“Well, what news of Peg? Any?” asks her twin anxiously.
“None. I saw Chockey, and only got from her what Grigson had, the positive assurance that her mistress had gone up to London. ‘Of her own free will?’ I asked. ‘Yes, Sir Percy,’ said she. ‘Alone?’ I inquired. ‘No, Sir Percy,’ was her answer, nor could I force, frighten, or buy the baggage into any further confidence. She did beg of me, however, seek out Her Ladyship, if I could, and find how she fared.”
“Gad’s life, Sir! She has eloped. ’Tis clear as crystal!”
“One thing more, I asked Chock: Had Her Ladyship money in her purse? ‘Lawk, Sir Percy! cried she, ‘two hundred pounds I know of!’”
“‘Two hundred pounds!’” repeats Peg’s twin in vast amazement. “’Tis sure more’n she ever saw before in our whole lives put together. Oh, the girl’s safely wedded, Sir, beyond a doubt!”
“Sir!” says Percy, sitting at the table, with his head low in his hands. “The blackguard’s won her from me!”
“I fear so, Sir.” The two men’s hands meet and grasp in the silent fashion of their sex: ofttimes more eloquent than any words e’er speeched.
“Would I had made a hole in his heart that night in Lark Lane!” cried Sir Percy next.
“Sir Robin’s nimble, Sir, and knows a trick or two with steel, as well as dice.”
“Aye: a gallant every inch; ’tis for that I hate him all the more; and yet, Ken, sometimes, lad, when I’ve been a-staring at him from afar, I’ve caught something in his countenance resembling Peg, and it’s that’s made me halt like a chit at provoking of him further.”
Kennaston nods. “Aye: I’ve remarked it; but held my peace, Percy, for ’tis said man and wife often grow to look alike, and I doubt not, sometimes begin after the same pattern.”
Sir Percy sighs again: turns up the room with drooped lids; in silence getting that grip upon his soul which noblest natures insist on with themselves, even in crises like his. ’Tis a bitter battle, closer fought and quicker, too, than any won or lost with swords and guns. The struggle’s writ upon his face as he goes; but when he comes his victory’s writ there too.
“Kennaston,” says he, very quiet and off-hand, “I’m thinking I’ll go to the Colonies, to Virginia.”
“What! no!” ejaculates the poet, placing a hand on either of his friend’s shoulders.