Читать книгу My Lady Peggy Goes to Town - Frances Aymar Mathews - Страница 6

III

Wherein is recounted how Her Ladyship set

forth, accompanied by her faithful

woman, for London Town.

Whoever knows the rare delights of an English dawn nowadays can figure for himself, to the letter, how ’twas when Lady Peggy and Chockey, after a make-haste toilet in the dark, slipped out into the sweetness that long-ago spring morning. The mists were rolling and creeping slowly back and over from the river-meadows; the brawl of the stream tinkled in their ears; the scents of the flower-garden next the court-yard of the Castle, came potently, lured by the flush that by now was tingeing all the pallid east with rose; the yellow moon hung low to her setting, and two stars for handmaidens still shone, of all her million troupe, at either side the disk; yonder, the steeple of the church pricked up to heaven; hither, the oaks, greening to their full leafage; there a brown rabbit scurried across the road; here the rooks hopped and ha-ha-ed to their fellows. Else, ’twas all a-hush with that recurring fond expectancy of hope, with which every day of every year so waits and wonders for “to-morrow” to be born.

Lady Peggy took the lead, kirtle high upheld, shoes soon bedrabbled in the dust and dew. Chockey, bearing the newly-covered box in her stout arms, followed close at heel. Both women, veiled double, and being wholly unused to such matters, sighting the path much the worse for the covering; in fact Peggy stumbled along like some old crone, and yet laughed under her breath merrily back at floundering Chockey.

“Hist! Chock, had I now but brought dad’s cane and snuff-box, I must sure be taken for some three-score dame come yawning out of bed before her hour, to overtake, mayhap, a recreant grandson! Zounds! as my twin’d say, were he here,” and hauling at the mischievous Brussels veil, down flopped Her Ladyship, on her knees betwixt two villainous ruts.

“Oh, My Lady!” moaned the waiting-woman panting under cook’s delaine and the calf-skin box. “Lord ha’ mercy! an this be the way to London. I’d liefer be sittin’ in the kitchen chimney a-blessin’ my porridge and spoonin’ of’t, than this!” assisting her mistress to her feet.

“Fie upon thee, Chock! Remember you’re waiting-woman now to a lady of fashion, to wit myself, and well used to journeys up to town in coaches every season! Lud!” Here Peggy stood in a puddle to take breath. “I wonder if we’ll ever pass muster at the inn; and yet I’m sure, landlord, or dame, or hostler’d never think o’ me.”

“Haste, Madam,” returns Chockey, “for do not forget the coach starts at five on the stroke, and we’ve still the quarter-mile to go.”

So on they went. My Lady Peggy unable to restrain, from time to time, however, the keen relishful overflow of her spirits. When one’s young and not ailing, a new day whips the blood and brain to such a pinnacle of unquestioning gladness as breaks bonds, be they never so weighty, and, pro tem., sweet few-years comrades him with the happiness of earth and air and sky.

But once the curl of cheerful smoke from the “Mermaid” chimney full in view above the oak-tops, My Lady sobered much, and, clutching Chockey’s arm, both fell a-trembling; stood stock-still, and stared into each other’s eyes, as lace and wool would let.

“Lady Peggy,” cries Chockey, “an it please Your Ladyship,” with tell-tale gasps of throat, “let’s go back home!”

“Jane Chockey!” answered her mistress, only needing this spur to set her a-panting the more to her purpose, “we’ll go on.”

And on they went. Peggy with a measured tread; Chockey plodding after. Into the inn-yard, where even now the great coach with its four bays waited the signal to start.

The passengers were piling on; and, atop already, quipped a trio of college lads in beavers. There stood mine host and hostess, maids, men, boys, cooks, and scullions; tips were tossed, baggage packed in the boot; farewells spoken; candles held high, lashes cracked; prancing, pawing; a rattle, a door-bang, curtsies, bows,—

“All h’up for the London mail!” shouted the coachman merrily.

And Lady Peggy and her woman, neatly sandwiched between a fat, fussy dowager and a swearing, tearing old gentleman who together absorbed the most of the vehicle and all the attention of their fellow passengers, found themselves on the road to town.

No one paid the least heed to them, save that, at the stops, the guard came civilly to ask Chockey if her mistress required any refreshment, to the which Chockey, well prepared, always answered “no”; since, to raise their veils might betray their identity. So ’twas in hunger, silence and oblivion that the momentous journey was taken.

When they crossed the heath, the testy old gentleman did turn toward Peggy, thereby flattening her the more, and, pulling out a brace of pistols, said:

“Have no fears, Madam, I’ve traveled this road these sixty years, probably you have yourself”—thus paying tribute to Peggy’s now trembling agitation, which he pleasantly mistook for age.

“And the damned rascals, Madam, know better’n to attack the coach when I’m aboard. You’re not in fear?” now bending a pair of sharp old eyes on the Brussels lace.

Lady Peggy, smothering her laughter, and recalling how often, half-a-score years ago, she’s sat on this old gentleman’s knee (he was a friend of her father’s), puts hand to ear, and nudges Chockey behind the broad back of the dowager.

The old gentleman nods comprehendingly, turns square to Chockey, and says “deaf?”

And Chockey, divided between terror and mirth, nods back again.

Without other incident, the journey up to the great city is accomplished, and, by three in the afternoon, up pull the four horses before the door of the King’s Arms in the Strand, and Lady Peggy, and her woman, and her box, are set down in the yard, amid the din and bustle incident always to the arrival of travelers.

Not much attention is bestowed on them. A couple of unpretending appearing women, evidently not persons of quality, as the meek little calf-skin box is their sole belonging; coming up to London too without even one man-servant,—bespeak but little consideration in the throng of ladies of fashion, gallants over their coffee, courtiers popping in for the news, sparks intent on ogling a pretty face or noting a trim ankle, that much o’er crowded the yard, ordinary and parlor of the King’s Arms.

Just here once, for an instant, Lady Peggy’s brave heart failed her; most, when she espied at the door, just getting into her silken-curtained chair, a lady, so young and beautiful, so richly girt, so spick and span, with such wonderful patches and such snowy powdered locks, such sparkling eyes, such begemmed fingers glistening through her mitts,—and knew at once that Lady Diana Weston was indeed “in town”!

She faltered a bit, indeed sank down on the box which Chockey had set in a corner of the yard, and, for a brief moment, both mistress and maid bedewed their masking falls with a few splashing tears.

Then spoke Lady Peggy, rising and plucking up her spirits,—“Chock,” said she, “beckon me a boy from yonder group; inquire the path to the corner of Holywell Road and Lark Lane; order him shoulder the box and lead the way. Speak with a swagger, Chock; knock the drops out of your lashes with a laugh, girl! Let ’em think we’re old hands at the town and used to bein’ waited upon!” Lady Peggy straightened herself in her grimy shoes, and gave the Levantine a twitch which she hoped was quite the mode.

Meantime Chockey did her mistress’s bidding, and in less time than it takes to set it down, the two were following the lad, in and out of such a net and mazework of streets and lanes as set their heads a-whirling; now they wheeled around this bend, now across that alley,—foul-smelling as a ditch or a dirty dog; anon up a broader way where knockers shone and chairs waited at the curb; then a cut down here, and at last this was Holywell Road and yonder the opening of Lark Lane.

Well, to be sure, ’twas a sorry spot. As Lady Peggy paid the boy and stood on the step, she ruefully surveyed the environment; the wig-maker’s opposite, with a wig in the window, she half-laughingly noted, the very yellow counterpart of Sir Robin McTart’s round pate; a dingy chocolate-house at t’other end of the row of dark, timbered, nodding houses; and this one of the stretch, taller, grimier even than its forlorn neighbors, was where poor scribbling Kennaston hunted that jade called Fame!

At double-knock, came hobbling the charwoman, loath to be disturbed at her twilight pipe, but brisking at sight of Lady Peggy’s now uncovered face and shilling between fingers.

“Yes, indeed, here His Lordship lodged and ate; was His Lordship at ’ome? Nay, that was he not! but surely might be before cock-crow to-morrow! His Lordship’s sister! Lawk! Would Her Ladyship and Her Ladyship’s woman condescend to come in and mount? What a beautiful surprise for ’is young Lordship when he did get ’ome to be sure! No, he ’adn’t gone out alone, a gay spark, a gentleman of the first quality ’ad come, as often ’e did, and fetched h’off His Lordship with ’im, last night; ’is name? Was it Sir Robin McTart peradventure? No, no, that was a name she ’ad never ’eard! ’Twas no Duke nor Earl neither, but a—Sir, Sir—?”

And as the old woman and Chockey, carrying the calf-skin box between them, reached the last landing and set their burden down in thankfulness, Lady Peggy, feeling the way, said:

“Sir Percy de Bohun, perchance? Methinks my brother has a companion by some such title!”

“Aye, that’s ’im! Ah, My Lady, as splendid a gentleman as ever sang ‘God save the King!’ free with ’is sovereigns, My Lady, as trees is with their nuts; and, to match ’im for oaths! there’s not that Prince o’ the blood as can swear so beautiful when ’e’s dead drunk. These is ‘is Lordship’s your brother’s chambers, My Lady!” throwing open the door and ushering Peggy and her servitor into as dingy, dirty, empty, sad, bare, and unkempt an appearing place as ever mortal and intrepid lady set two tired feet within.

But Lady Peggy, for the nonce, was only eager on one point.

“Drunk, say you, dame? and wherefore should so generous a young gentleman be a-gallopin‘ that silly road, eh?”

“Lawk! Your Ladyship! ‘ow should I know? but His Lordship’s own gentleman, My Lady, what ‘olds ‘im up and steadies His Lordship in ‘is cups, do say”—the old charwoman, whisking the dust of ages from a wooden chair, sets it for Lady Peggy and bends to tidy the hearth and gather together the few shingles and faggots strewn about.

“‘Say’ what?” urges Peggy, with eager eyes and a sixpence shining in her hand (another shilling’s more than she dare hazard of her slender store).

“Do say, My Lady,—God bless Your Ladyship’s sweet face! as it’s h’all on account of a young lady!”

Lady Peggy’s eyes sparkle and all at once the smoky room seems cheerful, and the tardy blaze in the fire-place glows and thaws her chilled bones and blood.

“Ah?” she says, smiling.

“Yes, My Lady, a splendid young lady of fashion, an heiress, a beauty, with half London a-danglin’ after ’er; and ’er that ’aughty, as if she was of the royal family, and ’im a-killin’ ’imself for ’er sake!”

And back again slide Kennaston’s chambers into their original depravity of dirt and dreariness; and down goes the charwoman to her pipe; and Lady Peggy on the wooden chair, Chockey on the box, spread their fingers to the reluctant warmth and are silent; while the clock ticks on the mantel-shelf; while the slit of blue that peers in at the window, grays; while the noises that are all new to these two, come rasping, roaring, shouting up to them through the broken pane—the dizzying, multitudinous, incoherent surge of London town, as it first smites ears not yet wonted to its fascination or its meaning—merely lonely, forlorn, dispirited new-comers who have not yet learned the passion and the melody that lie hidden in its Babel.

The waiting-woman is the first to move; with the homely excellent instincts of her class, she rises, and, after a slow glance around the place, falls “a-reddin’ of it up” as she mentally designated her attempt. She seized the stumpy broom from its corner and swept the floor, brushed the maze of cobwebs from ceiling and walls; beat the mats; wiped the stools and table, the broad window-sills and the shelves; shook out the dingy, ink-stained cloth; straightened the litter of books and papers, quills and horns; and finally went a-peering into the cupboards. A grimy coffee-pot and a well-matching kettle were fished out and rubbed; the kettle filled with water from the tubfull on the landing and straightway hung upon the crane; plates and cups and saucers and spoons brought forth; a paper of coffee, a jug of milk and a bottle of sugar discovered, and presently Chockey handed her mistress a cup of steaming mocha and modestly poured one for herself.

“Oh, Chock!” cries Lady Peggy, setting down the empty cup. “What a fool was I to come! What am I, forsooth, in all this great desert but a grain of sand! And Percy, not,” Lady Peggy stamps her muddy red-heeled shoe fiercely, “a-dyin’ for me in the least! and my twin a-livin’ in such a hole! wherever does he sleep, Chock?” Surveying the barn-like apartment in disgust and dismay, her gaze finally arrested by a ladder slanting in the darkest corner and reaching up to an opening in the ceiling.

“Up there, I dare be sworn! Lud! If this ’tis to be an author,” flouts Peggy, “God ha’ mercy on ’em! I tell you what, Chock. I’ll tarry a little, have a word with Kennaston; then we’ll back, girl, whence we came, quick; I’ll send word to Sir Robin McTart, and then let weddin’-bells ring as soon as ever he sees fit. No more o’ love for me, Chock. I’m done with it forever in this world; I’ll take marriage instead!”

Chockey shakes her head ruefully as her mistress, more to emphasize her latest resolve than from any other motive, flings wide open the cracked doors of the clothes-press next the chimney-piece and gives a tempestuous shake-out to the garments a-hanging on the pegs.

“Lud! look! Kennaston’s suit of gray velvets, not much the worse for wear! Small need has the poor lad for fine clothes, I warrant ye; most like a-keepin’ of ’em for pawn-shop use and bread and butter! Chock, unlock the box, and get out the waistcoat I broidered for my twin, at much expense of temper, against his birthday. So! Smooth it out! it’s brave, eh, Chock? Fit for Court, I should fancy, and, that’s right, the laced cravat! poor duck, I do misdoubt me, if he’s seen a frill on his wrist since quittin’ home! There!”

Lady Peggy surveys the gifts she’s brought, as Chockey takes them out.

“Lawk, Madam, ’twere better, were’t not, I bundle all Your Ladyship’s duds and mine up yonder against His Lordship’s comin’?”

“Right, Chock! up with ’em, and I’ll steady the road while you climb!” Suiting action to word, as Chockey, bearing the calf-skin box, cautiously mounts the rickety ladder.

“What’s it like, Chock?”

“Nothin’ I ever seed afore, My Lady; dark, stuffy; a mattress a-sprawlin’ on the bare boards, and a pair of torn quilts, and a piller no bigger’n my fist, that’s all!”

“Enough, Chock; you and I can sleep our one night in London there as soundly,” Lady Peggy’s proud lip quivers, “as I could on down or ’twixt my mother’s best lamb’s wool! Come down, Chock, by the fire; and list, to-morrow, at first crow, we’ll back to Kennaston. We’ll ’a’ been up to town, Chock! and, savin’ my twin, never will Lady Peggy look again on face of any man who now treads London street. I swear!”

“Hark, Madam!”

Chockey jumps from the ladder, eyes a-popping, while the hubbub in the street below cuts short her mistress’s valiant speech. Such a hullaballoo; such a shouting, echoing from one end of the precinct to t’other, as speeds mistress and maid both to the window, a-craning their necks far out; as sends the charwoman from her ingle-nook under ground, a-hobbling up the steep four flights.