Читать книгу My Lady Peggy Goes to Town - Frances Aymar Mathews - Страница 7

IV

In the which is rehearsed how Her Ladyship

did nimbly slip into man’s

attire and estate.

Through the fast gathering mist, through the smoke that’s London’s own, the two women leaning behold a gay company of gallants rounding the far corner, two hundred feet away; linked arms, swords a-touching, heels a-clattering; one voice high and young, uplifted in a lilt like this: Lady Peggy had heard that voice before.

In years to come when gallants sing,

In praise of ladies fair,

All will allow, I pledge you square,

That brighter eyes n’er banished care,

Than those that bade us do and dare,

When George the Third was King!

Let roof and rafter chime and ring,

Let echo shout it back: we sing

The merry days, My Lords and Sirs!

When George the Third is King!

And at the chorus, a brave dozen more of pairs of lusty lungs to take it up and urge it on with flashing rapiers, knocking points, in the flare of the lights from the coffee-house at hand; and good twelve of plumed hats a-tossing in the air, and catch-again; and laughter loud and long, then dying down as that fresh sweet voice begins its second verse, and just so the old charwoman knocks hastily at the door, calling in Lady Peggy’s head and Chockey’s from the open.

“’H’askin’ Your Ladyship’s parding,” says she, “but I thought it no more’n my duty to acquaint Your Ladyship, as can’t see from this ’eight, that Your Ladyship’s brother, Lord Kennaston’s a-comin’ ’ome, and a-bringin’ with ’im ’is comrades, among ’em, Sir Percy de Bohun, and mayhap ’er Ladyship’d like best,”—now addressing Chockey, as Lady Peggy paced the floor in a too-evident agitation—“like best,” continued the dame, “to ’ide ’erself, and h’if so, the noble gentlemen h’all of ’em, I’m thinkin’, bein’ summat raised with wine, my ’umble bit of a place h’is h’at Her Ladyship’s service for the night or as long as Her Ladyship sees fit, for I am this minute sent for to go down into the country immediate, where, God help us all! my tenth daughter what’s married to her second husband lies at death’s door!”

And all the while the old charwoman is speaking between her bits of broken teeth, Peggy hears that other voice uplifted, ringing, gay, glad, care-free, as it seems to her strained ears, up and down the darkening little street, tapping at the window-panes, tapping at her heart-strings and stretching them to such a tension of anger, outraged pride, and wounded affection as never Lady suffered before.

She thanks the old woman and hastily dismisses her; then facing about from the window whence she has been able to descry the merry group making a rush into the coffee-house, Her Ladyship, seized by a sudden mad impulse, says to her woman:

“Chock, take my purse, tumble as fast as your two legs can carry you down, out, across to the wigmaker’s we laughed at when we came in, buy me the yellow wig, Chock, that adorns the front, an’ come not back without it, an you love me, Chock; wheedle, coax, promise more’n there is here,” sticking the purse in the astounded woman’s hand, “but get me the wig that is the very double of dear Sir Robin’s own sweet pate!” She pushes Chockey out on the landing with an impetus that sends her well on her errand, and then, shutting and buttoning the door, Lady Peggy gets herself out of her furbelows and petticoats, her stays, her bodice, her collar, brooch, kerchief, pocket, hoop and hair pins, and into her brother’s suit of grays, the new waistcoat and cravat she’s brought him for a gift; she tips the coffee-pot and washes her face and pretty throat and hands in the brown liquid; she plaits her long hair and winds it close and tight about her head; she buckles on Kennaston’s Court-rapier, she fetches his gray plumed hat with its paste buckle from the press; she ogles herself in the six-inch mirror; she swaggers, swings, struts; and, says she, dipping her finger in the soot of the old chimney and marking out two black beetling brows over her own slender ones,—

“An I know not how to play at being Sir Robin, Lady Peggy’s chosen sweetheart, boldly and with a loud voice; know not how to swear and prance and pick a pretty quarrel, crying ‘Match me your Lady Diana with my Lady Peggy!’ then never did I dozen times for sport don my twin’s breeches and coat and masquerade at being that sweet creature,—a man! Ha! I have it all at fingers’ ends!” cries Peggy, fumbling in her discarded pocket. “Here’s the very letter I writ for Sir Robin to take and present to my brother. ’Twill stand me in good stead to-night that I forgot to give it to him. If Chockey but succeed in cajoling the man out of his wig, an’ if the gallants come not ere I can fit it to my head!”—opening the door impetuously almost to bump against the returning Chockey’s nose.

“Thou hast it! Oh Chock! ’Tis I! be not afraid. Come in; adjust it to my poll,—so! Lose not a moment; pick up my petticoats, leave not a scrap that bespeaks a woman; there! You’re dropping a hair-pin; now, up with ye to the loft! an’ no matter if rats nibble your toes, Chock, or mice come play bo-peep with your eye-winkers, or spiders weave across your mouth, an you stir, cry out, move an inch to the creaking of a board, I’ll leave you here your lone self to shift as best you may! Up girl!” touching the speechless Chockey with the rapier-tip urgingly, “and ’tis Sir Robin McTart that bids you!”

The obedient and trembling waiting-woman was not much sooner out of sight in the loft, than again the voice echoed up to where Lady Peggy stood in the gruesome ambush of the landing, well back in the darkest corner behind a pile of boards and débris, bricks and dust, and what-not-else tumbled there from the chimney during the last and many previous storms.

Nearer came the song, then the chorus, broken now with more of chat and laughter; the footsteps sound upon the street, the house-door opens, slams, and up they troop, stumbling in the blackness but knowing well the way, it seems; merry, jocund, up, up, with the refrain of the song still lingering amid their talk in snatches, until they gain the top.

“Are we then indeed at your door, Kennaston?” cries the first to reach, as he feels at the latch.

“Split me, Escombe, you’re there if you can go no farther. Egad! Sirs,” cries the young host, “an I never reach to pinnacle of Fame’s ladder, at the least do I lodge as high as I could get:—a roof that suits my empty purse!”

“Nay, Kennaston.” Peggy, in her man’s gear, trembles at sound of that tone, for ’tis Percy who speaks now, whiles they all push pell-mell into her twin’s chambers, strike lights, pull out candles from cupboard, stir the fire.

“Nay, Kennaston,” says this one, “while De Bohun lives there’s ever a full purse lad, t’ exchange for thy empty one,—and well thou know’st it.”

“Tut, tut!” answers the young man of letters, adding as he glances about, “’pon my soul, gentlemen, my Hebe has been outdoing herself. Saw we ever before in this room, stools lacking dust? floor, riff-raff? walls their festoons? hearth its ashes? coffee-pot its rust? and, by my life, the kettle filled and steaming!”

A peal of mirth greets this nimble sally, as the host pulls from the table drawer a pack of cards and his guests from their pockets a dozen bottles of Falernian.

“Dead broke, am I, My Lords and Gentlemen,” says he, “but here’s the whole Court and the deuce,” flinging the pack in the midst of his guests, “play away an ye’ve a shilling left amongst ye. Let it be Commerce or Hazard; I’ll hold the counters; fill the glasses, as long as there’s a drop to pour; keep a lookout for sharpers,” laughing, “and thank God I’ve even a garret wherein to welcome men of vogue like yourselves!”

A burst of applause follows this; plumed hats are tossed aside, wrist-frills upturned; His Grace of Escombe is shuffling the pack; Sir Percy stands with his back to the fire, coat-skirts held from the cheerful blaze he’s made; stools are drawn up; the host takes his silk kerchief from his throat and polishes the mugs. Chockey has her eye glued to a chink in the cover that divides her loft from the scene of revelry below;—when, a bold knock sounds at the door, and the master with a cheery:

“Come along!” throws wide the portal.

The fine gentleman who stands before him makes a profound bow, to which he responds with one not less magnificent.

“Allow me, Lord Kennaston of Kennaston, since it is, I am persuaded, the brother of Lady Peggy Burgoyne whom I have the pleasure of addressing—?” and at her name, Sir Percy lets his brocaded skirts flop and starts forward eagerly—“of addressing, to present to you this note in the hand-writing of Your Lordship’s adorable sister, the which she gave me, wherewith to present and commend me to Your Lordship’s good offices while I am up in town!”

Another salaam given and returned, while Kennaston, with grace, ushers his new acquaintance in, sets him a stool, all the while eye quick-perusing Lady Peggy’s scrawl.

“Gentlemen!” says their host, “allow me to introduce to you, and, Sir, these gentlemen to you, Sir Robin McTart of Robinswold, Kent, His Grace of Escombe, Sir Percy de Bohun, the Honorable Jack Chalmers, Sir Wyatt Lovell,” etc., etc., etc. The which ceremony being concluded amid many bows and all due forms of mutual delight, the new-comer was cordially invited to take a hand in the game.

Now, as true ’twas that Lady Peggy had never been in a coach until the morning to which this was evening, so true was it that Her Ladyship had not a farthing to her pocket left, and although a good gamester’s daughter, she hesitated, making pretense of hanging her hat and of settling to its proper place her rapier, and pinching her ruffles. While she did so, the rest chatting, Sir Percy crossed the room, and, in a tone that was not heard save by the one he addressed, said to Kennaston:

“As I live, Sir, now’s my chance; I’ll pick a quarrel with this jackanapes that’s dared to oust me from Peggy’s heart. Aye, will I! the sooner the better; blood’ll spill, Kennaston, or ever that puppet and I are thirty minutes older! Mark me! Your sister shall know and hear I’m willing to die for her sake, or—to kill!”

Peggy, meantime, in this second, got her courage well screwed up, and, with a laugh, fitly disguising her voice, said she, seating herself with her legs well under the table—for, at this particular juncture, Her Ladyship, looking down, had beheld with dismay the womanish and forgotten fashion of her shoes.

“Rot me! Gentlemen, your humble servant’s fresh from Will’s, where, ’pon my life! such an apt company of wits and beaux encountered I, as swept my pockets clean and left me not the jingle of a shilling wherewith to bless myself. Your Grace, My Lords, Sirs, and Gentlemen,” quoth Peggy with a fine inclusive wave of her hand, “will, I’m sure, thus excuse me from the game to-night.”

But she had counted without either host or guests, for all of these save Sir Percy de Bohun on the instant pulled purses out and tendered them, crying, as with a single voice,—

“Fie! Fie! Sir Robin! Are we highwaymen? tricksters? Honor us by using our sovereigns as they were your own, eh, Sir Percy, have we not the right of the matter?” asked Jack Chalmers, turning to the tall young man, who, having crossed the room again, now stood leaning moodily against the chimney-piece, frowning, tapping hearth with heel in too evident impatience of the subject of discussion.

“I humbly ask your pardon, Mr. Chalmers,” he replies, “both for differing with you all, and for expressing the same. To my way of thinking”—adds Sir Percy, with deliberation, ill-matched by the flash of his eyes as they take a scornful measure of the supposed Sir Robin—“to my way of thinking, any gentleman who carries his company into any other gentleman’s chambers without the means of a paltry game of loo or écarté in ’s pocket’s not quite such a proper young man ’s he might be!” And with this, Sir Percy laid his hand upon his sword hilt, and Kennaston laid his upon that, attempting to stay the torrent.

“Tut! tut!” cried this one and that.

“His Lordship’s dead drunk with Cupid, Sir Robin, mind him not,” whispers another.

“De Bohun breaks a joke,” exclaims a third, all at once.

And in the same moment, also, upsprings my Lady Peggy, hand on hilt too, and says she loudly, same time as the rest:

“A pox on ye for a libeler! Sir Percy de Bohun, mayhap it’s the errand Your Lordship’s up in town a-pursuing hath turned Your Lordship’s brain?” Here Lady Peggy laughs in derision and stands full height updrawn upon her girl’s red heels.

“Curse me! but you are impertinent, Sir,” responds Percy, taking a step forward, his anger rising as he beholds his purpose galloping to the goal of its quick fulfilment. “What then, an it please you, is my ‘errand up in town?’ since you are thus familiar with my gaits; tell ’em off, Sir Robin McTart, I give ye leave!”

“With your leave, or without it,” cries Peggy in a voice that causes Chockey to lift the loft-cover an inch higher, and so, kneeling with nose flattened against floor, to behold her mistress’s fine and splendid show of valor. “I’d have you hear, Sir, that to persons of fashion the matter of your suit near Lady Diana Weston’s a jeer and jest of the first flavour,—for ’twere easy seen a lady of her quality, Sir, ’d not be a-wasting her time on you.”

“Damme! Sir!” cries Sir Percy, now thoroughly aroused and far more in earnest than ever he was at the beginning. “You lie! Aye, My Lords, Sirs, and Gentlemen! Nay, ye can not stop my mouth,” unsheathing his rapier; Peggy does likewise, each pushing and warding from them the restraining hands and words of their associates.

“A foul lie! My errand up in town, Sir Robin McTart, is to try to drown my sorrows as I may, because the only lady that ever I loved set me the pace to the devil by a-refusing of my suit come Easter-day, three months to an hour ago.”

Lady Peggy flushes under the coffee stains; her arm trembles; but she is valiantly happy and confident, and her heart goes beating the joyfullest sort of a tune beneath the ’broidered waistcoat she’d made for her twin.

“And her name,” cries Sir Percy with a glance of imperious, aggressive temper shot right into Peggy’s very face,—“her name’s not Lady Diana Weston, but ’tis Lady Peggy Burgoyne!—”

Now Chock’s whole head slips leash, and she bends with bated breath and heaving breast to listen closer.

Lady Peggy starts, but waving her rapier over her head, laughs loud, long and derisively.

“Lady Peggy Burgoyne, Sir,” shaking the hilt of his weapon under Peg’s nose, repeats Sir Percy. “And until you, Sir, with your damnable arts and silly bumpkin ways, when she encountered you in Kent, had turned her from me, she was to me kindest of ladies and of loves. Your servant, Sir Robin McTart,” concludes Percy with a low bow, sticking the floor with his rapier-point, “when and where you please!”

“Here and now!” cries Peg, her heart a-thumping for joy, but so pleasured and alas! so puzzled with the getting out of a scrape, which she has found so little difficulty in getting into, that she is feign on, and make the best cut she can with her cloth.

“Here and now!” repeats Her Ladyship, “for I do throw back into Your Lordship’s teeth the lie”—Peg bows low to her opponent—“you gave me whiles, and affirm that for these many years, or ever you, Sir, set eyes upon her, Lady Peggy Burgoyne’s been mine, heart and soul, Sir!”

“Damn you, Sir!” interrupts Percy hotly, unable to contain his choler,—“to so defame the noblest lady that ever was born!”

“I repeat,” cries Peggy, glowing with suppressed delight at her lover’s fidelity, and eager for as much more as he may have to vent. “Lady Peggy’s eyes are glued fast of this face of mine! Peggy’s hands are my hands! Peggy’s lips are my lips! Peggy’s kisses have ever been my kisses!”

At this, Sir Percy tears off his coat, waistcoat, cravat; flings them into the corner; rolls up his sleeves, while a confused murmur circulates amid the gallants over their cards and Falernian wine.

“Peggy’s heart beats in my breast!” continues Her Ladyship, ranting and swashing up and down the room; upsetting a couple of candles in her path, and now all unrecking of her womanish shoes. “Gentlemen,” panting, smiling, triumphant, saluting her companions with her weapon, “Lady Peggy and I do so adore, love and worship one another that we are not two but one!”

“Here and now!” shouts Sir Percy. “Off with your coat and ruffles, Sir, and choose any two of these gentlemen to your seconds, Sir; I’ll take who’s left!”

Chalmers and Kennaston press forward to Lady Peggy, while His Grace of Escombe and Mr. Wyatt cross to Sir Percy.

“Lord Kennaston, I pray you pace off the distance,” says Lady Peggy, now at the top of her bent and delirious with joy over Percy’s love of her, with no least intention of touching him, good fencer though she be, and willing enough—such a woman is she—to risk a prick at his hands for sake of the after-salve of the mighty gratitude and passion the minx is now sure of.

“Off with your trappings, Sir,” cries Percy.

“That will I not!” cries Peggy, taking the first position on the field of honor in all the bravery of her twin’s suit of gray velvets. “You’ll kill me, an you do’t at all, with my clothes on ready to my burial, and I swear ye all, with my latest breath, Lady Peggy and I’ll lie in the same coffin when it comes to that ceremony.”

Then in the smoky flare from the dying fire and the slovening candles stuck in their bottles; ’mid the murmur and succeeding hush of the gallants, some with cups, some with cards in their hands, Peggy and her lover salute and take their stands.

Says she: “What’s the word, My Lord?”

Says he: “If you like, let Lord Kennaston shake the dice-box; at the third throw, Sir, I’m here, ready food for your steel to flesh in!”

“It suits me well,” answers Peg, as her twin rattles the ivories. “Here’s for Lady Peggy!” cries she.

“Here’s for Lady Peggy Burgoyne!” shouts he, as Kennaston makes the third throw, and Chockey, like to swoon and she a stout heart, never-ail or afeard of even a churchyard on the darkest night, shaking like an aspen-leaf, puts foot on the top rung of the ladder; and Peg and Percy thrust, lunge, withdraw, riposte, hither, yon, keen-eyed, pitched to highest note, nerves strung to cracking—just for a few seconds, shorter time’n it takes to set it down, far.

“A touch, a hit!” cry all at once as a spurt of blood darts up the supposed Sir Robin’s blade, and Percy bows, declaring himself quite satisfied, as he must, though ’tis a state of mind he’s very remote from enjoying.

My Lady Peggy winces under her wound, but she has not been Kennaston’s playfellow for naught, and as ugly pricks as this one have been her portion in the past; Chockey, nevertheless, from her nest, pales and utters a smothered shriek which is quite lost in the loud talking that follows, while Chalmers winds the kerchief Sir Percy tenders about the wrist of the wounded.

“Now to the cards, gentlemen,” cries His Grace of Escombe, pulling out his purse. “To such a gallant as our friend Sir Robin here, my fingers itch to lose ten, twenty, nay as many pounds as his skill can rid me of; for such a pretty play of the steel as his must argue a lucky throw of the dice.”

“Hear! hear! hear!” shout they all, drinking brimming mugs to the two who have lately fought, and settling themselves at the tables with a rattle and a rush of laughter and merry humor.

Lady Peggy sits, gritting her teeth at the slit in her white flesh, with her back to the door and, betwixt the uproar and clinking and shuffling, she hears footsteps coming up the stairs. Some intuition bids her be the one to respond to the rapping that presently sounds out.

“Asking your pardon,” murmurs Her Ladyship to her companions as she quits the table. When, as she opens, a new-caught street urchin speaks sharp, with saucer eyes in-peering at the quality.

“An it please yer Lordships, there’s a fine gentlemen below as his name is Sir Robin McTart.”

Peggy draws in, bangs the door in the boy’s face, squares about, and says:

“By your leave, gentlemen, a most particular messenger awaits me below; for a few moments only, I crave your indulgence for my absence. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”

“No! no! no!” cry they all, save De Bohun, who is counting his cards, and Sir Wyatt who exclaims:

“Yes, an it be a messenger on business for a fair lady; no, an it be otherwise. Gadzooks! Sir Robin, make a half-clean breast of it. Comes Mercury from Phyllis or from a mere man?”

Peg answers: “I swear to you, Sirs, I go down on business of the gravest import to a lady,” and makes for the door.

“Pledge her! Pledge her! a bumper! a bumper!” cry they all in one voice with much pleasant laughter.

“Here’s to Sir Robin’s nameless fair! Zounds! but for so little yeared a personage to have two strings to his bow!”