Part 11

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.

XIV

_In this same Sir Robin believes he meets his Fair: and Lady Biddy O’Toole is the means of putting the whole Gardens into a vast commotion._

After quitting Sir Robin, Her Ladyship, jingling the few shillings that now remained to her, since purchasing unguents and the mask and cloak necessary for the approaching festivity, suddenly made up her mind to escape at once, to leave the bundle of her clothes, her shorn tresses, and whatever else beside to tell what tale they might, and, here and now, to shake the dust of London from her feet forever. And to this end she was about to summon a chair to start her as far on her journey as her purse would permit, when out comes Mr. Brummell himself from the shop of Monsieur Jabot, and links his arm in hers with his accustomed pleasant familiarity and easy condescension.

“’Pon honor!” exclaims the Beau. “Well met, Sir! Since you were nigh hanged, Sir, I’ve not had too much of your agreeable company. I’d have you know I’m just from Monsieur Jabot’s back room, where, the whiles I took a dish of tea, I explained the riddles of your most amazin’ twist of the lace. Faith, Robin, ’twas a lucky hour for me, when, having left a pile of failures, so high! in the corner of my dressing-room, I beheld your cravat and bade my man knock you down!”

Lady Peggy laughs. The cool audacity of Beau Brummell is a relief after the mawkish sighs of the little scoundrel she has just parted from, and, hoping that Mr. Brummell will soon spy either one of the Fair or a Royal Highness, and so be diverted from her side, she bows and answers:

“Robin McTart must ever account that a lucky day for him, Sir!”

“Hark ye, my young buck,” proceeds the Beau. “Monsieur Jabot is so enchanted with your manner of the cravat that to-day, with my compliments, he introduces it at Court! And since I’ve been seen with it,” adds he pompously, “’tis sure, by this day week, to be the height of the mode!”

“Aye?” responds Her Ladyship, a-wondering how she can best get away.

“Aye!” echoes her companion in a monstrous amazement. “Rot me! Sir, but such a distinction’s not often conferred upon a young gentleman up in town for the first time. What’s the matter with you, boy?” cries he, turning to observe Her Ladyship’s somewhat absent-minded aspect.

“Naught, I swear!” cries she, recovering herself.

“’Sdeath! Robin, are ye in love?” asks the Beau, taking a pinch of snuff and tendering his box, as, attended by all eyes, the two make their way down Piccadilly, betwixt ogling ladies in their chairs and chariots, gallants, dowagers; each, all, mincing and la-la-ing as they go.

Her Ladyship inclines her head. She is well pleased to speak truth when she can.

“By Gad! Mr. Brummell, you’ve hit the mark,” says she.

“Sleep not o’ nights? fickle at your meat? wake sighing? dream of patches, smiles, and dainty fingers? mistrust yourself? easily affronted? believe the whole world’s pointing at you in raillery? take no pleasure in horse, man, gun or dog? loathe all the Fair, save one? love solitude?”

Her Ladyship’s feign to smile in the midst of the snuff, which she abhors, and has only taken because she had to. Sneezing, she nods as her companion continues:

“Hate company? are cursin’ me now for an addle-pated fool, and wishing I’d leave you to yourself, eh? Don’t answer. I know it, Robin, well; a thousand times, more or less, have I been where you stand to-day, and had just cause, I fancied, to damn the Prince himself, since that which I was then pleased to dub his foolish prattle served to distract my ruminations from whichever Lady ’twas at the moment claimed my fancy. I cursed him then, Sir, for clinging to my arm, but now I bless him, as you will me some future day—for, Robin, hark ye, there’s not one of the jades but deceives us, no, Sir! and I’m goin’ to hang on to you, Sir, for keepin’ of you out of the vapors. Zounds, Sir! I’ll not leave you to any such ill company as himself proves to a young man in your predicament. Come, Sir, come; we’ll up and into Will’s, and there, me stickin’ faster than a burr, we’ll home to Peter’s Court and with a merry lot of gentlemen make a pretty night of’t against to-morrow with its evening at Vauxhall.”

With which pleasant and most well-intentioned sally, Lady Peggy again finds herself constrained to put off that redemption of her true estate for which she so deeply yearns.

Mr. Brummell’s party went by water to Vauxhall, and ’twas indeed a heavenly night for such an expedition, with no large lady-moon a-staring, but the rather a thin slip of a silver damsel hanging in the vault, and millions of stars a-waiting on her, not any of these a-revealing too much or a-telling any tales if a gentleman’s hand chanced to come in contact with a lady’s amid the folds of brocade, or under the long cloth of the black, crimson or blue cloaks in which all these merry masqueraders were enveloped.

Sir Percy de Bohun was beside Lady Diana Weston; Peggy noted the same with jealous, despairing eyes; while at the left of Lord Brookwood’s daughter sat her own twin—only the second time she had seen him since the memorable night in Lark Lane; nor did she see him plainly now, for all the company had set forth in their masks, and only removed them between whiles to gain a breath of fresh air. ’Twas expected that the larger number of the party would meet them at the Gardens, and thereafter the sport and mystification would begin.

So it turned out; not only all the rest of Mr. Brummell’s friends in their cloaks and masks, with glimpse now and then of satins, taffetas, laces, ribands, jeweled stomachers, bodices ablaze, and so forth, but a vast assemblage of other folk also awaited the arrival of the Beau’s barge at the bottom of the Gardens.

Among these, two lurked in the shadow of the trees; they were Sir Robin and the Vicar. The former noted with deep joy that he had, by a happy chance, chosen a crimson color for his new suit, exactly corresponding to that of one of these gallants; that his cloak of sable hue was also quite the ton, and that he could thus, with ease, mingle with the party, and presently, no doubt, either discover Lady Peggy’s identity, or, more than likely, she herself would disclose the same to him, and at last reward his faithfulness and patience. No qualm visited the little gentleman’s conscience-pocket with regard to his supposed victim, although, it is true, he had given him a vicious thought as he had stood near the river’s bank waiting for Mr. Brummell’s barge to come in sight. So had Peggy, as she was being rowed past the old Dove Pier; into her mind and into Sir Percy’s had come the memory of the Sunday night, but he spoke of it no more than, certes, did she.

Sir Robin, his cup overflowing with pleasurable anticipation and the gratified sense that the one who had sworn to take his life lay, fish-food, at the bottom of the Thames, flitted hither and yon, dragging the bewildered Vicar of Friskingdean in his wake.

Wherever the company of Mr. Brummell wandered, there followed, hanging on to the fringe, as ’twere, these two, whom presently one-half the guests accepted as a matter of course to be of themselves.