be a messenger on business for a fair lady; no, an it be
otherwise. Gadzooks! Sir Robin, make a half-clean breast of it. Comes
Mercury from Phyllis or from a mere man?”
Peg answers: “I swear to you, Sirs, I go down on business of the gravest
import to a lady,” and makes for the door.
“Pledge her! Pledge her! a bumper! a bumper!” cry they all in one voice
with much pleasant laughter.
“Here’s to Sir Robin’s nameless fair! Zounds! but for so little yeared a
personage to have two strings to his bow!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
V
_Wherein Lady Peggy doth encounter her flouted
lover, receiveth a rapier-prick: makes acquaintance
of her hated rival and
of Mr. Brummell._
And much more of a like nature reaches Lady Peggy as she plunges down
the stairs and presently finds herself, by the light of the lamp of his
chair, a-confronting Sir Robin McTart himself!
“Nay, nay, Sir! I am not Kennaston of Kennaston,” responds Peg, looking
grave, and making excellent show of her blood-stained, linen-bound
wrist.
“’Tis here he dwells, and, as I know well by reputation, you are a
peaceful, law-abiding man, I’d counsel you not to mount. Such a company
of cut-throat, cut-purse brawlers, Sir, as would not leave a farthing in
your pocket or lace upon your shirt.”
Sir Robin, as Her Ladyship had shrewdly guessed, drew back and shivered
at this lively description.
“Trust me, Sir Robin: hist!” Peg’s voice sinks to a mere whisper. “I am
Lady Peggy’s best friend and neighbor at home; ’twould be her will, an
she stood here, that you should not adventure your precious life in the
unseemly crowd with which her brother hath seen fit to surround
himself.”
“Lud, Sir! Who are you,” chatters Sir Robin trembling betwixt delight
and terror, “that knows so well the temper of Lady Peggy Burgoyne’s
disposition? What’s your name, Sir?”
“No matter for my name, Sir, I have Lady Peggy’s best interests at
heart, and yours. She bade me, did ever I encounter you in evil
neighborhood, tell you, for her sake, eschew it. Hark ye! Sir Robin, out
of this hole as fast as your men’s legs can carry you. Above yonder, ’s
one who’s sworn to kill you!”
“Who’s he?” demands Sir Robin, one foot now in his sedan, his little
eyes twinkling both ways with fright.
“Sir Percy de Bohun,” replies Peg in a hollow whisper. “Look you, Sir,”
showing her bloody wrist, “there’s a taste of his quality. I warn
you—’tis from Peggy’s own self—get back to Kent, whence you came, and
tarry not, for your life’s at yonder desperado’s mercy while you linger
up in town.”
“Is My Lady Peggy returned to Kent to her godmother?” quavers Sir Robin,
now well inside his chair.
“Nay, Sir; as her brother supposes, she’s at home at Kennaston.”
“I’ll seek her there!” cries Sir Robin, tendering his hand. “And, Sir,
my humble duty and gratitude to you for your admirable condescension. I
would I knew your name and station.”
“I’m up in town incognito, Sir, for a lady’s sake,” smiles the minx.
“When I return, Sir, I’ll seek you out at White’s or Will’s. I dare be
sworn so fine a gentleman must needs be a buck of the first order.”
“Seek me, Sir, and Godspeed you down to Kennaston or Kent!”
At the word, Sir Robin in his chair sets forth a-swinging round the
corner, light of heart and bright of hope, while the subject and object
of his thoughts and passion stands for a moment leaning, sighing,
betwixt laughter and tears, against the door-frame.
My Lady Peggy’s first impulse is to cut and run; indeed her slim legs
are so stretched to begin, when the remembrance of poor Chock in her
garret cage comes to her mind, and, with a grimace, she turns in, jumps
up the stairs, and is in the midst of the group, now well on in their
cups and more hilarious than orderly in their conversation.
Peg was not her father’s girl for naught that night. To the tune of
three hundred pounds, fourteen and six, was she the richer, and rewarded
for the many dreary evenings she had spent at Kennaston, a-watching her
father win and lose with the Vicar and the Bishop, whenever the latter
came on his visits.
By dint of spilling her wine deftly under the table, she had emptied as
many mugs as the best bibber among ’em, and at four in the morning found
herself the only one who was sober, or even awake.
’Twas not a beautiful sight thus to behold, in the pale pink of the
dawn, a dozen or so of merry gentlemen a-sprawling about on floor,
tables, chairs,—a-snoring and a-tossing in their sleep; but ’twas of the
fashion of the times when, to be a fine gentleman, one must be drunk, at
the least, once in the twenty-four hours.
All save Sir Percy; almost at swords’ points he had quitted the company
hours before, a little in his cups, but steady withal, murmuring to
himself as he fumbled on the rickety stairs—Peg, leaning over the rail,
unseen in the darkness, womanlike to watch lest he trip and fall, heard
him:
“’Sdeath! an what that popinjay say be true, I’ll marry Lady Diana out
of hand, and show the minx I’m not to be cut out of a wife by such a
flea-bitten rotten-rod as Sir Robin McTart!”
“So easy taken then is my loss!” says Peggy, with a renewed fire of
jealousy burning at her heart, as she returns to the scene of her
winnings.
Sick at heart, for a single instant she surveys the room, and then,
finger on lip, it does not take her long to signal up to Chockey, motion
her down with the calf-skin box, and to begin, with shamed face, in the
darkest corner, to strip off her man’s attire.
Lady Peggy has laid aside the yellow wig; Chockey weeping, praying that
they may get away in safety, is spreading out the Levantine fit for her
mistress to jump into it, when, for the second time within the twelve
hours, Her Ladyship’s heart stands still to the patter and thump of
footsteps climbing the last flight.
“Hold, Chock!” cries she, clapping on the wig. “Bundle up my duds, tie
’em tight; so! give me it; pick up the box, put on your cloak and bonnet
and a bold face; follow and ape me. An you love me, Chock, an’ I thrust,
thrust too! an’ I knock ’em down, follow suit! I’d sooner die, Chock,
than be caught now!”
With which, My Lady Peggy flung wide the door, pushed out the Abigail,
drew her weapon, and, with a rush, the two of them tumbled down the
stairs, taking on their way a giant of a man who struggled and struck
out, and dropped fruits and flowers and curses, and yet gave in to the
splendid tweeks and pinches which the lusty Chockey dealt him on his
arms and legs, and, falling headlong, on the lower stairs, darted up the
street crying:
“Watch!” at the top of his lungs, nor getting any answer, for Watch was
snoring in the tavern and the sun now shining broad.
“Chock,” said her mistress, “go you on before me to the King’s Arms,
where we alighted, engage the seats in the coach, and hark ye, child, an
aught betide I come not, get you home without me and tell His Lordship
I’m gone to Kent on a sick-call from my godmother. Lud! it’s lies all
the way to being a man! I’ll not walk with you, lass; ’tis not seemly,
and when I reach the inn I’ll pretend I know you not, hire a room,
change my clothes and slip down to you, unseen if I can. Now, off with
you, quickly, for I ache to follow. Would to God I could doff these
garments and into my petticoats again!” added Lady Peggy ruefully,
glancing at her hastily tied up bundle and, at the same moment, with the
broad of her sword, pushing Chock into the street with a will that sent
her a-spinning on her way.
Indifferent then, as though the outgoing damsel were no concern of hers,
presently, with a swagger, yet ill-concealing the anxiety she felt
afresh as now sobs and female voices assailed her ears, the mock Sir
Robin McTart emerged upon the street.
There halted a chair between the posts. In the chair sat Lady Diana
Weston accompanied by her woman. Both wept and trembled, while still
afar the stout lungs of the terrified giant shouted:
“Watch!”
Peg stood still and stared; all the jealous blood in her burned in her
cheeks. Lady Diana here! and wherefore? and at such an untoward hour;
veil displaced, eyes red, but still most undeniably handsome, nay
beautiful.
“Oh Sir!” cried Lady Diana beseechingly, raising two imploring hands
outside the chair door toward Lady Peggy.
“I pray of your honor!” whimpered the Abigail in concert.
“I implore your protection, Sir, as you are a gentleman and man of
honor, as your mien disposes me. I came here but now and sent my footman
up to the rooms of a—a friend, who is ill, Sir,—with a token of regard
in the shape of fruit and flowers, when the man must have been set upon
by thieves and beaten, for he—”
“I heard him,” finishes Peg, stepping nearer to the chair. “And I assure
you, Madam, I put the varlet who attacked him to his pace with a prick.
If I can serve you further, command me.”
As My Lady bows low, she is conscious that it now behooves her to state
concisely her name and station; and, loathing and hating the deception
more than she could express, she still adds (her motive not unmixed with
the natural curiosity to discover who is the object of Lady Diana’s
morning call):
“Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent, at Your Ladyship’s service.”
Diana bows, blushes, almost ogles, minx that she is, noting well the
fine eyes and beautiful mouth of the gallant at her side.
“Lady Diana Weston, Sir Robin, daughter to the Earl of Brookwood, at
your service.”
Peg bows, hat in hand, bundle under arm. Swift as youth’s impulse ever
is, says she, taking lightning-like measure of her chance and determined
to probe matters to their core:
“Your Ladyship’s name was on the lips above,” nodding up at Kennaston’s
windows. “I drank the toast with a will, I do assure you, and would
double it now. Surely, if you’ll allow me to say so, Sir Percy de
Bohun’s a gentleman of a rare good taste, likewise Lord Kennaston, Sir
Wyatt Lovell, half-a-dozen more a-pledging Your Ladyship to the tune of
_nonpareil_ all night long.”
“You flatter, Sir, I do protest!” cried the lady in the chair, blushing
like the reddest rose that grows, but who might say for whose sake?
since Peg had named so many.
“Oh, Sir,” Lady Diana’s voice now lowered. “Your countenance is one to
inspire confidence. I pray you judge me not harshly if I venture to
inquire, since you were of their company, how fares poor Sir Percy de
Bohun? The fruits and flowers I fetched were for him, since I am
informed he pines, eats nothing, droops, mopes, and no longer is to be
enticed among the fair. Can you give me news of him?—or of—Lord
Kennaston?” adds Lady Diana wilily and with another magnificent
accession of color. Thus did Slyboots pursue inquiry on that lame horse
which is named Subterfuge.
“Aye, Madam, that can I. ’Tis as you say; but as you yourself, if report
speak true, be the cause of his distemper, methinks you should know how
to effect the cure. I see Your Ladyship’s man returning; there is no
more danger. I take my leave of you, Madam,” hand to heart, bundle
sticking out under other arm. “It is to me one of the most fortunate
chances of life to have had this encounter,” bending sweet eyes, which
Diana returns with a will. “Fear nothing! the cut-throats have long
since made off by a rear alley. The shouter is doubtless ere this at his
cover. Did you need my further protection, ’twould be yours.”
“From my heart, Sir, I thank you,” cries Lady Diana very sweetly. “May
we meet again, and soon!”
Peggy bowing, walks quickly off, her pretty teeth gritted together.
“May we meet again! Never! Fruits and flowers! forsooth! Pines and
droops! forsooth! ’Slife! and how the minx reddened at his name.
A-seekin’ of him out like that at cock-crow too! Lud! an these be town
fashions and morals I’ll be glad to get home! No I won’t! No I won’t!”
spake out Lady Peggy’s heart fit to burst bonds. “Percy’s here, and my
soul’s here, and ’tain’t no use to talk about having a spirit, and
a-stoppin’ lovin’ when you ain’t loved! You can’t do it!”
Peggy, recking not of her path, eyes glued to ground, paced on, having
forgot the whole world else, in the misery of her discovery of Lady
Diana’s passion for Sir Percy.
There were few abroad at that early hour. Some market wagons leisuring
to the city; an occasional chariot full of gallants getting home after
the night’s frolic; and just now, at the cross of two streets, a
handsome coach thrown open-windowed, with a gentleman, the very pink and
model of all elegance, lolling back amid the cushions.
By the lead of his eyes ’twas plainly to be seen he had not slept for
forty-eight hours or so, but otherwise his aspect was as if newly out of
a perfumed bandbox. Suddenly his gaze caught Peggy at the crossing,
fixed itself upon the lace cravat at her throat, and then, with a spring
as alert as that of any monkey throwing himself out of tree by his tail,
this mirror of fashion thrust his head out at window, jerked his
coachman’s arm, said in a voice not loud, but piercing:
“Worthing, run down the young gentleman at the crossing; don’t hurt him,
but run him down an’ I’ll give you twenty shillings!” He then sank back
again amid the pillows.
No sooner said than done.
Just at the instant when Peggy recalled her position and was
bewilderedly wondering where she had wandered to, clutching her bundle
and all of a muddle, click! grazed coach-wheels against her shins, cock
went her hat into the puddle, but, heaven be praised! her wig clung, and
she clung to her bundle; out of coach the pink brocade gentleman, down
from the rumble his footman, pick up Lady Peggy, hat and all, rubbing
the mud out of her silk stockings, clapping her hands; yet relented she
not from the bundle, and all a-breath the loller cries:
“Into my coach, Sir! I do humbly crave pardon, Sir, I do indeed. I’ll
not take no for an answer, Sir, not by my oath! Such a damage from one
gentleman to another, Sir, demands all the reparation possible, Sir,”
and forthwith Peggy is lifted into the splendid coach and the splendid
gentleman springs in after her, and the footmen jump up and the whip
cracks, and off they whirl before she can open her mouth.
“Mr. Brummell at your service, Sir,” continues he, feeling of Peg’s
palm, noting the wound at her wrist, and the pallor of her face which
shines even though the coffee stains. “We’re en route to Peter’s Court
where my surgeon shall attend you. ’Slife! Sir, you’re not hurt, I’m
sure. I told Worthing not to endanger a hair of your head and it’s
impossible he should have disobeyed me!”
Peggy hears this singular string of speeches and, although stunned a bit
and not a little alarmed in her mind, she has country breeding at her
back and such a robust constitution as rallies on the spot.
“I’d be obliged, Mr. Brummell, if you’d set me down at once, Sir! I’m
none the worse, and I’ve business of import calling me far hence, and
with dispatch.”
“Never, Sir, never!” returns Beau Brummell, with an impressive wave of
his jeweled hand. “Zounds! Sir, I had you spilled to get me the pattern
and fashion of tying your cravat from you! and split me! if I let you go
until I’ve mastered that adorable knot! I’ve my reputation at stake,
Sir, for the tying of ’em. You’ve outdone me at your throat, Sir, and
’tis Beau Brummell, the best dressed and worst imitated man in Europe,
that has the honor of telling you so. Come, come, Sir,” continues this
nonesuch, famed alike at Court and brawl for his finery and drollery,
“out with your name, Sir, I beg, and render me your eternally grateful.”
Lady Peggy’s gaze falls inadvertently on the bundle across her knees; it
begins to bulge and burst the paper and string, indeed a tape of her
petticoat is oozing out even now as she pokes it back, hiding its
tell-tale under the skirt of her coat.
“’Slife!” says Peggy to herself in a terrible heat. “An I must stop a
man, I must. God’s will—or the Devil’s, as dad says—be done!” and
forthwith she tucks up her knee, lays hand on sword-hilt, laughs quite
merrily and answers:
“Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent, at your service, Mr. Brummell. I
do protest, upon my oath! ’twas a marvelous device to spill me to borrow
my tie. ’Tis yours, Sir, and the fashion of it, an you’ll do me the
honor to accept a lesson.”
“Sir Robin McTart!” echoes the Beau delightedly, “my old friend Sir
Hector’s son and heir? I swear, boy, you favor not your sire. Peace to
his soul, ’twas an ugly gentleman, while you, Sir,—Zounds! The ladies’ll
make hay for you, I promise you. Where do you stop? Are you up in town
long? What letters do you bring?”
“The King’s Arms, Sir, in the Strand,” replies Peg glibly, while the
Beau frowns. “I’m arrived but yesterday. I brought not a letter, Sir.
There you have my history.”
“No King’s Arms for Sir Hector’s son. You’ll home with me, lad; and I’ll
show you what town life is. I’ll put you up at the best clubs, introduce
you to the Prince; present you at Court; dine, wine, mount
you,—Gadzooks, Sir Robin, the man that invented that tie of the lace!”
tipping his finger at Lady Peggy’s home-made cravat, “deserves all and
more than Brummell can do for him!”
At which Peggy laughed the more heartily, as that she felt the paper
beneath her coat skirts crack wider, and was spent wondering what she
should do when they should reach Peter’s Court, and when she might be
able to get into her Levantine once again.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]