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!”