Transcriber’s Note:

Minor errors in punctuation and formatting have been silently corrected. Please see the transcriber’s [note] at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

The full-page illustrations are referred to, in the list provided, by a quote from the text, and the page reference is to the quote, rather than the position of the illustration in the text. In some cases, these were re-positioned to fall nearer the scene referenced.

MY LADY PEGGY
GOES TO TOWN

By

FRANCES AYMAR MATHEWS

ILLUSTRATED BY HARRISON FISHER

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS : NEW YORK

Copyright, 1901,

By The Bowen-Merrill Company

THE DECORATIONS DESIGNED BY VIRGINIA KEEP

THE COVER DESIGNED BY FRANCIS HAZENPLUG

ENVOI

When gay postillions cracked their whips,

And gallants gemmed their chat with quips;

When patches nestled o’er sweet lips

At choc’late times; and, ’twixt the sips,

Fair Ladies gave their gossips tips;

Then, in Levantine gown and brooch,

My Lady Peggy took the coach,

For London Town!

In the which My Lady Peggy sends off her

lover broken-hearted and promptly

falls into a swoon.

Kennaston Castle lies in Surrey. The Earl of Exham is master of the picturesque old pile and of the estate, and decidedly the slave of the very considerable number of debts which were up to His Lordship’s ears when he came of age, some four and fifty years ago, and by this time have reached almost to the crown of his head. He is also father to his son and heir, Kennaston of Kennaston, and to the heir’s tall twin, My Lady Peggy.

My Lady Peggy at this particular moment sits a-swinging on the top branch of a plum tree at the foot of the kitchen garden whence she commands a tolerable view of the highway.

“Impertinent sun!” cries Peggy, shading her handsome eyes with her hand as she stares off along the dusty road. “How is’t you dare shine when there’s no fine gentleman a-comin’ from the east; no gallant with disheveled locks, powdered shoulders, disordered mien, distracted looks, spurs a-digging into his beast, lips apart, heart beating like spent rabbit’s, and ‘Peggy, lovely Peggy,’ the clapper to his eager tongue at every jolt of his saddle, every rut of his way? Go cloud yourself, I say! since Sir Percy tarries. I’d have the skies weep, even if I can’t.” A peal of merriest laughter concludes this sally, and an apronful of plums comes tumbling down all over the other young woman who stands under the tree in waiting on her mistress.

“Is His Lordship not yet in sight, My Lady?” asks this one.

“Nay! that is not he, Chockey, and whisk me! but when His Lordship does come, he’ll find a very sorry entertainment. I swear, as dad says, I’ll not see him when he does appear, that will not I. Nay, shake not your head, girl. Is’t not true that Lady Peggy had once a lover?”

“’Twere truer say a dozen of that sort of gentry, Madam,” replies the buxom Chockey, as she sorts the plums, the best in her bonnet, the flaws over the wall where the chickens and hens cackle to the refuse.

“Well, well, twenty if you like! but one more favored than the rest? the properest sort of man at saddle, gun, line, wrestle, toast, song, or dance? honest, straightforward, beautiful, as dad says the angels are he saw painted on the walls at Rome. Speak I truth, eh, Chockey?”

“Madam, that you do.”

“And this paragon so worshiped his Peggy as, when she went off a-three months since to visit her godmother in Kent, he vowed by all the saints in the calendar he’d scarce survive until her return. False or true, eh, Chockey?”

My Lady Peggy punctuated this query by an accurate aim and hit, on the top of her waiting woman’s head, with an especially large plum.

“True, Madam,” dodging the fruit, and still with an eye on the road.

“And then, back comes My Lady Peggy, cutting short her stay in Kent, where she had much pleasure, to tell the truth, in the society of a very fine young nobleman.”

“Lawk, Madam! another?” interrupted the faithful Chockey.

“Another, Chock,” vouchsafes her mistress. “Sweet, sweet Sir Robin McTart!”

“Oh, My Lady!” cries the girl, vainly endeavoring to conceal a smile.

“Aye, Chock,” proceeds Peggy, “I say again, a sweet and most entrapping young man.”

“Madam, a squint eye, a wry nose, an underlip that hangs, a pair of fox-teeth, and a chin that’s gone a-huntin’ for his throat!”

“Tut, tut! Chock,” laughs Lady Peggy, leaning back in her leafy bower, “what’s all that to a nimble wit, a galloping conversation, and a faithful heart?” Lady Peggy’s tone is as light as the May breeze blowing her soft locks about her lovely blooming face, full of mockery, witchery,—and then a bit of a sigh, low as flowers’ whispers, and up with her drooped head higher than before, as in the half mannish tone her twinship and long play-fellowship with her brother have given her, she adds curtly—

“D’ye see aught coming yet, Chock?”

“No, My Lady, not yet,” answers the girl ruefully.

Peggy bites her lips until they hurt.

“As I was a-sayin’, Chock, your mistress cuts short her visit, sends word to her lover she’ll be home o’-Thursday, and, as I live! to-day’s the Monday after, and him still on the way! See him!” Peggy’s white teeth close tight, and her eyes flash, and her little hands clench. “Not I! Let him come now an’ he goes again faster than he ever traveled. The vain coxcomb! the deceitful, cozening, graceless poppet! He’ll ne’er set eyes on her he used to call his Peg again, or I die for’t.” And Peggy jumped to the ground.

“Madam! Madam!” exclaims Chockey, pointing joyfully to a cloud of dust far up the highway. “Look! Yonder comes Sir Percy! Don’t I know? Ain’t I watched his long roan any day this twelve month a-turnin’ by the lodge?”

Lady Peggy seizes Chockey’s arm, and runs breathless to the house; in, a-scrambling up the broad stairs to her chamber; a-pulling out of drawers from their chests; a-hunting of ribbons and fallals, combs, brushes, kerchiefs, perfumes, patches, powder, whatever else besides!

“Hurry, Chock, do my hair as he likes it!” urges Lady Peggy.

“Lawk, Madam! I thought you swore just now you’d never set eyes on Sir Percy again?”

“You thought! Bless you, Chock, never be a-wastin’ your time a-thinking where a woman’s concerned. When her heart steps up and lays hold the reins, the steed gallops to the goal; she’s always time to think after she’s acted.”

“Yes, Madam,” concurs Chockey, with a mental reservation back of her mouthful of pins. “There, My Lady, Your Ladyship’s hair is lovely; your Levantine gown becomes you like a pheasant do its plumage, and your eyes is a-shinin’ with love and—”

“Tut, girl! It’s anger, wrath, temper,—so!” Peggy marches up and down before the mirror, tossing her lovely head. “Thus attired, Chock, a lady can flout, deride, harass, and madden one of the opposite sex, as can she not do in cotton frock and fruit-stained apron. Give me my comfit box, I pray. Tell me how long Sir Percy now hath been cooling his heels in the drawing-room?”

“But little lacking the hour, Madam.”

“Good! I’d keep him there until Thursday, an I could. Now go tell him I’ll be with him presently.”

Chockey went.

Lady Peggy stood at the door ajar; she heard the impatient footsteps of her lover below, but yet she tarried, tapping her high red heel on the sill.

“Lud!” cried she, “an I show no proper spirit, Percy’s uncle’ll have the right of it when he says of one he’s never seen yet, ‘She’s a-hunting your bank-notes, boy! She’s heiress to debts, Sir, and by my life, Sir! I’ll never father-in-law her, so long as I’m above the sod, Sir!’ Despicable old wretch! as if ’twere not Percy I adored, without a care if he have a farthing to his fortune, or a roof to his head!”

And then Chockey, her palm warm with a sovereign, came with a rush.

“My Lady!” cries she, “’f you could see Sir Percy! White as milk, tremblin’, shakin’, chatterin’, a-begging and a-praying as you’ll condescend to go to him inside of another hour!”

“White, said you Chock?”

The girl nods vehemently.

“Shaking?”

“Aye, Madam.”

“Like to faint, think you?”

“Like to die, My Lady!”

Then Lady Peggy, laughing, humming such a gay snatch of a song, comes tripping down the stairs, pulling out her petticoats, stopping her lover’s outstretched arms of eagerness with such a splendid curtsy as any Court lady might have envied.

Still laughing.—“Lud! Sir Percy! is’t you?” amazed.

“Aye!” returns he, more amazed than she, and standing off with dropped arms. “Whom did you think it was?”

“Another. My woman’s stupid, and when she described the gallant that she did, it matched a different sort of him than you, methinks. However, let’s be civil; the crops are good, the game likely to be, later; the King in health,—prithee have a chair.” And Peggy swept a second curtsy, motioning toward a seat.

“Peggy! Sweet lips! Joy of my soul, what’s it? Not one warm word for him who only lives for thee? Who’s counted every hour since he parted from you, eh?” The young man draws nearer to her, and bends upon his knee, venturing, as he does so, to take her hand in his.

“Since you spent your time a-counting the hours, Sir, pray you, how many hours have passed since in this same room we parted, now three months, three weeks, and a few days since?”

Sir Percy sprang to his feet.

“Zounds! Peggy, and you flout me so?”

“Zounds! Sir Percy, did not I write you—and very well you know writing’s not my forte,—that I’d be home o’-Thursday?”

“Aye, but I never got it until this morning; then did I put spurs and leave my uncle in the lurch to fly to you.”

“What, Sir! not get my letter? An idle, silly, and foolish excuse. I sent it by Bickers, and trustier man ne’er breathed. He vowed me he’d put it in your hands.”

“Peggy, believe whichever of the two you like; but, in mercy tell me! What kept you so long away? I’ve heard rumors of another. Eh, Peg, ’tis not true, swear me ’tis not true? Oh, by the hue of my visage must you know what jealous pangs have racked me!”

Lady Peggy nods her head maliciously.

“Jealous pangs, forsooth! and you thought to medicine them, I dare be sworn, with vaulting the country over in the wake of Lady Diana Weston, the greatest heiress in the market! Bah, Sir, and you’ve heard rumors! I’ll match ’em. I’ve seen the minx from afar. She is handsome, Sir; your taste does you credit.”

“Peg, I swear ’twas but to please my uncle!” cries Sir Percy.

“Aye, and so displease me!”

“Nay, you know too well that I’ll never do that of my will; but my uncle, as I’ve told you, must be coaxed, and then when once I gain his consent to seeing you, our battle’s won. To see thee, Peg ’s to worship thee! Lord Gower’ll kneel when he beholds thee!”

“Our me no ours, Sir!” returned Peggy. “Let’s here and now make an end on’t all. You go pound the roads after your new mistress with her acres and notes, and I—”

“Well, you what?” asks the young man impetuously and yet with a certain grave dignity.

“Oh, I’ll acquit myself to a certainty with one that’s faithful as the sun, and gallant from his head to his heels.”

“What’s his name?” inquires Sir Percy in a hard, strained voice. “If he’s a better man, Peg, and you can say you love him—God keep me!”

“His name’s a very honorable and ancient one, he’s Sir Robin McTart, twenty-third Baronet!”

“Peggy!”

If a thunderbolt had fallen betwixt Peggy’s red shoes and his brown ones, Percy could not have been more astounded.

“Well, Sir?” returns she, scarce controlling the twitching of her lips.

“A milk-sop, molly-coddle! Oh Peggy, an you drop me, take a better man! Peg, you’re a-joking. Not that bumpkin! I’ve never seen him, but report has it he’s afeard if one of his own dogs looks him in the eye and bays!”

“Sir Percy, have you finished?” inquires Peggy with dignity.

“No, have I not! By my soul, Peg, an you pitch me to hell for that jackanapes, I’ll go to hell as fast as wine and dice, and cards and brawls, and usurers, and all that sort of crew can carry me! I’ll up to London, and one morning when your brother sends you word he’s found me with a rapier stuck in my throat, my pockets empty, and ‘Peggy’ writ on the scrap o’ paper a-lying over my heart, then you’ll believe Percy loved you!”

“Lud, Sir! Men are apt at such chatter, and a fortnight after, the vicar’s a-publishing their banns with the other lady!”

“Peg!” He takes her kerchief end, as it droops away from her pretty long throat, in his fingers; he looks down deep into her eyes; his voice shakes, so does his hand.

“Whatever betides, my bonny sweetheart, there’s only one that’ll ever have banns read with me, and that’s—” He takes her by surprise and by the shoulders, and squares her to the mirror in its niche.

“Farewell, Peg—since you send me, it’s the devil and dice, for by the Lord! I can’t live a quiet life lacking your smiles.”

In two minutes more Chockey, from the upper window, saw the long roan flying away from Kennaston faster than she ever galloped to it; and went down to find her young mistress a-lying prone in a fine wrinkled heap of silken gown, lace frills and furbelows, on the threadbare carpet of the big drawing-room.

To rush across the wide hall to the dining-room, seize a game-knife, back again; cut her mistress’s stays; pour a glass of cider down Lady Peggy’s throat, willy-nilly; clap her palms; pound her back; set her on her feet; and half carry her to her chamber, occupied not many minutes for stout Chockey.

“Lawk, My Lady,” said she, surveying the prostrate form on the couch, arms a-kimbo, eyes saucer-wide, “who’d ever have thought to see your haughty Ladyship so mauled for the sake of any gentleman as lives!”

Lady Peggy lay still, but presently, from the depths of the pillows she spoke.

“I ain’t mauled, Chock, not I!” Her Ladyship now sat up and stared around the big room. “It’s only for sorrow for havin’ had to disappoint Sir Percy, on account of dear Sir Robin.”

“Oh!” ejaculates the worthy Chockey in a tone of undisguised and sarcastic disbelief.

“Chockey!” exclaimed her mistress in the tone of a drill sergeant, now rising to her feet.

“Lawk! My Lady, I didn’t mean nothin’.”

“Chockey,” echoes Lady Peggy faintly, sinking to her knees, “whatever’ll I do? Oh Chock! Chock! and Sir Percy just the centre of my heart, and me to behave to him like a brute! Out of my sight, away with you! There’s the first bell a-ringin’ for dinner. Say to daddy I’m too deep in my hand-writin’ lessons to eat to-day! Say to him I’m gone out to break the new colt and not got back. Say to him I’m gone to the devil!”

And Lady Peggy fell a-weeping with such violence as Chockey had never seen; and, being a wise damsel, she left her mistress alone and went down to soothe the gouty Earl, tied to his chair, as best she could for the absence of his daughter Peg from dinner.

II

In the which Her Ladyship wheedles her

noble father and makes up her mind.

The Earl forsooth was a testy gentleman, and his girl was his plague and his pride; on her, rather than on his heir, the old man’s fancy was set, for the reason that Kennaston, disclaiming all the country sports, the half wild outdoor life, the lusty joys and racing bumps and cups that had been vastly helpful in reducing the little his parent had started his career with, had elected instead to try his luck at that most inscrutable, vile trade of scribbling!

Peg’s twin, her fellow in height and build, which made a slender youth of him indeed, had gone up to London quill-armed, ink-fingered, brain-possessed with rhymes; empty-pursed, determined to carve with such unlikely weapons as that apt bird, the goose, furnishes, a fame and fortune for himself, that should dazzle the world and recoup the fortunes of his well-nigh fallen house.

While the Earl jeered, Peg, herself scarce able to spell a two-syllabled word, looked up to her brother as nothing short of whatever stood in her mind for Shakespeare; for, low be it spoke, the fair Peggy had small notion of books, their makers or their pleasurable usage. To her they represented waste time almost, and only as a means of communication with Kennaston did she, since his absence began, pore daily over a dictionary, a speller, and a copy-book.

So sat she now, a couple of months after the parting betwixt her and Sir Percy; lips pursed, brows knit, goose-feather in finger, poring over a blank sheet of paper first, and from it turning to the closely-writ page of a letter from her twin.

Chockey sat on a stool hard by,—they were both in the buttery, for Lady Peggy was apt with all the mysteries of housekeeping, and had as fine a churning, as big cheeses, as fat chickens, as nice eggs, as good hams as any other in the county,—had she not, the Earl, her father, had lacked something or all of his comfort. Chockey, then, sat working butter, squeezing all the white milky bubbles back and forth in the wooden bowl, and printing the pats in the trays, while her mistress sighed, swallowed, and at last burst forth in speech.

“Chockey, I shall fall into a fit, an I’ve ever another letter to write in this world. The last I writ was for Sir Robin to introduce him to Lord Kennaston when he should go up to town—and belike, I forgot to give it to him as I promised and have it safe here. It took me a week to finish, and I’ve copied all the words out of it I can, yet do I lack thousands more, methinks, to say what I would to my brother. Lud! Learning’s a wonderful thing! Look at that, Chock!”

Lady Peggy holds up the well covered pages of Kennaston’s letter before the eyes of the Abigail.

“Aye, Madam,” giggles this one, “it has the air to me of where spiders has been a-fightin’! Now, for true, My Lady, do it say words as has a meanin’?”

“Listen,” replies the mistress, reading off quite glibly, since ’tis the one hundredth time since she got it that she’s rehearsed the same to herself.

“Sweet Sister Peggy: I’d have written before but that literature pays ill until a man hath contrived by preference and patronage, the rather than by his wits, to place himself at evens with the Great and the Distinguished. So far I find Fame’s hill hard in the Climbing, but do I not complain, for there’s that spirit reigning in my breast as bids me welcome Poverty, even Starvation, lead it but to the sometime recognition of my Talents. I take up my pen not to riddle your ears with plaints, but on another matter, which is Sir Percy.”

Lady Peggy’s head droops a bit to match her voice, whilst Chockey’s bright little eyes sparkle, and she twists the yellow butter into heart shapes as she pricks her ears and sighs.

“Sir Percy,” continues My Lady Peggy, reading, “as you know came up to town, now these seven weeks agone, straight as a die to my meagre chambers, where welcome was spelled, I can assure thee, all over the bare floor, barer board, and barer master thereof,—for of a truth I love him as should I the brother I had hoped he’d be! Peg, what’s this thou’st done to the lad? Thrown him, a gallant with as big a heart as God ever made, over into the Devil’s own mire, for sake of that little tow-haired sprat, Robin McTart! with his pate full of himself and none other,—so I’ve heard say, for never set I eyes upon the blackguard from Kent! Zounds! twin! What are ye women made of? And I write to say Percy, what with carousals and brawls, and drink and fights, and all night at the gaming-table, and all day God knows where, ’s fast a-throwing himself piecemeal into the grave he’s a-digging daily for your cruel sake. Could you but see him! A ghost! Wan, with eyes full of blood-spots, and hair unkempt! Madam, there’s love for you—and love’s what ladies like. Go match him, Sister, with McTart if you can, but twin me no more ever again an you and I wear black ribbons for Percy de Bohun!”

Lady Peggy’s lip quivers; so does Chockey’s.

“Lawk, My Lady!” cries the girl, splashing tears into the butter, reckless.

“‘Black ribbons,’ Chock! ‘A ghost,’ Chock! ‘McTart,’ Chock! Lord ha’ mercy! What’s to become o’ me?” Peggy’s tears smart her eyes as she flings the goose-quill over to a cheese on the shelf, where it sticks, and one day surprises the Vicar at his supper.

“Get out of my sight!” she flings after it. “I can’t write! Who can write out her heart and soul, when it’s devilish hard even to speak it. Oh! Would I were my brother for one fine half-hour!” cries Peggy, rising and stamping up and down the stone floor of the buttery.

“An’ if you were, Madam?” asks Chockey meekly, “what then?”

“I’d swear! Yea, would I! Such a lot of splendid oaths as’d ease my mind and let me hear from my own lips what a fool’s part I’d played with my own—my adored Percy! Could I but see him! as Kennaston says.” Peggy in her progress now upsets a pan of cream, and has genuine pleasure in splashing it about over her slippers as she speaks.

“But I! What am I? A girl! swaddled in petticoats and fallals; tethered to an apron, and a besom, and a harpsichord, and a needle,—yet can I snap a rapier, fire a pistol, jump a ditch, land a fish, for my brother taught me. Still it’s girl! girl! sit by the fire and spin! dawdle! dally!” The cream now spots up as far as Peggy’s chin and flecks its dimple.

“Stop-at-home, nor stir-abroad! Smile, ogle!” each word emphasized with heel and toe.

“And—” Lady Peggy now flops back into her chair, breathless, “wait on man’s will and whims,—that, Chock, ’s what ’tis to be a woman.”

“Aye, ’tis,” assents the waiting woman. “But yet, My Lady, if I dared make bold, there’s summat Your Ladyship might do, an My Lady, Your Ladyship’s mother, came back home again from her visit to your uncle in York.”

“Out with it!” says Peggy hopelessly, folding up her attempted letter and tucking it in her reticule.

“Mayhap you could persuade, by much weeping and praying, falling into swoons and such like, that Her Ladyship would take you up to London! Once there, Sir Percy couldn’t keep his distance from you.”

Peggy looks at Chockey as if she were a vision sent from on high; then, quickly succeeding derision curls her lip.

“My Lady mother take a squealing chit like me up to town! Never! She’d say my manners weren’t fit, or my figger, or my wardrobe. Lud! Chock! Bethink thee, lass, of my gowns in London town! and me no more acquainted with the ways yonder, than our Brindle is with the family pew!”

Lady Peggy walked out into the paddock, rubbed the cream from her slippers on the turf; caressed the ponies; munched the sweet cake she had in her apron-pocket, felt the keen sweet air blow over her hot forehead, and saw, dancing ever before her mind’s eye, that insidious sweet suggestion of “going up to London.”

How did one go up to London?

In the coach: aye to be sure; and the coach left the “Mermaid” in the village every Tuesday and Thursday at five in the morning. The coach! The splendid coach, a-swinging on its springs like a gigantic cradle; the postillions a-snapping their whips, the coachman a-cracking his long lash and a-shouting “All h’up for London!” and the ladies and gentlemen—well armed, these last, in dread of the highwaymen on the heath—all a-piling in and a-settling themselves; and the guards a-tooting their horns, the landlady and the boots and the maids and the hostlers all a-bowing and a-scraping and—off they go! for London town—where Percy was a-pining and a-dying for her, so her twin writ in his letter.

Well, Lady Peggy went in, clapt on a fresh gown and shoes, and never was daughter more tender and patient with crabbed, gouty, crusty dad than she all through that lovely day. Playing backgammon; spelling out the newspaper; trouncing the cat when it jumped on His Lordship’s leg; blowing the fire; wheeling his chair from hither to yon; stroking the bald head; combing the white whiskers; and finally said she,

“Daddy, London’s a very big sort of a place, now, isn’t it?”

The Earl nods, coddling his leg into the slip of sunshine that’s walking westerly away from him.

“My brother lodges, so he says, at the corner of Holywell Road and Lark Lane; tell me, dad, where should that be now?” Lady Peggy has a careless air, and flecks a buzzing fly out of His Lordship’s bowl of porridge.

“Eh?” pursues she, “is’t for instance, in the city, or nigh London Bridge, or where the quality lives, or toward Southwark, or where?”

“Rot me!” cries His Lordship, looking up at his daughter in surprise, “what’s my poppet got into her pretty head now, forsooth? Tut, tut, girl, what’s town to thee, or its bearings? hey? stick thy eye into thy churn an’ keep thy hand on the dasher,—’twere better’n all the shops in Piccadilly, or all the fops at Court.”

“Slow, dad! I was only askin’ of my twin’s whereabouts. Shops and fops are not dizzyin’ your Peggy, you may swear; ’tis my brother, Sir, of whom I’d learn!”

“’Twere better chase the scoundrel out’n my head, Peg, than hammer him in! A lad with every chance here in the county to raise his house, and make a good match with a nice plump girl, havin’ land joining his own; but no! Up and off to town to starve and scratch!”

The Earl pommels the floor with his stick, causing the cat to leap into the air.

“Let him die in want! Let him freeze, thirst, come to the gallows, say I! For such as leaves plenty to pursue want, gets no sympathy from me!”

“He ain’t begged for’t yet, dad,” says Peggy very mildly. “All I was a-wonderin’ was this: When my brother took the coach at the Mermaid that mornin’ you mind? how far off the inn where he alighted was the lodgin’ at the corner of Holywell Road and Lark Lane?—eh, dad? Surely”—and here Lady Peggy knelt and stroked his lordship’s gouty member, and her voice positively trembled, doubtless with excess of filial zeal and devotion.

“Surely,” resumed she, “you, who were, I dare be sworn”—such arch eyes as Lady Peggy now made!—“a fine gallant not so many years ago, must remember that,—don’t you?”

“Let’s see, let’s see,” responds His Lordship, rubbing his head. “They set ye down at the King’s Arms, nigh the Bridge, Southwark Bridge, yes; Well! Damme! I ought to know! Lark Lane? A devil of a hole; why, girl! it’s not a quarter hour’s trot from the inn, but it’s a beastly environment. Gad! that son of mine chooses pens, ink and writing-paper there, rather than—”

“Lady Belinda here, weight fourteen stone; acres two thousand; guineas, countless; temper, amazin’; years, untold! ha! ha! ha! Oh, daddy!” Lady Peggy springs up and dances about a minute in most genuine gaiety, then she seizes her father’s head between her palms and hugs and kisses him with much grateful warmth; then flops down a-coddling of the gout again; laughing, giggling, pinching puss, and saying,—

“Daddy, drop London! Care I no more for’t. Know I quite enough. Let’s chat of aught else in the world, until you fall a-napping, which will be soon now, guessing by the shadows.”

’Twas very soon.

Then Lady Peggy tiptoed off to her chamber; then she pulled the rope that rang in the kitchen, and presently Chockey came, chopper and bowl in hand, checkered apron over white one; for serving maids were scarce in Kennaston Hall, footmen there were none; butler there was when he was not doing t’other half his duty at the stables.

“Come hither, Chockey,” says her mistress in a whisper, with a beckon. “Shut the door; go on with choppin’ your leeks and carrots, cook’ll want ’em for the soup,—but listen, Chock; unlock your ears Jane Chockey, as never you did before in your life.”

Chockey bobs as she chops, leaning against the headpost, for support of her occupation, and also of her curiosity.

“You know my mother’s box, the small one that was re-covered last spring with the skin of the red calf that died natural? Bickers put it on with a gross of brass nails?”

Chockey again bobs.

“Put into it,” continues Lady Peggy, “a change of linen for yourself and me, two night-rails,” Chockey’s eyes dilate, “my gray taffeta gown with the flowered petticoat, my green hood and kerchief; powder, patch-box, lavender, musk, pins, needles; my red silken hose; your Sunday cap and sleeves”—Chockey’s chopper ceases to work, and the bed-post creaks. “All of which,” continues her mistress, “is but prelude to saying: ‘I’m going up to London by to-morrow’s coach, and I’m takin’ you with me!’”

“Madam!” Down goes the bowl, leeks, carrots, chopper and all a-spilling over the floor.

“Aye,” says Peggy calmly, “gather up thy mess, Chock, and to work with the duds. Lay out my Levantine gown, my blue kerchief, my black silk hose, my brown cloak; and, from my mother’s press, take the thick fall of Brussels lace and the brown bonnet it’s tied to, and bring ’em hither; put them under the bed beside thy trundle so’s my father’ll not see ’em when he stops to bid me good-night. Borrow cook’s hat she bought at the Fair when she was young, and her delaine veil for thyself; for, so appareled as not to be recognized, will you, dear Chock, and my Lady Peggy take the coach on April the twelfth. But, Chock, remember, mum’s the word, an you let your tongue wag to my undoing, but the thousandth part of a syllable, your mistress and you part company forever! Go.”

Chockey picked up Lady Peggy’s waving hand between a pinch of her apron, lest her onion-smelling fingers should foul so dainty a morsel, kissed it, and off and obeyed, speechless from surprise and veneration, both.

At night’s fall,—the Earl, somnolent again from fire’s warmth and the port he would take, despite the surgeon’s orders to the contrary,—Lady Peggy, Chockey in her wake, purse in hand, went scouting through the kitchen-garden, the paddocks, the cowyard to the stable where Bickers’s pipe shone in the gloaming like a fire-gem as he dodged and lurched after a refractory colt.

Bickers, albeit sometimes the slave of beer, was all times Lady Peggy’s abject, and it took no effort nor persuasion to gain him to her will. He took his orders amiably,—they were to secure two places in the London mail for to-morrow morning, and strictly to hold his peace both now and forever about the whole concern.

Peggy gave him the price of the seats and with wise Castle-mistress foresight, she showed Bickers a sovereign beside.

“And Bickers,” said Lady Peggy, “considering that the devil walks abroad often in the Mermaid’s tap-room, I am told, I’ll keep the sovereign for you ’til you come back, lest he rob you of it, eh?”

“Well, My Lady,” said Bickers; “a whole sovereign, My Lady, ain’t often seen out of the quality’s pockets, and the devil might think I’d stole it, My Lady, and try to get it from me. Keep it, My Lady, keep it!”

With which the old man, having conquered the colt, set off for the village by a side-path all too well known to his tread. Presently by the spark in his pipe-bowl the two women saw that he had turned back; that, as he came close to them, he clapped his thumb over the glow, and,

“My Lady Peggy,” mumbled he sheepishly.

“Whatever is’t, Bickers?” cries his mistress in alarm.

“Naught to fright ye, My Lady, only it’s been on my mind these many days to tell you as the letter you sent me with to Sir Percy de Bohun—”

“Well, well?” Lady Peggy’s words came with a gasp, as the old man dead stops.

“Go on Bickers, I say!” the mistress’s foot stamps with a thud on the damp earth.

“Askin’ Your Ladyship’s parding, the devil caught me that time at the Kennaston Arms, My Lady, and he clawed that tight, My Lady, that I couldn’t stir, and—and—”

Peggy now stooped, seized a billet of wood as big as her arm and gave Bickers a sound drub across his hands. The pipe fell in bits, the ash glowed; Bickers jumped, so did Chockey.

“‘And, and’ what?” drubbed Peggy with a will. “Not so much as ha’ penny of the sovereign, unless you out with the whole truth!”

“I will! I will!” cried the old man. “Sir Percy never got the letter, My Lady, until the very day I seen him on the long roan a-ridin’ for’s life away from the Castle yonder,” and Bickers jerked his thumb toward the house as he now made off.

The devil did not catch Bickers that night; he earned his sovereign before the moon rose.

As he sped, Lady Peggy took Chockey’s proffered arm.

“You see, Chock, you see, how we that are born to wear petticoats are no better’n puppets! a-dancin’ and a-cryin’; or a-kneelin’ and a-weepin’, as it happens to suit the whim of what, Chock? Who, Chock? Tell me, Chock!” cries Lady Peggy excitedly.

“Lawk, My Lady, that can I not!”

“A man, Chock, a man! it’s a him that pulls the strings, girl, and all we’ve to do is to simper and jerk this way, that way. To think,” here Peggy’s voice falters, for they’ve gained the house and are clambering the back stairs in the dark. “To think that Bickers, Bickers! should ha’ made me treat my worshiped Percy like a hog! Yes, Chockey, like a hog! even that name ain’t vile enough for me. But, oh, an I reach London in safety, and gain my brother’s chambers, and learn from him that ’tis for very love of me Sir Percy’s canterin’ to perdition, then, Chock, Lady Peggy’ll know how to spell paradise for him she’s riskin’ much to hear the truth about.”

“But, My Lady,” ventures Chockey, who, notwithstanding the blissful prospect of seeing London, still had a practical eye toward the dangers that beset the path, both thereto, and once there.

“But, My Lady, supposin’ we can’t find Lord Kennaston’s lodgin’s; supposin’ he’s away from home when we get there; or, a-havin’ a party, or ain’t got no place for us to sleep; or suppose—”

“Suppose me no supposes, Chock!” Lady Peggy shakes out the Levantine gown from its wrinkles. “If London were the black pit, and an army of Satans a-sittin’ grinnin’ around the brim, still would I go and find out for myself if it’s for me he pines—or, if Lady Diana Weston is up in London too!” With which Her Ladyship gives the petticoat, she takes from its peg against the morrow, a somewhat emphatic, not to say malicious shake.

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.

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,—