“Or it might be,” suggests this one with a sigh, “you have a little child, Mr. Kidde—?”
“No, Sir,” says My Lady very low and quick. “That I haven’t.”
“A dear friend and comrade?” pursues the Curate.
“Yes, I have,” answers she, for during all this hour just past, a thousand thoughts have come to Peggy about Sir Percy.
“Ah,” responds Frewen joyously. “Now tell me where he’s to be found, and entrust me with the message, and be assured all will be carried out to your wishes.”
“Thank you,” says Peggy. “Free my right hand if you will; give me something to write with, and the leaf out of your prayer-book, and I’ll ask you the favor.”
The Curate, under the strict superintendence of Biggs, who has all this while been dispatching boys on horses, hither and yon, to notify the quality and the country side both, that Tom Kidde’s been taken and will hang at eight from the gibbet a-top of Armsleigh Hill, loosens Her Ladyship’s arm of the thong, and gives her a leaf and a pencil with the top of the post for a support.
“To Sir Percy de Bohun, Charlotte Street, London,” writes she. “plese An you lov God And The Kinge goe not evar Again toe walke onne The dove peere at The Bottomme of littel Boye yarde Their isse onne swares Toe Kille you & you doe This isse writ bye onne now noe more.”
Her Ladyship folds the scrap of paper over and over; hands back the pencil to Mr. Frewen; and then she says:
“Sir, will you promise me on that Book you’re holding in your hand, you’ll not look at this or send it until I’m dead?”