Part 7

She swaggered along toward St. Stephen’s where a coach containing quality was occasionally met even now; then down Horseferry Road, almost to the river’s bank; then along Jackanapes Row, with little idea of the cut-throat locality she was haunting; back again toward better neighborhoods; then a lurch to the Thames making into Farthing Alley and Little Boy Yard, at the end of which she found herself at the old Dove Pier.

Peg stood still, her heart beating both with her quick walk, and at the strangeness of all that surrounded her. She had no fear, because her arm was stout, her aim sure, pistols at her belt and a good sword at her side; and she was perfectly ignorant of any harm here to be found, greater than at the door of Beau Brummell’s house.

The dark dwellings of the yard frowned at one another, with not an ell of sky to share between ’em at their roofs; the sign of the “Three Cups” swung and creaked in the slow breeze; the river, black and gruesome, lapped at the foot of the stone pile against which she leaned. On the river the tired bargemen rested at their oars, and the dip of a water-bird was the only sound that struck upon her ear. Peggy was casting about in her mind whether to enter the inn and inquire her road to the King’s Arms in the Strand, and had just turned to do so, when in the cavernous doorway of one of the gaunt-looking tenements she beheld three figures. The faces of two were toward her, and by the light of the fish-oil lamp swinging at the next-door tavern, she beheld them, so sinister and forbidding as to cause her to halt for a space, and then, overcoming her dread, to pursue her path, but slowly and by crossing the yard.

As she did so, her weapon caught in her heel and as she bent to disengage it, a voice speaking in low muffled tones arrested her gait.

It was the voice of Sir Robin McTart saying:

“If I make it ten guineas apiece on the spot, you swear to leave him cold on the pier yonder, come Sunday night, or to tie a stone about his throat and throw him into the river?”

“Aye, aye,” grunts one of the two companions of this most valorous gentleman. “’E’s h’always ’ulkin ’ereabouts o’ Sunday nights.”

Lady Peggy, with such a pull-string of terror at her heart as she never had before, draws closer to the wall of the tenement before which she has halted, creeps nearer to the portal wherein these cavaliers are quartered.

“Let it be five guineas apiece to-night,” squeaks the Baronet, “and the remainder when the business is done?”

“The devil knock you into hell with your, ‘when the business is done!’” mutters the other. “We’s doin’ your job for you for little enough. Tain’t everyone as’d h’undertake the funeral of a h’Earl’s heir like Sir Percy de Bohun——”

Her Ladyship’s like now to fall in a swoon; but not she; only leans she a bit against the bricks, her bosom heaving, her eyes dilating, her lips bitten in until they are almost bleeding.

“Hush-h-h! no names, you varlets!” interrupts Sir Robin.

“Hey?” responds the other, “the walls ain’t got no h’ears, and if they ’ad wot I’m a-sayin’s the cussid truth, eh, Bloksey?”

Bloksey grunts.

“The town’ll be afire when it’s out that a gallant like ’im that’s heir to Lord Gower’s been done fer; and then, my fine gentleman, who’s to pay for’t, if we’s caught and if we ’appens to be seen by any one when we’re a doin’ of your job? No, money all down now, or Sir Percy lives as long as ’e likes, for us!”

Peg’s hand’s upon the hilt of her sword.

Shall she spring and run Sir Robin through?

Shall she hide and buy the rascals out at a higher price than he has paid?

But no sooner do these thoughts rush through her brain than the utter impossibility of compassing the one, or of performing the other, undetected, if even with her life, and she so at the mercy of these cut-throats, comes to steady her, and she realizes that her only part is to get away as fast as she may, and unseen if she can.

Meantime Sir Robin concludes his bargain with the two desperadoes, and as they withdraw into their haunt, and he turns on his heel, he espies Lady Peggy rounding the corner with her bundle under her arm. The little Baronet with a sidelong glance in at the hallway to make sure his men are out of sight, darts to the opposite side of the court on tiptoe, and then, putting hands to mouth, calls across softly, but clearly, in a tone half of joy, half anger.

“Mr. Incognito! Mr. Incognito! Ho! I say, Incognito!”

Peg stops short. ’Twere wiser perhaps to try to discover what had put Sir Robin McTart up to the murder.

“By Gad, Sir!” cries this one, making a dash now over to Peg’s side of the way. “Here have I scoured the town for you day and night, and no trace of you anywhere! ‘Incognito’ me no more, Sir! Who are you, Sir? Damme! I’ll stand no more such nonsense!” Sir Robin’s valor’s thoroughly based on the knowledge that, were blade to be unsheathed to his hurt, he could and would shout for his hirelings to the rescue.

’Twas the first and only time in his life that he was ever known to urge, or even hint, a quarrel _in propria persona_.

“I’ll ‘incognito’ you to the end of the chapter, Sir Robin McTart,” answers Lady Peggy, clapping hand to hilt.

“Very well, Sir, very well,” says the Baronet, reflecting that another corpse might cost him ten guineas more, ere he were done with it; and besides yearning for the news of His Lady which he thinks he may glean. “I’ve small stomach for fightin’ any man. Religion don’t teach us that lesson, but ’tis a devilish trick you’ve played me, Sir.”

“In what way, Sir? Out with it,” replies Peggy.

“You, Sir, sent me to Kennaston a-seeking Lady Peggy Burgoyne, Sir; she was from home, and not a word else could I buy or wring out of her servant’s cursed mouth. Then I hied to Kent, believing, from your fine messages to me from Her Ladyship, that she must be there at her godmother’s. No, Sir! she was not; nor could any one tell but that she was at Kennaston Castle for all they knew. Back in town post-haste, I seek Lark Lane, where her brother lodges, so I had heard, only to learn that he has gone to stop with Sir Percy de Bohun, in Charlotte Street.”

“Well, you sought him there?” inquires Peg quivering with suppressed excitement.

“I did not, Sir!” replies Sir Robin with emphasis.

“Thank heaven!” says his companion fervently, an exclamation which may do double duty, and is well taken by the little gentleman from Kent.

“No, Sir; you do not suppose, Sir, that I’m a-going to risk a life that’s dear to Lady Peggy, at the hands of a ripping brawler and sure-kill like Sir Percy, do you?”

“Ah, Sir Robin,” quoth Her Ladyship. “If you knew what a consolation it would be to Lady Peggy to hear of your unwillingness to hazard your precious person in such company, ’twould ease your mind and heart.”

“Look you!” whispers Sir Robin, plucking at Peg’s sleeve. “But tell me where she is? This mystery’s killing me! How fares she? Does she pine for me? and is this true?” With shaking hands Sir Robin takes from his pocket a copy of a print of the day previous, and unfolding, reads to the astonished Peg the following paragraphs.

“Town’s talk is all for the very pretty quarrel betwixt Sir P——y de B——n, and the gallant and handsome Sir R——n McT——t of Kent. ’Tis all over Mayfair, and far beyond, that the cause of the dispute’s the lovely but mysterious Lady P——y B——e.”

“’Slife!” interrupts Peg, catching at straws. “You now perceive, Sir Robin, why ’tis that Her Ladyship must keep her whereabouts a secret, even,” she adds with sentimental deflection, “from you. Trust me, Sir, as you would trust her, and be guided by my counsel!”

Sir Robin nods vigorously, fluttering his sheet with anxious fingers. “Listen, Sir, listen, to this further.” He reads on. “Sir P——y de B——n has sworn by all that’s sacred, so ’tis said, to stick Sir R——n McT——t to the death, and serious consequences are feared.”

“Ah!” cries Lady Peggy, overjoyed to hear anything that may serve to keep the little Baronet and Sir Percy from meeting. “’Tis a gentleman of his word, I promise you. Better get back at once to Robinswold, and let London and Sir Percy gallop to the devil, an they see fit!”

“Nay,” replies the one addressed. “Not I, Sir Incognito. It is not for a McTart to turn his back on danger, but the rather,” and here by the fish-oil gleam, the little gentleman’s squint eyes leer cunningly up into Her Ladyship’s face: “The rather,” continues he, glancing cautiously around, “take measures to protect myself.”

“Very commendable of you, Sir Robin, by my faith,” cries Peggy, although she shudders, now linking her arm in her companion’s, and assuming an air of easy confidence, by the which she hopes to ensnare him into a complete revelation of his plans.

“Since you go armed, and are, I doubt not, a master in the art of self-defense, what have you to fear from Sir Percy de Bohun?”

“True,” responds the Baronet, with a reservation to himself and no mind at all to proceed any further with his revelations. “Gad! Sir, a fellow like that,” clutching at the newspaper stuck among his ruffles, “ain’t to be trusted as long as he’s above the ground. I swear, Sir! I fear to walk abroad and hold myself housed at my inn in Pimlico, close, not daring to show my face. A ruffian that’s publicly printed as seekin’ life’d stick me in the back in the dark, an he got the chance.”

“Nay, nay, Sir Robin,” says Peg, up for her sweetheart, “he’s not that sort of a gentleman—but, look you, keep close, frequent neither club, coffee or chocolate-house, or rout or drum; eschew Vauxhall, Richmond and the play-house, or any likely place where bucks gather, for trust me, Sir, an you do meet Sir Percy, there’ll be the devil to pay, and his blade’s his obedient slave.”

Poor Peg! She has not only to protect Percy of his life, but, as before, to prevent any discovery of her usurpation of the little Baronet’s name.

“Curse him! I fear him not!” responds this one, his itching fingers twisting about the empty purse in his pocket.

“But of Her Ladyship, Sir Go-between?” adds he presently, as they emerge upon the broader and better lighted road. “’Pon my life, but to so find myself the hero of a romantic passion with the Lady secluded in a mystery, a nobleman thirsting for my blood, a nameless gentleman playin’ Mercury betwixt me and my fair, ’tis amazing, Sir! prodigious amazing!” Sir Robin struts and takes snuff very comfortably, since he has got out of a very dangerous environment.

Peg’s soul sickens within her as she listens to him.

“Tell me now, how fares she?”

“Not so well,” answers she.

“You’ve seen her?”

“Not I.”

“Are like to?”

“No, Sir.”

“You can convey messages to her by some fond way she’s planned to get her news of me, eh?”

“I can, Sir Robin.”

“Sir, whoever you are, for pity’s sake, tell me where is she?”

“Not far, Sir.”

“Gad, Sir, to touch her hand, her cheek! You’re in her sure confidence? She does favor me? She will not give me hopes, Sir, to turn around and break my heart by marryin’ of another?”

“Lady Peggy’ll never marry any man, Sir Robin, I’m of the opinion, so I’d not give that for your chances!” answers she.

“Think you she ever cared for Sir Percy?” asks he.

“Sir, who can fathom a woman’s heart? ’Tis deeper than the sea; so deep, methinks, ofttimes she herself holds not that plummet that can sound it. Sir Robin, I take my leave of you.”

“Hold! hold! Sir, not so fast. Where next may I encounter you?”

“That must be as Her Ladyship says,” answers Peggy. “Your inn’s in Pimlico?”

“Yes, the Puffled Hen, not far off Battersea Bridge.”

“Farewell, Sir, and look you keep close in-doors, and risk no quarrel with Sir Percy de Bohun.”

“Farewell, Sir,” watching Her Ladyship turn down the street as he turns up. “Gad’s life! ’twas well he happened when he did, and not earlier, to eavesdrop my bargain with the wharf-rats! ’Sdeath! Risk no quarrel with Sir Percy! Not so long as there’s guineas left to buy corpses with!” and the little gentleman trots over to Pimlico, tolerably well pleased with his evening’s work; there, however, to be greeted with the reading of more newspapers, including that one which had earlier in the day so entertained Beau Brummell and his familiars.

Not for a moment did the Baronet mistrust, or have a suspicion, other than that his fame had caused him to be made the subject of such a pack of pretty stories as was then the custom of the press, as now, regarding any gentleman of position and gallantry. Sir Robin’s vanity easily swallowed the dose, and he even slapped his thigh and laughed his little dice-rattle laugh, as he reflected how safe he really was with never a challenge or a brawl to his cowardly credit since he got his first flogging at Eton.

He actually mouthed over his prospective wooing, and assured winning of Lady Peggy, and felt a calm satisfaction in the knowledge that the one rival he feared would so soon be beyond the reach of ladies’ smiles or tears. No qualms came to disturb his genial enjoyment of purposed assassination. In those days to kill was nearer men’s tempers than it is to-day. ’Twas with blackguard and man of honor alike, the first redress for even the pettiest sort of a dispute; with the difference of method only, that the gallant blade fought out his quarrel on the open field, while the craven bought a hireling’s dagger to do it in the dark.

Meantime, My Lady, by as direct a route as she can fathom out of the labyrinth of her ignorance and her distracted state of mind, makes back to Peter’s Court with her parcel of duds still under her arm.

She enters, mounts the stair-case, seeks her room, closes the door, and sits down.

“’Tis now not to be doubted,” she says to herself, “but that the Devil’s at the helm of my ship—and that I am to be a man for the rest of my life. ’Sdeath! as dad says, I’ll stop over till Sunday night’s o’er past, and as surely as my name’s Peggy Burgoyne I’ll foil that little dastardly groat of a Baronet’s plot to murder him that I once l-loved. Bah!” cries she half aloud. “What’s the use of mincin’ matters that’s true? Him that I love! Even if he’s dyin’ for Lady Diana, and goin’ to be her husband instead of mine! ‘Consents!’” murmurs she, flinging herself on the bed in a flood of tempestuous tears.

In vain regretting, she now too fully realized that her own wilful words, her jealousy, her falsehoods, her deceits, were the sole causes for Sir Robin’s terror, and, therefore, for the abominable scheme which he had just concocted.

Presently she arose, tossed the bundle once more back into its hiding-place, and set to pacing up and down the floor as she’d seen her twin do at home when he was looking high and low for a rhyme.

’Twas weightier matters kept Peg moving for an hour or more, and quick-spinning as were her heart and temper, her brain bore a more even balance.

First she had thought to warn Percy by a letter unsigned; the which she knew he’d pitch into the fire and think no more about. Then, that she’d write one to Kennaston imploring him to keep Percy from the pier Sunday night or any other; this she soon recognized would have the fate of t’other. Then, ’twas to contrive some plan to fetch him to Richmond, Windsor, any place else for Sunday; but to this arose the objection that the blackguards cheated of one day, or place, would not fail to wait upon their prey some other. At the last, Her Ladyship’s shrewd common-sense and indomitable pluck plainly showed her there was but one safe plan out of the danger; and this must be to go herself to the river Sunday night, and there concealed, armed, await the coming of the cut-throats from their den, and from the rear, put a shot into each at one and the same moment.

Could she do it?

Her Ladyship had muscles of steel, no nerves, as the fine ladies of her day comprehended them; as brave and loyal a heart as ever beat in any breast; good faith in God, for all her frowardness; and that species of love burning within her for Sir Percy de Bohun, which has, not a few times in the world’s history, made frailest woman into man’s equal for courage.

To Lady Peggy there seemed a divine compensation in the fact that it had come to her, to save the very one whom, by her lies and wilfulness, she alone had been the means of endangering.

IX

_In this same Her Ladyship’s mount is shot dead under her in Epstowe Forest, and she makes off on Tom Kidde’s horse._

This young gentleman now stood looking from a window of his uncle’s house, upon all the dewy leafing beauty of the Park at May. His brow was knit, his lips tight shut, his hand amid his ruffles clenched.

At the table sat Kennaston, inky-fingered, scribbling; eyes now rolling to the ceiling, now roving hither and yon.

“Ah!” sighs this one. “If the critics do not find this canto to their taste, may I be damned!”

“You’re like to go to Court to the Devil, I’m thinking then, dear lad,” speaks de Bohun over his shoulder.

“Fame! Fame!” cries the young poet, pushing back in his chair, wig awry and quill poised in air. “I’ll hunt thee to my dying hour, and if thou escap’st me then, ’twill all be Lady Diana’s fault.”

“How’s that?” asks Percy, with, however, but small ring of interest in his voice.

“Oh!” exclaimed Peg’s twin, “the minx mocks me! ’Tis Monday, kindness and all smiles, to wake on Tuesday for indifference; pouts on Wednesday; lure-me-ons o’ Thursday; forgetfulness for Friday; radiance for Saturday, and all a-jumble, sweets-and-frowns! showers! sunshine! what you will!—and will not!—for my Sunday fare.”

Percy sighs and smiles.

“Percy, sometimes I think Diana does love you!”

“No, Sir, never. We’re like brother and sister, nothing else, save my uncle’s absurd, obstinate (now-cured) whim, since childhood, to match his heir with Brookwood’s heiress. Odzooks! Ken, you’re like every other swain that ever sighed, always looking for a rival to be jealous of! Lady Di cares for you; an you doubted it before, ’tis time to take up hope, since you are asked to Brookwood for a visit, and go popping off to-night, with me left home to think alone on Peggy.”

“Zounds! Sir, ’tis not you only that’s thinking of her!” cries the young man rising and crossing to the fire. “But, what would you! if I call out the bell-man, publish her disappearance in the newspapers; get word to my father and my mother; what comes of’t all, but scandal? and like as not dad an apoplexy, and My Lady mother a set of fits and a death-bed!”

“Ken, I’m a damned fool ever to stop inside of doors or to cease pacing streets, haunting inns, shadowing Sir Robin McTart, until I find her!”

“Fie, Sir, if she’s gone off with Sir Robin McTart, ’tis, I promise you, with a wedding-ring on her finger, and not else! An she loves him, what’s to be said or done, if he’s her lawful lord?”

“Naught. I myself went down to Kennaston yesterday. I said nothing to you, Ken,” he adds, noting the other’s surprised and reproachful start, with a hand upon his junior’s shoulder.

“I thought I’d not interrupt the epic and your frenzies about Lady Di, with my troubles.”

“Well, what news of Peg? Any?” asks her twin anxiously.

“None. I saw Chockey, and only got from her what Grigson had, the positive assurance that her mistress had gone up to London. ‘Of her own free will?’ I asked. ‘Yes, Sir Percy,’ said she. ‘Alone?’ I inquired. ‘No, Sir Percy,’ was her answer, nor could I force, frighten, or buy the baggage into any further confidence. She did beg of me, however, seek out Her Ladyship, if I could, and find how she fared.”

“Gad’s life, Sir! She has eloped. ’Tis clear as crystal!”

“One thing more, I asked Chock: Had Her Ladyship money in her purse? ‘Lawk, Sir Percy! cried she, ‘two hundred pounds I know of!’”

“‘Two hundred pounds!’” repeats Peg’s twin in vast amazement. “’Tis sure more’n she ever saw before in our whole lives put together. Oh, the girl’s safely wedded, Sir, beyond a doubt!”

“Sir!” says Percy, sitting at the table, with his head low in his hands. “The blackguard’s won her from me!”

“I fear so, Sir.” The two men’s hands meet and grasp in the silent fashion of their sex: ofttimes more eloquent than any words e’er speeched.

“Would I had made a hole in his heart that night in Lark Lane!” cried Sir Percy next.

“Sir Robin’s nimble, Sir, and knows a trick or two with steel, as well as dice.”

“Aye: a gallant every inch; ’tis for that I hate him all the more; and yet, Ken, sometimes, lad, when I’ve been a-staring at him from afar, I’ve caught something in his countenance resembling Peg, and it’s that’s made me halt like a chit at provoking of him further.”

Kennaston nods. “Aye: I’ve remarked it; but held my peace, Percy, for ’tis said man and wife often grow to look alike, and I doubt not, sometimes begin after the same pattern.”

Sir Percy sighs again: turns up the room with drooped lids; in silence getting that grip upon his soul which noblest natures insist on with themselves, even in crises like his. ’Tis a bitter battle, closer fought and quicker, too, than any won or lost with swords and guns. The struggle’s writ upon his face as he goes; but when he comes his victory’s writ there too.

“Kennaston,” says he, very quiet and off-hand, “I’m thinking I’ll go to the Colonies, to Virginia.”

“What! no!” ejaculates the poet, placing a hand on either of his friend’s shoulders.

“Yes, Ken, dear lad, I could not live in England without her; perhaps yonder, over the sea, in the new land that’s growing up, I may learn to lead a new, better life, just for her sake that’s lost to me forever. At the least I can strive, at such a distance, to serve my country and my King like a man—until the end I’ll pray for comes.”

Kennaston turns off, with tears in his eyes.

“Mostly,” says he brokenly, “were not Peggy my twin, I’d be in a ripe mood for a-cursing of her! When, Percy?” asks he, after a pause.

“As soon as may be,” is the reply. “I’ve the promise of a commission by my uncle’s influence! Come, come, lad o’ my heart,” laughs he through his own misty eyes. “The wind’s not in my ship’s sails yet. I promised Mr. Brummell for his expedition to Ivy Dene for the morrow, and I’ll hardly be ready in all points to get under way before you’re back in town from your visit to Brookwood; whence I foresee you’ll fly with Diana’s ‘yes’ betwixt her kiss on your cheek.”

’Twas now Mr. Brummell’s famous and long-talked-about party to Ivy Dene this very next day that dawned.

Now, Her Ladyship had vowed to herself that, come what might, she would avoid this, even did Fate keep her in London. ’Twas no part of her program, although she could do it as well as any sporting squire, to make for her future any such memory as riding a horse astride for thirty miles out and back, in the company a half-score of gentlemen must furnish; yet, so is each of us rather the creature of circumstance than will, that the hour appointed found Peg mounted on a gray with blood in his veins, and a-pacing down Piccadilly to the White Horse beside Beau Brummell’s bay.

She could not, with Sir Robin’s murderous pact in her perpetual view, make up her mind to omit a company that should include Sir Percy.