“My Lady Mother,—I command you, Chock, tell her not of my escapades; and when Percy comes home with his bride, swear him, as will I, I was off pleasuring in Kent at my godmother’s. Mother! Mother!” cries she, piteously now, as Percy’s arms enfold her, and a thousand fond words jostle each other on his lips.
Then she sinks into the stupor again, and remains so until the great coach rolls through the park and up to the entrance of her home; until Percy, with few words, lays her in the stout arms of the faithful Chockey and sees her mother bending above her; her father distract in his night-rail and cap; cook wailing, being from Kerry and prompt at any sort of hubbub; Bickers’ toothless mouth agape with groans; sees his Lady carried up, limp, little hands down-hanging, to her chamber out of his sight.
Sir Percy leaves Peggy’s bundle, which he had gathered up as best he could and slung about his shoulders, on the table in the hall. The little scrap of paper he carries away with him and reads when he reaches home that night; ’tis Her Ladyship’s note to him, written on the fly-leaf of the prayer-book of the young Curate of Brook-Armsleigh Village. As he scans it, presses it to his lips, sits until dawn, remembering many things since he parted from his Lady long ago in the parlor at Kennaston, the most of the mystery is unraveled by light of the scrawl; and the delirium of his joy at knowing himself to have been in her heart almost equals the mad anxiety that consumes him now as to her life and well-being.
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_Which sets forth how My Lady Peggy recovers of her illness—gets once more into hoops and petticoats—and puts a very fine and noble young gentleman into an earthly paradise._
Until midsummer he rides over to Kennaston twice each day, morning and night, to find out how it fares with her, and ’twas not until then that the Earl gave him hopes he might see her, perhaps within the se’ennight.
Notes there had been, daily, as soon as Chockey had let him know that her mistress was in her head once more, and the two surgeons, down from London, had pronounced Her Ladyship on the mend; notes, and flowers and fruits, and game and fish to tempt her appetite; a little dog from Pomerania; a Persian boy to wait upon her whims; a mare, as white as milk; sweetmeats from the Indies; damasks from China and France; shells and curious beadwork slippers from the American Colonies—whither, it is needless to say, a certain good ship had sailed, leaving a certain young gentleman behind—all these things, and many more besides, were offered up at Her Ladyship’s shrine, but never yet had she been able to bring herself to scribble one line to her suitor, or to send any message, save polite civilities by Chockey.