_Which doth set forth how My Lady Peg, Sir
Percy and Sir Robin all put up at the
“Queen and Artichoke:” and what a
fine hurly-burly thereupon ensues._
The moment that the excitement of the Vicar’s identification had
subsided, the Baronet, leading the worthy old man to the gates and there
quitting him under pretext of fetching a hackney coach, skipped without,
and, hiring one with a couple of the horse-patrol at a squeezing price,
jumped in and made off for his inn at Pimlico, leaving his whilom
preceptor to shift for himself.
Sir Robin had no mind at all for duels with any one, least of all with
the resurrected Sir Percy de Bohun, whom his guilty conscience suspected
to be fully cognizant of the author of his attempted assassination.
Terrified with all this and, if possible, more so by the accounts he had
listened to, right and left, of his valorous and most mysterious
name-sake, the little gentleman at once made up his mind as to the
course wisest for him to pursue, and forthwith pursued it.
Back to Pimlico, and into bed, shivering betwixt the linen and feathers;
up for a toilet of the best and neatest; curling his wig thriftily
himself by the fire; a good breakfast; a coach at noon with Kennaston
Castle for goal; and himself and his ardent and blissful hopes and
beliefs for freight and luggage.
For, not twelve hours since, had not My Lady Peggy’s own emissary, the
delightful “Mr. Incognito,” told him that his mistress was leaving for
home last night? Nay, had not Peggy herself, with her own lips, said
that she started for Kennaston “ere cock-crow”? and whatever could such
words mean but that he, the object of her tenderest solicitude, should
follow her at once?
Lady Biddy’s bawl, ’tis true, echoed in the Baronet’s recollection, but
’twas, to his way of thinking merely an index of the liveliness of her
disposition and the enchanting coyness of her moods.
He adjusted his wig with a beaming smile, snapped his crooked little
fingers at the mere memory of Sir Percy de Bohun, the Vicar, his
spurious name-sake, and all the rest of it, as he blithely set off on
his amorous quest, at high noon, from the Puffled Hen in Pimlico.
That same morning toward dawn, Percy had ridden home alone, leaving
Kennaston, cheered by a smile and a pressure of Lady Diana’s hand, to
return to his chambers in Grub street, whither the young poet had
removed some few days since from Lark Lane, at the instance of having
had a piece of good fortune, in the way of a commendation from no less a
personage than the great Doctor Johnson himself.
The reflections of Peggy’s adorer were various and most tormenting; his
brain, as he tossed in his bed, was a labyrinth wherein he wandered,
vainly endeavoring to solve such riddles as—
“Where was Lady Peggy? Was she indeed the bride of either of the Sir
Robins? Who was the comely young gentlemanly rogue who had for weeks
bewitched the fair and charmed the brave? Where had he disappeared? To
whom, in reality, was he indebted for the saving of his own life at the
Dove Pier; and whose were the St. Giles’s hirelings who had near made an
end of him there?”
Bewildered and at wits’ end, he finally, as the sun was at meridian,
sprang from his uneasy couch, rang and rapped thrice for Grigson, made a
sorry pretense at conversing on politics with his uncle, whom he
presently encountered in the hall; inwardly cursed the old gentleman;
and at last, by three o’clock, got his will, which was, astride of the
long roan, Grigson on the black, to cross to the Surrey side of the
river, and ride as fast as ever he could to Kennaston Castle.
“By heavens!” cried he to himself, pounding Battersea Bridge. “It is
time her father knew, and Her Lady mother too, that she is neither in
Kent or anywhere else in their reckoning; and if it puts ’em both into
their shrouds, they’ll hear the truth, and set about solving the riddle
before sunrise to-morrow. I’m sailing on Thursday for the Colonies, but
I go not until I am assured of her safety,—and her happiness.”
Thus it happened that not above three hours after Sir Robin had started
from Pimlico with his destination Kennaston, Sir Percy quitted Charlotte
Street with the same beacon in view; and each, the one in his coach,
t’other in his saddle, brain full and heart bursting with but one
thought, and that Lady Peggy Burgoyne.
Her Ladyship meantime, on landing from the wherry, fairly scampered her
way to Mr. Brummell’s for fear of desperadoes and Mohocks. At one point
wild cries of—
“Watch!” greeted her ears from the open window of a gaming-house; at
another a bullet whizzed above her head, the outcome of a duel being
fought in a narrow street she traversed. In and out she threaded her
path, until presently the pink flush of the dawn pierced the fog into a
silvery mist and she had gained the Beau’s threshhold. Passing the
sleepy servants, Peggy ran up to her room and once again drew the bundle
from its hiding place, tucked the long tail of her dark hair well
inside, cast a glance of pitiable amusement about the chamber, and says
she, going:
“God knows if I ever get leave to put on a lady’s garments again; but
I’ll never come back here, that’s certain, since now am I no one, not
even Sir Robin McTart!”
So, challenged merely by the still drowsy footman who asks: “Beg pardon,
and with submission, Sir Robin, but will you be home for dinner, Sir, or
not until supper?”
“For neither, to-day,” answers Her Ladyship, running out into Peter’s
Court, and then coming to a dead halt.
She drew a long deep breath, as deep as the fog would let her, much as a
dog does before he starts on the scent; she jingled the little money
left in her purse, gave her hat the cock as she beheld a passer-by, and
struck out for London Bridge, which, at this early hour of the day, she
found easy enough to cross afoot, barring the filth and mud.
’Twas the first time she had been on it since the memorable afternoon
when she and Chockey had first come up to town in the coach from the
Kennaston Arms. Now stalking along with a will, and a swing to her
bundle, My Lady had chance to note the tall gaunt houses lining the
bridge at each side where the pin-makers dwelt and worked; the gigantic
water-wheel under the arches which supplied the town with water; the
increasing tide of wagons, carts, pedestrians, porters, whoever else
(save the chairs or coaches of fine ladies and gentlemen of which, at
this time of day, there were none). Arrived at Surrey side, Her Ladyship
paused to consider and, wrapping herself well in her camlet cloak, the
which she had used at the masquerade so lately, thereby hiding her blue
velvet breeches, laced waistcoat, point ruffles, Mechlin lace cravat,
rich coat, and jeweled hilt, soon obtained fare in the one-seated cart
of a country clown who was off for Tooting.
Her Ladyship decided very quickly that ’twas but a necessary precaution
for her to avoid highways, stage-coaches, and inns of reputation, since
probably by this a full description of the supposed Sir Robin would be
word of mouth from Westminster to Mile End, and a dozen miles out of
town with the Lord knows but a price set upon his head!
Once arrived at Tooting, ’twas her intention to double on her tracks,
return with some bumpkin’s load of vegetables to Garret Lane and thence
to foot it across country or by penny’s-worth rides with village folk,
reaching the neighborhood of Kennaston, perhaps late that night; or, if
she should be compelled to sleep under some friendly farmer’s roof, at
least by the next high noon.
But Her Ladyship reckoned, if not without her hosts, most decidedly
without taking count of the weary beast that dragged her, nor yet of any
possible fellow-guests she might encounter on arriving at the Queen and
Artichoke at Tooting.
It was nightfall, when, limp and unnerved, possibly for the very first
time in her life conscious of such physical conditions, the clown pulled
her up before the inn in order to allow her to alight. Bundle under arm;
feet and legs, up to calves, well bespattered with mud from the reek of
her passage across London Bridge afoot; wig somewhat tangled for all
that she had slipped her wig comb out of pocket and essayed to smooth it
a bit; sleeves upturned, cloak dragging over her arm to heels,—a sorry,
disheveled-appearing young personage jumped from among a pile of
oat-bags, leathern aprons, chairs, unsold produce, wilted flowers, and
under the askant eyes of ’ostler, boots, barmaid, mistress, and host,
marched boldly into the parlor of the Queen and Artichoke.
“Was there a chamber to be had?” for Her Ladyship plainly saw she must
lie at Tooting and not proceed on her homeward journey until the morrow.
There was a chamber; an admission hesitatingly made, even at this modest
hostelry, to a young gentleman arriving without either servant, luggage,
box, horse, coach, or dog, and by means of a vile rickety little cart.
Yet, such was Her Ladyship’s swagger, notwithstanding a full splash of
mud on the tip-end of her handsome little chin, she was presently
conducted to a decent chamber, up-stairs, at the rear, it is true, yet
overlooking the green, where a game of bowls was in progress, and with a
fine trellis, thick with vines, beneath its small-paned window.
“Was there an ordinary?”
Oh, the shame and humiliation of it! that the daughter of the Earl of
Exham should be put to such an ebb, instead of ordering the best the
house afforded sent at once to her room.
Aye, there was an ordinary of two dishes and a pastry at ten-pence, and
it would be ready in the quarter hour.
“Ten-pence.”
Her Ladyship had just eleven pence ha’penny left in her purse.
Yet, thought she, refreshed by a good meal and the leaving of her weapon
as a hostage for her lodging, she would better eat than faint to-night,
whatever might betide on the morrow.
While she washed her hands, after hiding the bundle under the feather
bed, Her Ladyship heard the ring of horses’ hoofs on the stone pave of
the inn yard; and her quick ear even detected the fact that one of the
steeds went lame.
She peered out of window and beheld Sir Percy astride of his own long
roan, with Grigson just dismounting from the smoking black.
“This is cursed luck!” mutters the master, as he himself, out of saddle,
stoops to examine the roan’s much swollen off hind-leg.
“It is, Sir Percy,” returns the man, “but, by your leave, Sir, it may be
we can hire a mount here, although it don’t look too promisin’.”
“Unlikely,” says Sir Percy. “The best we can do is to lie in this hole
for the night, and by a hot poultice and a bandage, the roan may be in
condition by to-morrow forenoon.”
“Very well, Sir; it be a damn poor place of entertainment, Sir Percy,
with an ordinary at ten-pence, Sir.” Grigson’s tone of derision is
marked by the guest who draws close about her face the cotton curtain of
the upper rear chamber window.
“Will you be pleased to be served in your room, Sir Percy, at once, and
of whatever can be had? What wine, Sir?”
“Tut, tut, Grigson. I’ll into the ordinary; off with you to the stables
with the roan, rub her down and medicine her, then to your own supper in
the kitchen.”
“Host,” observes Mr. Grigson, loftily, as that worthy obsequiously
appears in the yard with an attendant train, as is customary in
welcoming persons of quality, “Sir Percy de Bohun has the condescension
to say he will sup in the ordinary, and—”
Whatever Mr. Grigson’s further remark may have intended to result in,
was, at this crisis, lost to posterity by such a clattering from up on
the high road ’round the corner of the green lane, where nestled the
Queen and Artichoke, that every eye was turned to behold such a cloud of
dust as joyed the soul of Boniface, whose tuned intelligence foresaw a
coach and four horses; in the light of which Sir Percy de Bohun’s
reeking lame roan and ill-kempt aspect faded into almost as much
insignificance as had, long since, the traveler who had arrived in the
clown’s cart.
Boots alone was left to guide Sir Percy to his apartment, while the rest
made a concerted dash for the yard entrance, just in time to make their
most profound bows and courtesies before the spick little gentleman who
thrust his inquiring little head out of window, keeping his door closed,
as he beckoned the landlord to him with eager heavy eyes well under
cover of his pulled-down hat.
“What guests have you to-night?” asked the little gentleman.
At the very moment he was propounding his query, Sir Percy, now sunk to
ignominy even in the eyes of Boots by announcing he would sup at
ten-pence, was being ushered into an upper chamber adjoining the very
one in which sat, dejected, robbed of even the prospect of food by his
presence, Lady Peggy Burgoyne.
“Very few, My Lord,” answered the host glibly, “the very best chamber on
the first floor with the sitting-room has been kept for Your Lordship,”
applying hand to latch of coach-door, the which, however, is still
firmly held by its occupant.
“Their names?” asks the little gentleman, while at the fleck of one of
the postilion’s lashes his wheelers begin to prance and advance so far
into the yard as that their racket brings Peggy a second time to her
narrow pane, a-squinting up her eyes to see who this may be. For, in the
midst of her distress, as befalls often enough to all of us, she takes
unconscious note of minor happenings, the which, those who study such
matters affirm to be proof of the two-sided condition of men’s minds.
“Your guests’ names?” reiterates the small gentleman, as, followed by
the cortège of dame, maid, man, dog, cat, and tame magpie, the coach
comes to a halt within excellent range of Her Ladyship’s coign of
vantage and earshot. “I must know them before I alight.”
“Well, My Lord, there’s Mr. Bigge, the Curate from Risley Commons, as
stops over here on his way to Finchley every week; Mr. Blunt, the
traveling tailor; His Grace the Duke of Courtleigh’s own man, off on his
holiday; Mr. Townes and his new married wife a-goin’ to settle in the
lodge at the Manor-house; a young spark drabbled with mud and havin’ no
boxes and no servants, what arrived by means of a market cart just anon,
and Sir Percy de Bohun, a fine gentleman what’s just ridden in the yard
before Your Lordship’s coach, but”—
“Who?” The little gentleman turned green in his pallor, and shot back in
his cushions with a gasp.
“Not much of any account, My Lord, I’m thinking, since Jenny here tells
me he sups at the ordinary; of course Your Lordship’ll be served in your
own sitting-room and dame and myself to humbly wait upon you.”
“Hold your tongue!” says the little man, gathering his scattered wits
and pausing to think, while his steeds paw noisily on the cobble
pavement.
Peggy, at the pane, almost laughs as she regards the shrinking weazened
visage.
“Sir Robert McTart!” she says to herself, shaking her head at the little
vixen. “’Tis indeed a merry fate that puts me and Percy and you all
under one roof this night. That is, if his presence don’t fright you
into a gallop!”
Sir Percy himself, also for a second standing moodily at his casement,
could and did behold thence Sir Robin’s restive and hungry leaders, and
had a passing wonder as to what the devil brought any gentleman to stop
at such an inn, save as himself, by the misfortune of a nail in his
animal’s foot.
Sir Robin, however, with that discretion and prudence, not to say
cowardice, which distinguished him, had purposely chosen the Queen and
Artichoke, for, upon second thought, he had determined to sleep in
comfort.
Sir Robin loved his feathers and quilts of a night far better than the
jolt of ruts and ditches, and dreaded highwaymen more than even the
pangs of delayed love-making.
By his choice he had hoped to escape the least chance of an encounter
with Sir Percy, whom he believed to be in hot pursuit of him, and at
this juncture his wise little pate quickly resolved that it were better
for him to alight, gain his chamber, and harbor there in safety until
such time as that Sir Percy should have unsuspectingly proceeded on his
quest.
“If you can ensure me a perfect privacy; to go unseen to my rooms, a
fair service, and dry linen, with quiet as to cocks and neighbors, I
will remain here for the present,” says Sir Robin, almost taking in Lady
Peggy by the squint of his uncontrollable left eye.
In a trice, Sir Robin is attended to his bower, and ere long the best in
the larder is laid before him. Sir Percy partakes of the homely fare of
the ordinary; and Her Ladyship sits, unheeding the tardy summons of the
dame, supperless, hungry, fagged, in her tiny room where the warmth from
the kitchen chimney reaches her, and where the goodly smells from Sir
Robin’s fowls, sausages, eggs, and fruit-pie assail her senses.
Mr. Grigson, doctoring the roan, endeavored with much creditable tact to
get wind of the name or title of the master of the coach, but Sir
Robin’s men had had their lesson, and not a hint was to be got out of
either of them by Mr. Grigson, or by the curious host of the Queen and
Artichoke himself.
By eleven every candle was out in the house. All the guests, save two,
slept the sleep of the presumably just.
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