_In the hereinunder Her Ladyship doth shoot
two varlets at one fire; and appointeth
a meeting with Sir Robin
at Vauxhall._
The man, who is shrewd, and has, in his time, fetched and carried many
gentlemen of the first quality hither and yon, takes this one’s measure
and sets off at a tearing pace down to the city, past the Tower, across
the Bridge, into Southwark, back over Southwark, up to Westminster; to
Pimlico,—past the very Puffled Hen where, at this very moment, Sir Robin
McTart, himself, and not his _soidisant_, sits huddled in his upper room
over a fire, cheering his small soul with dreams of murder and love. On
to Chelsea, and a whirligig ’round again to that region which froths
foully over to the Thames bank in Little Boy Yard, and the jutting,
rotting, creaking old Dove Pier.
“This be’s a young nobleman,” soliloquized the cabman, “wot’s in love,
or else is a-meditatin’ on a-takin’ ’is own life, or a-runnin’ away from
the Jews, or from his gamin’ debts, or I’m not James Finney. An’ this
here’s the spot for him to be dropped at; the river most ’andy, also
deep, and h’if he’s bound to make an end of hisself, no man wot owns a
hoss is as worthy of the reward wot’ll be published for the recovery of
His Lordship’s corp, as me.” With which pious reflection the chaise is
brought to a sharp standstill, causing Percy to start from his
melancholy and look out of the pane.
“Where are we?” asks he, not at first, such is the depth of his
suffering, recognizing a spot with which, as Sir Robin had been at pains
and expense to have discovered for him, he was indeed of late most
familiar.
“This be Dove Pier, My Lord,” answered Mr. James Finney, now descending
from his box and standing respectfully at the kennel.
“Ha! Yes, to be sure. I’ll get out.”
He does so and pays the fare with such a largess as makes Mr. Finney,
through his tanned hide, almost blush to take it.
“Wot’s the odds, though?” remarks he to himself, “three sovereigns is
better off in my pocket than actin’ as sinkers to a nobleman’s body.” To
Sir Percy he says:
“I thought Your Lordship’d fancy this bit of the river; it’s lonesome
and wery pleasant and wery deep. Good-night to Your Lordship, and good
luck.”
“Good luck!” echoes Sir Percy, under his breath, as he strides down the
length of the rotten pier, his gaze now fixed on the black and swiftly
ebbing tide, now raised to meet a sky no whit the brighter than the
sobbing waters beneath it. No stars, nor moon; only a sickly thin gleam
shot out of the lamp that swings far up Little Boy Yard over the door of
the tavern.
Dark, sad, despairing, the whole of it, with but the lap, lap of the
Thames’s life beating against the old piles, as it swirls and swings on
its hurrying way to fall once again into the sea.
Percy de Bohun is no cowardly sort, even to think of ending his woes in
a watery grave; he is merely a brave, sore-stricken young man, whose
whole faith and heart have been pinned to one who has forsaken him
forever (as he thinks); and, with the instincts of his kind, he is glad
to be here, away from mankind or woman either, to get his grip once more
on himself, to fight out for the last time, he swears, the wild, jealous
covetousness which is tugging at his heartstrings, to quell the tumult
in his soul, and then to get back home to his uncle’s house like a
Christian; and, God helping him! to lead a decent life and a brave life,
for King and country in the great new world across the seas.
All this and more traverses his brain, the “more” being mostly
tantalizing visions of Lady Peggy in all the gamut of her humors,
slipping in and out of every resolution he makes, every fond farewell he
swears he’ll take of her most dear, most faithless memory forever!
His eyes are bent upon the ground. He neither sees nor hears, nor would
heed if he did, aught about him.
In truth there is not anything to hear, save the river on its journey.
But there is something to see.
Sir Robin’s two desperadoes, a-lurking yonder up in the close shadow of
the timbered tenements, which line the precinct on the side where the
oil-lamps shine.
Across the narrow street, where the huddling houses, with their broken
chimneys, rag-stuffed windows, flapping strings of bird-cages, old
clothes, and forlorn archways, are deeper in gloom even than their
opposites, there’s ambushed another.
One who, arrived in town the night before, and set down at Mr.
Brummell’s in Peter’s Court, made a change of garments and off again,
since the master of the house was out, to a quiet inn in High Holborn;
spent there a few hours; then out of doors and wandered as far as the
Temple Church; back again to the inn, and, with rising excitement, and
an almost frantic and curious impatience, awaited the fall of night;
then a hackney coach to Westminster, alighting at Horseferry Road;
dismissing the vehicle; thence afoot to the pier; hiring a boat; a pull
alone down the river to Dove Pier; tying the skiff to a rusty hook; a
quick run bent to ground; up, and across the yard to her present place
of concealment.
’Twas indeed Lady Peggy, her heart in her mouth, her breath coming
fiercely betwixt her tight-shut lips, the drops standing on her
forehead, each hand grasping a pistol ready cocked, and her dark eyes
pinned to the two crouching objects not three yards away from her; anon,
following the jerks of these worthies’ thumbs as they indicate the tall
figure with bent head still pacing the pier back and forth, she knows
her lover and his doom are nearing each the other.
Will high Heaven help her?
Her Ladyship can not hear them, if indeed they speak at all, which is
unlikely; the language of such gentry at such crises consisting usually
of signs. Luckily for her, the glint from the Three Cups, meager though
it be, falls athwart the cut-throats, who now move stealthily down the
yard toward the pier, timing their pace so that they shall reach t’other
side of the rickety float when their victim shall attain the hither. It
falls out as they have designed, and now, not ten paces separate Sir
Percy de Bohun from his end, when Peggy darts light-footed, having cast
aside her shoes, down her side the kennel to the pier, bringing her
exactly behind the murderers.
With the slow, precise tread of beings accustomed to such enterprises,
not too hurried at the performance of a not unsavory task, they slip
over into Sir Percy’s very wake, Peggy at their backs, noting now, with
her pretty nose within twelve inches of their cat-like heels, the gleam
of a dagger in the hand of each.
Before she had thought, the two scoundrels seized Percy from the rear,
the one clapping his hairy hand over the game’s mouth for a gag, the
other grasping the young man’s two hands which had been hanging idly
clasped at his back. Not a word, a whisper, even a gasp—
But two shots! sounding like one, and striking Sir Robin McTart’s
hirelings in their flanks, laying them on the ground, free Sir Percy de
Bohun, stunned, bewildered, to yet catch merely a glimpse of a figure
running to pier’s end, jumping into a boat; then the flash of quick oars
fading into the silence and the blackness of the Thames.
With drawn sword he gave himself a rap on the chest and believed he had
been dreaming.
But no, for at his feet lay two prostrate forms, each bleeding a bit,
and feigning, as such apt rogues will, to be stone dead.
Percy knelt, struck a tinder and essayed to look at their faces; they
were unknown to him, and perceiving now their estate, he formed the
conclusion that a couple of footpads had nearly made an end of him, and
walked away.
But of his rescue? the manner of it? the mysterious flight of his
preserver? the boat ready at the pier’s end? the twin shots just in the
nick of time! What of all this?
Bah! Some bargeman with an honest heart a-passing by had seen the foul
attempt, and paused to thwart it; some gentleman, maybe, on his way to
rout or tryst, thinking to divert himself with a couple of pistols and
so save a human life; some third desperado, envious of the chances of
these two, making shift to rob them of their prey, since he was left out
of their plot.
But no! None of these explanations bore the least resemblance to
probabilities, in fact showed not an atom of reason in their suggestion,
and Percy was feign return to his uncle’s house, thrice puzzled now,
since he had not alone Lady Peggy’s oblivion to unravel, but the
miraculous saving of his own life to match it!
Her Ladyship, once safe in the boat, pulled hard to the upper pier, paid
the boatman, and back by devious ways to Peter’s Court and into her
room; shut door and latched; down on her knees, wig thrown on the
hearth, a-thanking God Percy was safe!
Tears? A shower of ’em, and trembling legs and arms, and heart beating
to burst after the mad strain of the past eight-and-forty hours.
“Now,” said Her Ladyship to herself, “now I can go back to Kennaston and
spend the remainder of my life making cheeses for the Vicar to munch o’
Sundays; brewing cider for daddy to accelerate the pace of his gout
withal; breeding chicks as will win prizes, and pigs as will be the envy
of all! and—” a sob occurred here—“presently a-reading in the London
print of the grand marriage of Sir Percy de Bohun with Lady Diana
Weston! And me without the chance of weddin’ even that little ape, Sir
Robin McTart! But it’s all right as ’tis,” adds Her Ladyship. “Had I
hung on Armsleigh Hill, ’twould not have been too bad for one reared as
I have been in a God-fearing fashion, and who, for naught save jealousy,
envy and all uncharitableness, did go and so unsex myself! Lud! Is’t I?
Peggy Burgoyne, spinster, a-sittin’ here in breeches and waistcoat, a
guest in Mr. Beau Brummell’s house, without any other lady to keep me in
countenance! ’Tis said one gets broke in to anything; but ’tis false!
false! I’m not broke in to bein’ a man, and I never should be! I detest,
abhor, and can’t endure the bein’ one! I that had always figured to
myself the happy day when I’d be taken up to town!”
Lady Peggy is now pacing the room, a trick, as has been set down
earlier, that she’d borrowed from her twin.
“I’d thought to be of the ton, a most genteel young lady, monstrous
fine, a lovely creature; a-taking a dish of tea at Ranelagh; a-ridin’ to
Court in dad’s old coronet-coach and with all the feathers I could
borrow on top of my frizzes and powder; and two sweet patches set just
at the corner of my dimples! That’s what I’d dreamed of, with Percy
a-staring at me, lost in admiration, and—love!” Her Ladyship stamps her
foot. “But what ’tis, is this!” and she now picks up the wig from the
hearth and flings it on the couch beside her coat and sword.
“’Taint no more in this world fine gentlemen sighin’ and dyin’ for me!
no wedding favors and cake; no husband, no children; never! for there’s
no marryin’ in heaven, an I ever get there! Nay, ‘Peggy Burgoyne’ ’ll be
writ on my tombstone, and like as not the lines followin’ ’ll be ’a
maker of most uncommon fine sweetmeats and cheeses’!”
Another flood of tears, and then My Lady Peggy, obeying that
well-balanced head of hers, brushes them away and proceeds to plan out
her homeward journey, and to administer a cunning retouch of the
cosmetics she had erstwhile bought of the players’ apothecary in Drury
Lane.
’Tis clear now, as it has been from the start, that she may not quit Mr.
Brummell’s house in other than man’s attire, nor, so far as she can see,
will it be possible for her to resume her own garments at any inn, or
time, or place, before she reaches Kennaston, which she means to do ere
night falls; and then the stableyard, where she knows Chockey will be
milking, once gained, a cloak, the casting of Sir Robin’s wig, and Her
Ladyship feels certain she can enter her father’s home unnoticed beneath
the shelter of the faithful Chockey’s argus eye.
But, though neatly laid, Her Ladyship’s project was not quite yet to go
into execution. Even as she was once more taking out the bundle from its
hiding-place and tying up in it the long tail of her cut hair, she heard
a hum of noises, voices below, inquiring if Sir Robin had as yet reached
the house, and evidently obtaining an affirmative answer, for,—
“Where is the hero? Our hero! Our hero!”
“Where is our highwayman? Our highwayman!”
“Where is Tom Kidde, the gallant? The gallant of gallants!”
And a lot of such merry cries came echoing up the staircase and corridor
toward her room.
Lady Peggy had utterly forgot the hanging.
The more recent matter of Percy and the assassins had put her own
adventure completely out of her head. For the first time she realized
that she had not seen either Mr. Brummell or any of his company since
she had unwillingly been borne away from them by Homing Nell in the
midst of Epstowe Forest.
’Twas a halt she had not counted on; but, clapping on wig and coat, she
flung wide the door, and was presently raised on the shoulders of Sir
Wyatt and His Grace of Escombe and borne triumphantly down to the
dining-room and placed in a chair of honor at the supper-table, whence,
what with toasts, songs, stories, acclaims, wonders, amazements,
applause, Florence wine, cards, etc., etc., this gallant company did not
arise (or some of them slip under) until seven on Monday morning.
Her Ladyship got up from the mahogany with but one-pound-ten in her
pockets, and a surmise in her head as to how far this sum would take her
on her homeward way.
But homeward way there could be none just yet, for before too many
bumpers had been filled and drunk, Beau Brummell had made proposition of
a most lively affair, which indeed he had already set afoot, for the
celebrating of Sir Robin’s restoration to his friends by the timely
arrival and prowess of Sir Percy. This was nothing else than going to
Vauxhall by water on Tuesday night, and in masques. A score of ladies
and gentlemen had been bidden to join, including the Ladies Diana and
Biddy, the Honorable Dolly, the Misses Lovell, Lady Chelmsford, with
Lady Brookwood to act as duenna for the unmarried fair.
In vain Lady Peggy protested, swore she could not, would not. These
gentlemen would not take no for an answer, and once again Her Ladyship
perceived, as she reluctantly acceded to the masquerade, how far more
difficult ’twas to be out of breeches than into ’em.
Percy was to be there, at least he was invited; so much she knew from
Mr. Brummell, and, as Lady Diana was positive to come up to town for
such a novelty as a party in masquerade, of course her suitor was
certain to attend her.
Very well! Why should she, whose whole life was to be passed in the
compounding of cream-cheeses and the visiting of poor old women, not
give to herself one more cause of vain regretting? one more glimpse of
him she adored?
At that hour, when Mr. Brummell and his guests were doing honor to the
supposed Sir Robin, the real Baronet was called upon to receive two most
lamentable-looking blackguards who followed the Boots up to the
gentleman’s room, unheeding both remonstrances and ugly words on the way
thither.
At sight of Mr. Bloksey and his companion-in-arms, each lame, bound-up
and wound-up of leg and back, with their bonnets pulled down over their
brows, Sir Robin skipped from his easy-chair with a gasp, half terrified
at the appearance, wholly eager to learn the outcome of the plot.
“Hist!” cries he, under his breath, and pointing to the door, finger on
lip.
“Heh?” responds the villain. “There’s no fear here. We’s well enough
known down in our own neighbor’ood, but up ’ere we passes for two pious
beggars wot lives by h’alms from the parish church!”
A grim smile from his partner confirms this remark, and Sir Robin, thus
reassured, says tremblingly:
“Well, ’tis done?”
“’Tis done,” both nodding in concert, “and,” adds Mr. Bloksey, “we’re
both nigh done too! Wot with bullets apiece h’inside of us from the
gentleman’s pistols, and wot with gettin’ our h’eyes knocked h’out of
us, and most bein’ caught by the Watch when we was a-lowerin’ Lord
Gower’s heir h’into the Thames, we’re ’ere, Sir Robin McTart, to ’umbly
remind you that we wants more.”
The Baronet shakes his head, hands thrust in pockets, clutching purse
and pence.
“Oh, no,” answers he, “the job was paid for in advance, my good men. Not
another groat will you get.”
“Werry good,” murmurs Bloksey, turning on his slip-shod heel. “We’ll
just go down to the round house, and if it turns out as Your Lordship
gets h’admission to the Tower free, you needn’t be too much surprised.
We doesn’t mind a-tellin’ ’ow we saw you a-prickin’ Sir Percy de Bohun
last night! and a-weightin’ of his mangled corp, and a-throwin’ of the
same h’into the river at the old Dove Pier!—Oh, no! we doesn’t!” This at
the door-sill.
“What! what! you knaves! Here, come back! Come back, I say!” shrieks the
terrified little gentleman, seizing a shoulder of each and forcing them
into seats.
After which simple application of primary methods, Mr. Bloksey and his
friend find no difficulties whatever in the way of wresting from their
patron another hundred pounds, with which they make off, again and again
rehearsing to him how great risks they had run in decently interring the
body of his hated rival.
Once rid of them, Sir Robin rose, stretched himself, and yawned.
’Twas an abject soul, one of those creatures born of a good and honest
stock on either side, which sometimes cumber the earth as if in ribald
jest against the accepted laws of birth and breeding.
With no misgiving, save that of a possible detection, Sir Robin, now
that this even had been disposed of at an expense of a hundred guineas,
felt nothing if not jubilant, and on the morrow proceeded to order him a
suit of satins in crimson, a hat of the latest fashion, ruffles,
cravats, silk hose, a muff, and a lot of other fallals at Monsieur
Jabot’s in Holborn. For the Baronet, freed, as he fancied, of his enemy,
and feeling positive that Lady Peggy would soon, out of the overflow of
her vast affection for him, contrive a message through her obliging Mr.
Incognito, desired to be equipped in the latest mode for that summons to
his Lady’s presence, which he believed must ultimately, and perhaps
presently, arrive.
It is true, he expected that his entrance into the gay world of fashion,
which, he promised himself by way of introduction, should be at
Vauxhall, might be a bit hampered by the accounts he must hear of the
sudden disappearance of Sir Percy de Bohun, but this seemed a trifle in
the path of a gentleman for whose sake Lady Peggy Burgoyne had come up
to town, remained invisible, employed an Incognito as Mercury, and of
whose name, albeit falsely, the prints had made most marvelous mention.
Now, Sir Robin had not seen the tenth part of these last. No, not any of
’em, in truth, save the one he had shown to Her Ladyship the evening
they had encountered each other at the Dove Pier. To be entirely candid,
Sir Robin was an indifferent scholar; write he could not; to read was a
plague which he willingly deputed, when it was necessary, to his former
instructor—that patient, worthy man, the Vicar of Friskingdean,
incumbent of the living next Robinswold.
This one was even now, so Sir Robin had got word, up in London to
consult a great man for the benefit of his eyes, and ’twas presently
agreed between ’em at the Bishop, where the Vicar stopped, that they
should proceed together to Vauxhall on the Tuesday night.
“I have heard, my dear Robin,” observed the excellent old man, “that
there is to be a rare sight in the gardens that evening, nothing less
than a most curious novelty just come into vogue in the world of
fashion.”
“Ha, and what’s that, Sir?” inquires the Baronet.
“A party of Beau Brummell’s to come by water to the pier, every soul of
’em in masks,—Lords, Ladies, and all persons of the first quality; some
of the names I heard in the coffee-room. There’s to be Sir Wyatt Lovell,
the Earl of Escombe, Lady Diana Weston, Lady Chelmsford, Lord Kennaston
of Kennaston—”
“Hold, Sir!” cried the Baronet, jumping about the room, like one
demented, the idea bouncing into his pate that if Kennaston is to be
there, his twin-sister will also form one of the distinguished party.
“What’s to prevent me buying a couple of masks and, with our cloaks set
out by our swords, a-joining in this gay diversion?” The little
gentleman’s eyes twinkle with sweet anticipation.
“But,” hesitates the Vicar, “would such levity be counted seemly for one
of my years and profession?”
“Tut, tut, Sir,” cries Sir Robin, “I’ll not take a refusal. Hark ye, I
have reasons,” adds he mysteriously. “There’s one of the Fair likely to
be present who pines to see me, Sir, and whom I yearn to behold once
more. There hath been an obstacle,” continues the cold-blooded monkey,
“but Providence hath removed it. I pray of you accompany me, Sir, and
t’will lead mayhap to banns bein’ read on Sunday se’ennight in the
church at Friskingdean.”
The Vicar, being carried away by two natural and one of ’em a most
laudable emotion, at last consented. He was quite in fatherly sympathy
with his old pupil’s ambition to settle in life, and he had that curious
hankering after just a nibble at the edge of the flesh-pots of Egypt,
which is not uncommon to gentlemen of even his sedate years and failing
sight.
Sir Robin bought masks and cloaks of black and ordered them sent to the
Bishop, where he had agreed to sup on Tuesday and go thence by land to
Vauxhall. Indeed he had just now come out of the draper’s shop and
turned down toward the Vicar’s inn, when he caught sight of Lady Peggy
walking swiftly from him. She had been buying stains for her skin and
eyebrows.
“Mr. Incognito!” cried he, scampering hither and yon, into the kennel,
onto the path, jostling fair ladies’ chairs, running into a porter’s
pack, thumping a horse in the nose with his ill-worn weapon, and,
finally, gaining on the one he pursues, and dealing Her Ladyship’s
shoulder no gentle blow.
“Ha, there!” cries she, turning, hand on hilt. Then, perceiving who
’tis, she almost shudders and draws up to her full height.
“Dear Mr. Incognito,” pants Sir Robin, “how fares My Lady? Tell me, I
beseech you!”
“She fares but ill, Sir,” answers she, making to proceed.
“No, no, not so fast, I implore; oh, Sir, I die for her!”
“Very well, Sir, she is willing. I am pressed for time and must away.”
“One word. You say she’s willing I should die for her?”
“Oh, Sir Robin, importune me no further. I know not what she’s willing
for!”
“Now, now,” soothes the Baronet. “We’re well met, Mr. Incognito, that
I’m assured of; and that Lady Peggy’d far rather I’d live than die for
her,” leers he, “since for the sake of communicating with me she’s at,
no doubt, great expenses in maintaining you?”
At this Her Ladyship laughs, as many a lady may do any day, at the
strange construction a man who is blessed with vanity contrives to put
upon her actions.
“’Tis so, I know’t!” exclaims he, grinning unctuously. “Now, Sir, tell
me, goes she—” his voice sinks to a whisper as he applies his mouth nigh
to Peg’s ear—“goes she to Vauxhall in Beau Brummell’s party, along with
her brother, o’ Tuesday night?”
A thousand thoughts rush helter-skelter through Her Ladyship’s brain,
pro and con the answering of this query.
Presently, sedately, at the corner of the street, says she, with no
smallest notion of the import or the outcome of her words, merely
uttered as a light and easy means of make-off:
“Go and see!” and she disappears from view.
“By jingo!” rattles the gentleman from Kent to himself, as he jumps into
a hackney-coach and tools out to the Puffled Hen. “But she loves me!
Curse me! but I believe she’s had that incognito rascal at upwards
probably of ten shillings a day, just on purpose to watch for my
appearance, and so to glean tidings of my welfare! Without a doubt ’tis
by her commands he said that ‘go and see.’ Zounds! I’ll do’t, with the
Vicar to bear me out,” adds this prudent lover, “should any disagreeable
incident occur between me and any one of these coxcombs with their town
ways. Damn ’em, tho’! with a secret affair going on betwixt me and
Peggy, I can snap my fingers at His Gracious Majesty himself, should we
encounter!”
Well pleased, therefore, with himself, Sir Robin descended at the
Puffled Hen and bestowed upon the cabman out of that abundance of the
heart which occasionally causes the pocket, as well as the heart, to
speak—two-pence.
[Illustration]
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