“God knows if I ever get leave to put on a lady’s garments again; but I’ll never come back here, that’s certain, since now am I no one, not even Sir Robin McTart!”
So, challenged merely by the still drowsy footman who asks: “Beg pardon, and with submission, Sir Robin, but will you be home for dinner, Sir, or not until supper?”
“For neither, to-day,” answers Her Ladyship, running out into Peter’s Court, and then coming to a dead halt.
She drew a long deep breath, as deep as the fog would let her, much as a dog does before he starts on the scent; she jingled the little money left in her purse, gave her hat the cock as she beheld a passer-by, and struck out for London Bridge, which, at this early hour of the day, she found easy enough to cross afoot, barring the filth and mud.
’Twas the first time she had been on it since the memorable afternoon when she and Chockey had first come up to town in the coach from the Kennaston Arms. Now stalking along with a will, and a swing to her bundle, My Lady had chance to note the tall gaunt houses lining the bridge at each side where the pin-makers dwelt and worked; the gigantic water-wheel under the arches which supplied the town with water; the increasing tide of wagons, carts, pedestrians, porters, whoever else (save the chairs or coaches of fine ladies and gentlemen of which, at this time of day, there were none). Arrived at Surrey side, Her Ladyship paused to consider and, wrapping herself well in her camlet cloak, the which she had used at the masquerade so lately, thereby hiding her blue velvet breeches, laced waistcoat, point ruffles, Mechlin lace cravat, rich coat, and jeweled hilt, soon obtained fare in the one-seated cart of a country clown who was off for Tooting.
Her Ladyship decided very quickly that ’twas but a necessary precaution for her to avoid highways, stage-coaches, and inns of reputation, since probably by this a full description of the supposed Sir Robin would be word of mouth from Westminster to Mile End, and a dozen miles out of town with the Lord knows but a price set upon his head!
Once arrived at Tooting, ’twas her intention to double on her tracks, return with some bumpkin’s load of vegetables to Garret Lane and thence to foot it across country or by penny’s-worth rides with village folk, reaching the neighborhood of Kennaston, perhaps late that night; or, if she should be compelled to sleep under some friendly farmer’s roof, at least by the next high noon.
But Her Ladyship reckoned, if not without her hosts, most decidedly without taking count of the weary beast that dragged her, nor yet of any possible fellow-guests she might encounter on arriving at the Queen and Artichoke at Tooting.
It was nightfall, when, limp and unnerved, possibly for the very first time in her life conscious of such physical conditions, the clown pulled her up before the inn in order to allow her to alight. Bundle under arm; feet and legs, up to calves, well bespattered with mud from the reek of her passage across London Bridge afoot; wig somewhat tangled for all that she had slipped her wig comb out of pocket and essayed to smooth it a bit; sleeves upturned, cloak dragging over her arm to heels,—a sorry, disheveled-appearing young personage jumped from among a pile of oat-bags, leathern aprons, chairs, unsold produce, wilted flowers, and under the askant eyes of ’ostler, boots, barmaid, mistress, and host, marched boldly into the parlor of the Queen and Artichoke.
“Was there a chamber to be had?” for Her Ladyship plainly saw she must lie at Tooting and not proceed on her homeward journey until the morrow.