XI_My Lady Peggy Goes to Town

_Wherein Lady Peggy is condemned to be

hanged, and sets forth, attended by the

clergy, for the gallows._

Although Sir Percy had cheerfully foretold for Kennaston the roseate

picture of Lady Diana’s “Yes” crowning the young poet’s somewhat

diffident suit with untold happiness, the fact was quite other. Her

Ladyship, on the day of Mr. Brummell’s party to Ivy Dene, having

overheard the Honorable Dolly Tarleton, in the library, laying six to

four to Lady Biddy O’Toole, that their host’s daughter was “only waiting

for the beautiful young poet’s asking, to jump into his arms

immediately,” did, with such sudden change of demeanor from sweets to

sours, languishing eyes to averted looks, smiles to pouts, corner chats

to open flouts, put her lover into a state of mind, the like of which he

presently described, as only he could, in a copy of verses, which the

next night at White’s were pronounced to be, indeed, “the masterpiece of

one whose heart pants, whose whole being’s but at the beck and call of

her who wears a smocked petticoat, ogles with a witching eye, and should

be vain that so much genius lays itself at her feet, to wit, Lady D——a

W——n.”

For, taking immediate fright at his Lady’s coldness, Kennaston had

ordered a post-chaise from the Brookwood Arms, and without a word of

farewell to Lady Diana, save that embodied in an ode, “To Chloe When

Unkind,” which her woman found pinned to Her Ladyship’s cloak when she

was putting it on her shoulders the following morning, had gone to town,

and just in time at the White Horse to be haled into Mr. Brummell’s

party for breakfast, and to learn of the adventure with Tom Kidde, the

valor of Sir Robin McTart, and the absence of that young gentleman, as

also Sir Percy, from the board.

When Lady Diana’s woman hooked her mistress’s cloak about her ’twas at

five o’clock in the morning, and of the party at the Castle every lady’s

woman was performing the same office, adding hood over curls and puffs,

and sticking the finest of cambric pocket-napkins into their mistress’

hands by the half dozens; for ’twas easily seen that such early rising

could be for no other cause than to go forth to bathe their Ladyships’

faces in the May-dew; the which, when gathered from little copses and

shadowy nooks before the sun had yet shone upon’t, was warranted to

enhance that beauty which was already evident, and to create those

charms which, alas! are occasionally lacking.

Lady Diana spelled out her lover’s verses as best she could, tripping

from door to door, and calling her young companions from their mirrors;

sending a footman and a page to summon the gallants who were to

accompany them in their expedition, and laughing heartily as she made

out more from a footman than from Kennaston’s muse that he had betaken

himself to town rather than longer incur her displeasure and her frowns.

“Bless me, but my suitor’s in a fine pickle! Lud! though, I’m not

disposed to have these hussies a-laying six to four on my bein’ ready to

jump at his offer; still, I’d rather he’d stopped over, or else that

some one most amusin’ were here; for instance Sir Robin McTart, which is

not to be!”

Then a-rapping at the doors, and laughter from girlish lips; pattering

of heels down the hall and stair-case; out to meet the gentlemen, bowing

and complimenting on the terrace; over the lawns, and through the

flower-gardens, and past the offices and stables, where Lord Brookwood,

even thus early, was sunning himself in the yard, and talking over

county matters with Mr. Biggs, J.P.

“Where to? Where to?” sings out His Lordship cheerily with hat in hand,

and Mr. Biggs down to the ground before so much beauty, fashion and

rank.

“Off to the copse, father,” calls back Diana, “to gather the May-dew and

wash our faces; when we come back you must tell us all how much more

beautiful we are to-day than we were yesterday!”

With which lively sally Lady Diana and the rest of ’em are crossing the

hill and laughing as they pass out of sight on their two miles’ away

walk to Armsleigh Copse.

Lord Brookwood is about to resume his conversation with Biggs, while the

half-dozen grinning stable boys, behind His Lordship’s back, are rubbing

their fists in the wet turf of a paddock, and smearing their red faces

with the dew, the head-groom touching them up with a lash; when a

whinny, that sets every animal in the stalls and out of ’em a-replying,

sets all the cocks crowing, hens cackling, chicks peeping, dogs barking,

geese squawking, smites their startled ears, and yonder, hilly-o-ho!

Sirs; in a cloud of upturned soil, in a shower of splash from the river,

with a thud on the wooden bridge, a bound over the stone wall of the

kitchen garden; comes a black with nigh every tooth in its mouth bared,

foaming, smoking, bloody; rider bent double to saddle’s bow, clinging

with legs and arms.

“Homing Nell and the highwayman! Tom Kidde! Tom Kidde!”

“Homing Nell!” the shout goes up from every throat there, from His

Lordship to the ’ostlers and boys.

“Tom Kidde! Tom Kidde!”

“By Gad! Sir,” cries the Earl. “I knew Nell’d come back sooner or later!

Surround him. Bag him!”

Peggy hears the shouts as the ungovernable steed lunges, lurches, rears

beneath her spurs and still tightly gripped reins; she takes in the

situation, but not to its full import, until she now hears the voice of

Biggs uplifted.

“Lord Brookwood! Lord Brookwood! mind her heels, My Lord, mind her

heels! Leave the takin’ of the damned cut-purse to me and the boys!”

At the word “Brookwood,” Her Ladyship realizes that she is on the

domains of Lady Diana’s father! and being mistaken for a Knight of the

Road!

The latter she felt she could easily abide, and as easily refute; but

the former was more than even her spent spirit could stand. So, as

Biggs, His Lordship, the grooms, the stable-boys and ’ostlers and

helpers all formed into a ring with whips, canes, stones and halloos to

take her prisoner, she plucked up courage from the depths, and, raising

herself in her saddle and her head in the air, with one superhuman tug

at the bridle and prick with the steels, she made to get off! and away!

But Her Ladyship’s nerve was not the equal of Homing Nell’s, nor yet to

be pitted with success against the waving arms and jumping legs of a

dozen stout men. With the final crack of the head-groom’s lash about her

heels, with the pop in the air above her hat of Mr. Biggs’s blunderbuss,

caught from the hand of one of the lads, “Homing Nell” was brought to a

quivering stand-still, and My Lady Peggy to bay in the stable-yard of

Brookwood Castle!

“Ha!” cries the Earl, “my pretty fellow, you’re trapped at last! The

night you stole the black mare from me I shouted after you, as well as

the gag at my mouth would permit, that she’d bring you no luck, and that

muscles of iron wouldn’t hold her the day she made up her mind to get

home.”

Peggy, glad of the use of her lungs once more, and now nigh bursting

with laughter at being so glibly mistook for one of the most reckless

fellows in all England, took off her hat, bowed low, and said:

“My Lord Brookwood, ’tis, I believe, I have the honor of addressing?”

“Ho! ho! ho!” Mr. Biggs, from a survey of the saddle-bow now bursts out

in triumphant joyfulness.

“’Od’s blood, My Lord! but here’s luck, here’s justice, here’s what

comes of my bein’ here when I am!” and Mr. Biggs now holds aloft upon

the point of his stick the black mask of Master Tom Kidde, which the

rogue had dropped when he was hit, and which had caught and hung by its

riband from that moment to this, unseen by Lady Peg.

“Highwayman! highwayman! highwayman!” yells every lung in the place,

while the whole dozen, including His Lordship and the Justice, threaten

Lady Peggy with their cudgels, lashes and stones.

“I pray ye, My Lord, Gentlemen, and good fellows!” cries she,

remembering now the entire history of the animal she bestrides, as

rehearsed some six hours earlier by Beau Brummell and Mr. Vane. “I am no

highwayman.”

A groan of derision greets this announcement.

“Nay, but the rather am I the victim of Tom Kidde, than he himself!

Together with a party of my friends, being at mid-night last, on the

return from a visit to Mr. Brummell’s seat, Ivy Dene, we were set upon

by the rogues in the midst of Epstowe Forest; I had the luck, both good

and bad, to put a ball into Tom, to get my horse shot under me, and to

mount the scoundrel’s steed, the which has brought me to Your Lordship’s

door, and the mare, herself, to where she belongs, it seems!”

“A damned fine story, ’fore George!” exclaims Biggs, laughing

triumphantly, now holding up two watches, three rings, a diamond

snuff-box, a seal, two magnificent pins, and a most splendid jeweled

stomacher, high above his head in the tip of the sunshine.

“’Sdeath!” cried Lord Brookwood, seizing one of the trinkets and

examining it with his spy-glass. “What’s this? ‘Percy de Bohun,

Christmas from his aff. mother,’” reads His Lordship. Then another,

“‘Wyatt Lovell souvenir of Italy!’ Gad, Biggs,” looking Her Ladyship

over, where she still sits atop of the steaming black, “we’ve got the

cursed blackguard this time! What else in his saddle pockets? aught?”

These Biggs, assisted by the head-groom, is energetically emptying of a

miscellaneous collection of valuables, while Lady Peggy looks on in

amazement as yet only flavored with amusement, and one more vain regret

for her abandoned petticoats.

“Yes, My Lord, these thousands of pounds’ worth,” replied the Justice,

holding aloft his treasure trove; “and it’ll be a short shrift for the

devil, I can say that.”

“Hark ye,” now says Her Ladyship, as she recalls with a not unnatural

tremor the death-warrant she had heard was lying to hand in Mr. Biggs’s

pocket. “Lord Brookwood, I am no highwayman; my story is true; I am”—the

words stuck in Peggy’s throat; she coughed, the stable boys tittered;

then the head-groom tilted the saddle and spilled her out of it to the

ground; at a word from Biggs, a couple of the men tied her, hand and

foot, with a stout rope, and a pair of farming reins about her middle.

“Now who do you call yourself, my fine fellow?” says His Lordship.

“Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent!” cries Peggy, glad to be able to

answer without the lie direct. “And I demand instant freedom and

immunity,” cries she, tortured and quivering beneath the rude hands and

ruder gibes of the grooms and ’ostlers.

“Demand away! my pretty buck-skin, with your jeweled hilt!” returns

Biggs, stripping the weapon from her thigh. “Your satin breeches and

gold-laced waistcoat! ’Tain’t no use denyin’ you your speech, and your

will to palaver on whatever matter you will, for before the clock

strikes eight, you’ll be home with your father in hell.”

“Tut, tut, Mr. Biggs,” says His Lordship. “Call Mr. Frewen, the Curate,

he’s at his studies in the library, we havin’ sat late over our cards

last night; and let him have his prayer-book to hand, open at the page

for malefactors after condemnation.”

“Go, you, Michael,” this to one of the now awestruck lads hanging,

staring at Peg over the paddock paling. “Ask Mr. Frewen to come

quickly.”

“But this is monstrous, Sir!” cries Her Ladyship, now thoroughly

alarmed, and near to losing her wits betwixt her endeavors to keep up

her man’s estate, her contempt of her own frowardness, her shame at

being thus at the mercy of her rival’s parent, and her actual terror of

her position.

“I do beseech you, I am an honest person, my tale is true. Is it not but

the justice due to any subject of His Majesty’s, however humble, that he

should not be condemned before he is tried, or even his identity

proven?”

“I’ll be sworn, My Lord,” exclaims Biggs, “’tis a voice and air to

wheedle fine ladies out of their stomachers and chains, but not to tempt

the law. Sirrah!” he continues, addressing himself to Her Ladyship, who

is by this firmly tied to a post like a colt about to be broken to

harness. “’Tain’t no use for you to be imaginin’ as justice and His

Majesty ain’t a-doing their best for you. Here have you been a terror to

all God-fearing, law-abiding Englishmen any time these half-dozen of

years. A-poundin’ every heath in England, Hornslow, Bagshott, and all

the commons, Wimbledon, Wandsworth, Finchley; a-hulking in Epstowe with

your mates, and making the lives of travelers a burden most horrible;

ain’t you secreted uncountable pounds’ worth of plunder in your devilish

caves and dens? Haven’t you left the earth strewed with corpses in your

ugly path? Answer me, Sir!” and Mr. Biggs stamps his foot on the ground.

“No, Sir!” shouts Peg, “I ain’t and haven’t, and I’m not! ’Slife, My

Lord Brookwood,” cries she in a terrible way, twisting her tied hands

together. “For God’s sake, send up to town post-haste, and find out Mr.

Brummell, Mr. Vane, Mr. Chalmers, Lord Escombe, Sir Lovell Wyatt!”

But His Lordship has turned up the path toward the Castle and met Mr.

Frewen, to whom he is explaining the necessities of the situation.

’Tis such a fair May day, with bud and blossom, bough and bird; fowls,

men, beasts, all free of tether, and My Lady is like to weep; cry out

her sex, her very name and estate, as she feels the gall upon her wrists

and ankles, and knows what fate awaits her.

She even, for one weak moment, thinks she will implore Lord Brookwood to

send up to London for her rival, his own daughter, Lady Diana, and let

her come down and tell him who is Sir Robin McTart—for Lady Peggy

believes Lady Di to be in town and has no knowledge to the contrary.

Yet, there in the stable-yard, with imprisonment as she supposes, and

even death dangling for her at no great loss of time, with her liberty

gone; her word no better than a thief’s; with no earthly hand upraised

to sustain her, My Lady Peggy’s stout heart does not flutter to dismay.

For that one brief instant ’tis, without doubt, in her mind to confess

and fling herself upon the mercy of the Earl and the Curate, who now

draw nigh; but when she reflects upon the monstrous tissue of her

deceits, and the unutterable shame of the exposure of the cause of them,

’tis then she is like to whimper, but for naught else.

Mr. Frewen approaches; ’tis a young man of a pale cadaverous

countenance, whose first bow to a highwayman is indeed, though he find

him in durance vile, a timid one.

The supposed Tom Kidde gives the man of the cloth eye for eye, so that

this one quails and stumbles in his speech; and finally, leaving in the

rear all his preconceived plans for a hasty reformation, he promptly

remarks, opening his prayer-book to the riband:

“You know your doom, Mr. Kidde; shall I pray for you here?”

“Faith!” says Lady Peggy, plucking up heart, once her resolution is

taken not to reveal her secret, come what may. “I do not know my doom,

Sir! It seems sufficient ‘doom’ for an honest English gentleman, who has

met with a mishap, to be brought to a nobleman’s threshold and get foul

treatment rather than welcome. Pray for me, Sir, an you will, there’s

none so much deserves or needs it. Pray on!”

“Frewen!” beckons His Lordship, as he watches the ’ostlers rubbing down

the restored Homing Nell, and confers with Mr. Biggs as to the plunder

and the meting out of justice. “Frewen, gain the wretch’s confidence an

you can, the whereabouts of all the gold and jewels he has stolen; my

watch. And also, if he have wife or child, it might not be amiss, eh,

Biggs? to inquire if he have any message for them?”

“Aye, My Lord” puts in the pompous Biggs, up-looking from his perusal of

a long, sealed, important-appearing parchment, unrolled before his eyes.

“By ascertaining their whereabouts, we should perhaps get the clue to

all the bloody rascal’s pelf.”

A combination of Christian charity and official shrewdness, which

commended itself highly to His Lordship, as he sent the Curate back to

the comforting of the malefactor across the yard.

“Hark ye, Mr. Kidde,” says Mr. Frewen, lowering his voice, and, for the

credit of his soul, with gentleness at his heartstrings.

“I’m not Mr. Kidde, I tell you, I swear’t!” says Her Ladyship firmly.

“Well, well,” says the man of the Church, “mayhap that’s an assumed

name; but surely, now, Sir, with not two hours of life left you, to me,

me alone, Sir, it were wiser drop all disguises. Surely now you are not

Sir Robin McTart?” in a soothing and sorrowful tone.

Peggy winces.

“Go seek and ask all the noblemen and gentlemen I’ve named, Sir, they’ll

quickly set me to rights in your eyes, I pledge you. Oh, Sir, for the

love of God!” cries she, whispering very low. “I speak the truth! I am

no highwayman.”

“I am used to quibbles, Mr. Kidde; I know that now you are no robber,

but merely a prisoner under sentence of death.”

“What!” cries she. “’Tis not possible that a man is taken, tried,

disallowed to prove himself, and put out of the world, betwixt sunrise

and breakfast, in the reign of His Majesty George the Third!”

“’Tis so,” answers the Curate, pulling the rope and leathers, and

pushing Her Ladyship around a bit toward the east, as he points what he

considers a salutary finger. “Yonder’s the gibbet, Mr. Kidde, and from

it you must hang by eight. I implore of you now—”

Lady Peggy’s eyes are fastened upon the arms and cross-beams of the

gallows, which are outlined clearly against the deep blue sky, and full

in the shine of the spring sun.

“Well,” says she to herself, all in a flash, as thoughts can travel

three abreast ofttimes, and twelve times quicker than the scrivener can

set ’em down—“I’ve been a very accursedly wicked girl; but, thank God!

my pride ain’t all gone yet. I’ll hang! but I’ll never give up my

secret! When I’m gone, if they find it out—I won’t be here to be

a-hearin’ of the taunts and jeers and sympathies; and of my mother’s and

father’s sorrows!” At this point Peggy is very near to tears, when the

Curate says, interrupting their possible flow:

“Now, Mr. Kidde, if you have any message for—your wife—perhaps?” he

ejaculates hesitatingly, and with good knowledge that the marriage

ceremony was one usually omitted from the code of gentlemen of the road.

“I have no wife!” cries Her Ladyship, in a heat betwixt her remorse for

her parents and the unconscious ridiculousness of Mr. Frewen’s question.

“Or it might be,” suggests this one with a sigh, “you have a little

child, Mr. Kidde—?”

“No, Sir,” says My Lady very low and quick. “That I haven’t.”

“A dear friend and comrade?” pursues the Curate.

“Yes, I have,” answers she, for during all this hour just past, a

thousand thoughts have come to Peggy about Sir Percy.

“Ah,” responds Frewen joyously. “Now tell me where he’s to be found, and

entrust me with the message, and be assured all will be carried out to

your wishes.”

“Thank you,” says Peggy. “Free my right hand if you will; give me

something to write with, and the leaf out of your prayer-book, and I’ll

ask you the favor.”

The Curate, under the strict superintendence of Biggs, who has all this

while been dispatching boys on horses, hither and yon, to notify the

quality and the country side both, that Tom Kidde’s been taken and will

hang at eight from the gibbet a-top of Armsleigh Hill, loosens Her

Ladyship’s arm of the thong, and gives her a leaf and a pencil with the