Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "Permit your slave——" _Page_ 220.]
*The Imprudence
of Prue*
_*By*_* SOPHIE FISHER*
With Four Illustrations
By HERMAN PFEIFER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1911
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I The Price of a Kiss
II Lady Drumloch
III Sir Geoffrey’s Arrival
IV The Money-Lender Intervenes
V A Widow on Monday
VI A Matter of Title
VII A Wedding-Ring for a Kiss
VIII An Order for a Parson
IX The Wedding
X The Folly of Yesterday
XI The Morrow’s Wakening
XII The Price of a Birthright
XIII The Sealed Packet
XIV A Pair of Gloves
XV The Red Domino
XVI At the Unmasking
XVII Lady Barbara’s News
XVIII The Den of the Highwayman
XIX In the Duchess’ Apartments
XX A Threat and a Promise
XXI An Affair of Family
XXII In A Chairman’s Livery
XXIII The Parson Sells a Secret
XXIV A Supper for Three
XXV A Confession
XXVI Preparations for a Journey
XXVII A Different Highwayman
XXVIII The Dearest Treasure
*THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRUE*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE PRICE OF A KISS*
"Stand and deliver!"
The words rang out in the gathering darkness of the February evening.
The jaded horses, exhausted with dragging a cumbrous chariot through the
miry lanes and rugged by-roads of the rough moorland, obeyed the command
with promptitude, disregarding the lash of the postboy and the valiant
oaths of a couple of serving-men in the rumble.
"Keep still, unless you wish me to blow out what you are pleased to
consider your brains," said the highwayman. "My pistols have an awkward
habit of going off of their own accord when I am not instantly obeyed—so
don’t provoke them."
The postilion became as still as a statue and the footmen, under cover
of the self-acting pistols, descended, grumbling but unresisting,
yielded up their rusty blunderbusses with a transparent show of
reluctance and withdrew to a respectful distance, while the highwayman
dismounted, opened the carriage door and throwing the light of a lantern
within, revealed the shrinking forms of two women muffled in cloaks and
hoods.
One of them uttered a shriek of terror when the door was opened and
incoherently besought the highwayman to spare two lone, defenseless
women.
The highwayman thrust his head in and peered round eagerly, as though in
search of other passengers. Then, pulling off his slouch-brimmed hat, he
revealed a pair of dark eyes that gleamed fiercely from behind a mask,
and as much of a bronzed and weather-beaten face as it left uncovered.
Black hair, loosely gathered in a ribbon and much disordered by wind and
rain, added considerably to the wildness of his aspect, and the
uncertain light of the lantern flickered upon several weapons besides
the pistols he carried so carelessly.
"I shall not hurt you, Madam," he exclaimed impatiently. "Your money
and jewels are all I seek. I expected to find a very different booty
here and must hasten elsewhere lest I miss it altogether by this
confounded mishap. So let me advise you to waste neither my time nor
your own breath in useless lamentations, but hasten to hand out your
purses and diamonds."
"We have neither, Mr. Highwayman," said the other lady in a clear,
musical voice, quite free from tremor. "I am a poor widow without a
penny in the world, flying from my creditors to take refuge with a
relative almost as poor as myself. This is my companion—alack for her!
The wage I owe her might make her passing rich if ever ’twere paid—but
it never will be."
"Do poor widows travel in coach and four with serving-men and maids?"
demanded the highwayman with an incredulous laugh. "Come, ladies, I am
well used to these excuses. Do not put me to the disagreeable necessity
of setting you down in the mud while I search your carriage
and—mayhap—your fair selves."
The lady threw back her hooded cloak, revealing a face and form of rare
beauty, and extended two white hands and arms, bare to the elbow and
entirely devoid of ornament. In one hand she held a little purse
through whose silken meshes glittered a few pieces of money.
"This is all the money I have in the wide world," she said, in a voice
of pathetic sweetness. "Take it, if you will, and search for more if
you think it worth while—and if you find anything, prithee, share it
with me!"
But the highwayman scarcely heard her. Through his mask his eyes were
fixed upon her beautiful face with a devouring admiration of which she
was quite unconscious. Not that such an expression would have seemed at
all extraordinary to her, or otherwise than the natural tribute of any
masculine creature to the beauty she valued at its full worth.
"Keep your purse, Madam," he said, and his voice had lost its harshness;
"I will take but one thing from you—something you will not miss, but
that a monarch might prize—a kiss from those lovely lips."
"A kiss, rascal! Do you know what you ask?" she exclaimed, her
sweetness vanishing in haughty anger. "Something I shall not miss,
forsooth! What can—"
"Oh! kiss him, Prue; kiss him and let us be gone!" implored her
companion. "We shall miss the mail-coach at the cross-roads, and then
what will become of us?"
The highwayman leaned against the open carriage-door and watched the
struggling emotions flickering over the face of the widow. Anger and
disgust were succeeded by scornful mirth, and at last, with a gesture of
indescribably haughty grace, she extended her hand, palm downward.
"My hand, Sir Highwayman," she said loftily, "has been deemed not
unworthy of royal kisses!"
"My plebeian lips would not venture where a king’s have feasted," was
the mocking retort. "But whoever in future may kiss your lips must come
after Robin Freemantle, the Highwayman. So, sweet one, by your leave."
He bent suddenly over her and kissed her boldly on the scarlet blossom
of her mouth.
She drew back, gasping with anger and amazement. "How dare you?" she
almost screamed.
He stood a moment as if half-dazed by his own audacity, then closed the
carriage-door and replaced his beaver on his head.
"Good night, Ladies," he cried in a tone of reckless gaiety. "A
pleasant journey to London and a merry time at court, and as ’tis ill
junketing on an empty purse, accept mine in exchange for yours."
With which he flung a heavy wallet into the carriage and snatching the
little silken trifle from Prue’s hand, sprang on his horse and was
quickly lost in the gloom of night.
"Insolent varlet!" cried Prue passionately. "Would I were a man to beat
him to death!" And she burst into a flood of angry tears.
"Console yourself, sweet cousin," said her companion coaxingly. "You
have saved our jewels for the second time to-day—first by outwitting a
sheriff and now by cajoling a highwayman. After all, what is a kiss?
You have just as many left for Sir Geoffrey as you had before you were
robbed of that one."
"That is all very well," cried Prue, half laughing and half tearful,
"but how would you have liked it if it had happened to you?"
"Faith, I’m not sure I should have made such a fuss! After thirty one
may well be grateful for the kisses of a handsome young gallant—for I
could see he was young, and I’ll warrant me he was comely too—even if he
is Robin Freemantle, the highwayman."
"For shame, Cousin Peggie, an’ if you love me, never remind me of this,"
replied Prue, with a touch of irritation. "I would far rather have lost
my few last jewels than have suffered such an insult."
"So would not I," laughed the incorrigible cousin. "What with play and
the haberdasher all I have left in the world is contained in the little
box under my feet, and I should count that cheaply saved at the price of
a kiss."
"You were not asked to pay the price," said Prue coldly. Then,
thrusting her head out of the window, she relieved her pent-up feelings
by soundly berating the cowardly serving-men who had yielded without a
blow to a force so inferior and were now wasting precious time hunting
for their useless weapons instead of hastening to the near-by crossroads
to meet the mail-coach in which the two ladies proposed traveling from
Yorkshire to London.
The two men clambered back into the rumble, somewhat shamefaced, and
each striving by muttered disclaimers to reject the charge of cowardice
in favor of the other. The postilion, suddenly galvanized into
activity, roused the horses with strange oaths and cries and fierce
cracklings of the whip. Prudence closed the window and retired into the
voluminous shelter of her cloak, and the interrupted journey was
resumed.
*CHAPTER II*
*LADY DRUMLOCH*
No further adventures overtook the two ladies. The mail-coach picked
them up at the crossroads and carried them to London in course of time,
where they were soon safely housed with their grandmother, Lady
Drumloch.
My Lady Drumloch was, as all the world knows, a very great lady, and
back in the days of King Charles the Second had been a beauty and a
toast. The daughter of a duke and the wife of an earl, she had queened
it in two courts, had gone into exile with King James, intrigued and
plotted with the Jacobites, and finally, having lost husband and son and
fortune in her devotion to a hopeless cause, had made her peace with
Queen Anne and returned to England to eke out her last years in the
soul-crushing poverty of the great.
But as with her she brought her two granddaughters, the Honorable
Margaret Moffat and Lady Prudence Wynne, her meager little house on the
outskirts of May fair soon became not only the Mecca of other Jacobites
as aristocratic and as poor as herself, but of many who were neither
Jacobites nor in reduced circumstances. Among both classes the Lady
Prudence, though but fifteen, soon found courtiers to pick and choose
from. The saucy child with her skin of milk and roses, her tangle of
dark curling locks and her wonderful blue eyes, was already possessed of
that mysterious charm of femininity by which the world has been swayed
since the days of Eve.
To gratify her grandmother’s ambition, and at the same time emancipate
herself from the restrictions of the school-room, she married the
Viscount Brooke, heir of the Earl of Overbridge. But the marriage
resulted disastrously. The viscount had long before exhausted his
private means, and although his father, hoping that marriage would sober
and settle him, made a sufficiently liberal allowance to the young
couple, a few months of reckless extravagance and gaiety plunged them in
an ocean of debt, from which the viscount, in a fit of delirium,
extricated himself by means of a bullet in his brain, leaving Prue a
widow at sixteen with no home but her grandmother’s little house in
Mayfair, and not a penny beyond the grudging bounty of her
father-in-law.
Still, it was delightful to be a widow, and, consequently, free from all
authority. Having curtailed her mourning within the scantiest limits,
she returned to society with renewed ardor, where her youth and beauty,
enhanced by her widowhood, secured her a flattering welcome. She played
the hostess in Lady Drumloch’s shabby drawing-rooms, filling them with
laughter, scandal and love-making. She chaperoned Margaret Moffat, who
was ten years her senior and who loved her with the infatuation one
sometimes, if rarely, observes in a very plain woman for a very
beautiful one.
Poor as she notoriously was, the oft-repeated rumors of Prue’s
engagement to one or another of her wealthy admirers enabled her to run
into debt time and again for such necessaries of existence as
fashionable dresses and costly jewels, for which she certainly never
expected to pay out of her own pocket. Nay, even money-lenders,
beguiled by her bright eyes and her unquestionably promising matrimonial
prospects, had furnished the sinews of war (for which her future husband
would have to pay right royally), and this despite the fact that the
Lady Prudence Brooke, widowed at sixteen, was still a widow at
two-and-twenty.
Lady Drumloch’s granddaughters were not expected at her town-house, and
when the hired cabriolet in which they arrived drew up at her door, the
ancient butler was divided between joy at the sight of the two bright
young faces, and trepidation as to the welcome they might expect from
the higher powers. Mrs. Lowton, my lady’s waiting-woman, was troubled
by no such complex emotions. She made little attempt to conceal her own
dissatisfaction or to disguise the fact that the old countess was in no
humor for gay company.
"My lady has had an awful attack of gout," she averred, "and the doctors
have ordered the strictest quiet. The least agitation might be fatal."
"We will be as quiet as mice, Lowton," said Lady Prudence,
ostentatiously tiptoeing across the narrow hall and up the steep stairs.
"James, pay the coachman and let me know how much I owe you."
The butler obeyed, though with no great alacrity. "Her ladyship ain’t
long getting back to her old tricks," he muttered with rather a wry
smile, as he hunted through his pockets for the coach-hire. "I gave the
man two shillings—and sixpence for himself," he said, coming back
promptly. "I suppose your ladyship has not forgotten that before you
went to Yorkshire—"
"Oh! never mind that, James," she interrupted hastily. "Let bygones be
bygones, and when I come into my fortune you will see whether I forget
anything. Come, Peggie, let us get to bed. I am fainting for want of
sleep."
"I am fainting, too," retorted Miss Moffat, "but more with hunger than
sleep. Lowton, for the love of Heaven, order some breakfast, and that
speedily."
"I’ll see what I can do, Miss Margaret," said Lowton, without
enthusiasm, "but her ladyship keeps us closer than ever, and I doubt if
there’s anything for breakfast but milk and bread."
The cousins crept softly up to the little room on the top floor, where
their dismantled beds and the bare floors gave so much evidence of
disuse and so little promise of hospitality that the most courageous
hearts might have sunk a little.
"We were better off at Bleakmoor, even with the bailiffs in attendance,"
said Prue piteously.
"Mayhap—but there we were out of help’s way, and here, if we will—or
rather if you will—there is succor at hand," said the undaunted
Peggie—"and even while I speak of rescue, here comes my dear old Lowton
with food for the starving and sheets and blankets for the weary. Come,
coz, eat and sleep, and when you wake you will be ready for any
emergency."
It was evening before the tired travelers rose, and, ransacking
wardrobes and closets for the wherewithal to replace their soiled and
dusty traveling attire, made themselves presentable for the inevitable
visit of ceremony to their grandmother.
Quiet as they had been, the old lady had become aware of their arrival
long before the faithful Lowton ventured, in lugubrious whispers, to
communicate the news.
"There is no necessity, my good Lowton, for you to apologize for my
granddaughters," Lady Drumloch had interrupted, almost before the first
word was uttered. "No doubt I shall have to listen to half-a-dozen
different stories before I get at the true cause of this visit, so you
may as well spare yourself the trouble of inventing excuses for you know
not what. Let me know when the travelers rise, and I will receive them
and hear what they have to say for themselves."
The venerable countess lay in a huge four-poster bed, propped high with
pillows scarcely whiter than her waxen face, upon which still lingered
some of the beauty and all of the indomitable hauteur of the belle of
half-a-century ago. Her scant and snowy locks were concealed under a
cap of priceless lace and ruffles of the same fell over her small
ivory-white hands. At the ceremonious announcement of the Viscountess
Brooke and the Honorable Miss Moffat, she slightly moved her head on the
pillow and turned her bright, dark eyes from one to the other.
"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, my lady Viscountess?" she
inquired dryly.
"Partly, dear Grandmother, to our anxiety about your ladyship’s health,"
said Prudence, sweeping so deep a curtsey that she seemed to be falling
on her knees, "and partly because a whole long year in the wilds of
Yorkshire hath made us homesick."
"A whole long year in your brother-in-law’s house, gaming, dancing
and—unless I am misinformed—play-acting and fox-hunting, has still left
you with an appetite for the follies of the court. I doubt not," said
Lady Drumloch. "Does your ladyship return to Yorkshire to-day? or
to-morrow? I understand that you traveled without escort or baggage and
by the public conveyance!"
"Do not be angry with us, dear Grandmother," pleaded Prue, her bright
eyes filling with tears (the minx always had a supply at her command).
"You do not want us to go back to-morrow, do you? Are you not a little
tired of the excellent Lowton’s conversation, and do you not weary for
your little Prue to read you Mr. Pope’s latest poem and Mr. Steele’s new
play? and make you die of laughing over her adventures with the
Yorkshire squires?"
"And not only the squires," put in Peggie, who had been standing rather
in the background, eagerly awaiting a chance to bring herself into
notice. "Prue has had adventures with gallants more romantic than
Yorkshire squires!"
"Ah! is that Margaret Moffat?" cried the old lady. "’Tis sure where
Prudence is, her shadow can not be far away! And, pray, what have your
adventures been? Have not even bumpkin squires fallen to your charms?
Surely Prudence has not carried off all the honors there as well as
here?"
This was a hard thrust, for Peggie was as plain as her cousin was fair,
and had entered her fourth decade without one serious assault upon her
maiden heart. Devoted to Prue, she was too loyal to think that this was
partly the fault of the youthful widow’s all-devouring coquetry, but she
was very human, and it wounded her to be forced into acknowledging the
contrast.
"Alack, Peggie made short work of their hearts," cried Prue, coming to
the rescue. "I only turned their heads. ’Tis strange how foolish men
will always be about a widow."
"Foolish enough to marry one widow after being jilted by another,"
acquiesced the grandmother dryly. "I hear thy erstwhile lover, Lord
Beachcombe, has married the Widow Curzon. The baker’s daughter hath a
second chance of wearing strawberry-leaves."
"She may have them for aught I care—along with the meanest, ugliest,
most disagreeable man that ever decked his empty head withal," cried
Prudence. "_I_ am going to marry the finest gentleman in England—the
bravest and handsomest—and the cleverest, too. When a man of parts is
in Parliament, ’tis his own fault if he be not in the Cabinet—and once
in the Cabinet there are garters and coronets to be had for the trouble
of reaching after them."
"A politician, too!" sneered the countess. "Pray, which of our worthy
statesmen has had his head turned by the widow?"
"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert," replied Prue, and having got so far she
stopped, and the blood rushed in a torrent to her face, crimsoning even
her forehead and neck.
"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!" the old lady repeated slowly, while her dark,
brilliant eyes seemed to burn down into Prue’s inmost soul. "The same
that fought the duel with Colonel O’Keefe?"
"Surely," murmured Prue, "I could do no better than give myself to the
man who killed my traducer. If Colonel O’Keefe misunderstood or
misinterpreted a piece of girlish bravado—was I to blame? And if he
dared to comment disparagingly upon what he did not understand, and make
a public jest of a woman who had only played a harmless joke upon
him—you, dear Grandmother, would be the last to reproach the gentleman
who drew sword in her vindication."
"Thereby leading every one to suppose that there was something to
vindicate," retorted Lady Drumloch. "If the marriage really takes place,
it will put a complete quietus upon ill-natured tongues, but bethink you
how they will wag if this should prove another of your _affaires
manquées_!"
"I am glad that you approve, Madam," said Prue, with an air of the
deepest respect, as she again sank gracefully down in a most profound
curtsey.
"I said nothing about approval," replied her grandmother sternly. "I
know your Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—a Whig—a renegade, whose father was a
good Catholic and a ’King’s man.’ The son would have made a fitting
husband for your father’s daughter if he had been loyal to his father’s
king—but you know well that I would rather see you the wife of the least
of Jacobites than the greatest of Whigs. Go your own wilful way and do
not pretend to ask my approval."
"I am not married to him yet," said Prue, who had not been unprepared
for a vigorous protest from her ancestress, and for obvious reasons
desired to placate her. "Nor would I contemplate such a step until my
dear grandmother’s recovery set me free from anxiety. And now, if your
ladyship will permit us to kiss your hand, we will withdraw, as we
grieve to hear that your physician has forbidden you all excitement."
During the whole interview the two girls had remained standing—not being
invited to seat themselves, nor venturing to do so without permission.
As they withdrew after saluting the tapering, ivory fingers of the
invalid, she called after them, with more graciousness than she had yet
shown, "You may return in the evening and read me Mr. Pope’s poem. I
have had it these three weeks and could not bring myself to let Lowton
stumble through it. ’Twill give me something to think of besides an old
woman’s gout and gruel."
*CHAPTER III*
*SIR GEOFFREY’S ARRIVAL*
Lady Drumloch was not really half so ill as she fancied herself, and no
better medicine could have been prescribed to hasten her convalescence
than the gaiety and cheerfulness that her two granddaughters infused
into the atmosphere of the little house in Mayfair, as soon as they had
recovered from the fatigues of their journey.
Instead of lying in bed grumbling at the length of the lonely days and
pain-weary nights, her ladyship allowed herself to be cajoled into
rising and reclining on a couch, which was then wheeled into the
adjoining room by James and the faithful Lowton. At first this was only
for an hour or two a day, and the invalid, refusing to admit that she
could be, in any way, benefited by the lively gossip of her
granddaughters, had insisted that the reading of sermons and other pious
works suited better with her age and infirmities than plays and poetry.
But by the end of the week she had abandoned Atterbury and Taylor for
the _Tatler_ and the latest works of Pope and Prior, and was thirsting
for yet more exciting entertainment, which she knew to be tantalizingly
near at hand.
As soon as the return of the cousins became known, their numerous
friends, who had contented themselves with polite inquiries after the
invalid, while Lowton was the sole dispenser of news, displayed a
touching solicitude about her condition. Every afternoon Lady Prue held
quite a little levee—at which the sickness of the old countess up-stairs
did not interfere greatly with the gaiety below. Day by day these
cheerful sounds grew more and more exasperating to Lady Drumloch, whose
passion for scandal was only whetted by the comments of the two girls,
and who chafed rebelliously under the restrictions of the doctor, and
led the devoted Lowton the life of a dog.
"Did I hear voices and laughter this afternoon?" she demanded, one
evening, when her granddaughters came to bid her a dutiful good night.
"’Twas but Mary Warburton and Lady Limerick, who came to inquire after
the health of their beloved cousin," said Prue demurely.
"No one else? It seemed to me that a dozen times, at least, the door
was thundered at as though a queen’s messenger demanded entrance."
"In very truth, your ladyship’s penetration is marvelous!" cried Prue
eagerly. "Her Majesty most graciously bade Lady Limerick inquire the
latest news of ’the dear countess’ gout’—and also, if my duties at your
bedside left me leisure to attend the court."
"And, pray, what answer did you make?" Lady Drumloch inquired
suspiciously.
"In good faith, I was put to it for excuses, since I had admitted the
favorable change in your symptoms, and received the congratulations of
many anxious friends," returned Prue pathetically. "’Tis true I have no
heart for frivolous pleasures while my dear grandmother is ill—but the
court is another thing, and people begin to wonder at my absence."
"Well, what is the matter? Why make excuses at all? I am not aware
that I have imposed any restrictions upon you," said the old lady
crisply. "Lowton has taken very good care of me for a year, and you may
still venture to trust me to her for a few hours. ’Tis news to me that
you should be so averse to ’frivolous pleasures’ that you need make _me_
an excuse for giving them up."
"Indeed, dear Grandmother, it was no vain excuse—’twas the truth," Prue
protested. "Yet not the whole truth, for my baggage is still at
Bleakmoor, whence we fled in such a hurry that we brought naught away
with us but what we traveled in!"
"Well? Are there no milliners and mantua-makers in London?" inquired
the countess, with an air of surprise.
"Several hundred, I should think—and every one of them threatening me
with the law’s worst penalties for debt! The wretches! they were eager
enough to fling their wares under my feet, when they believed me rich—or
likely to be. But now—never a mercer or tailor will trust me for a
gown!"
"What! not with the prospect of a husband in Parliament?" cried her
grandmother, laughing maliciously.
"Indeed no, Grannie," sighed Prue piteously; "not unless I pay, at
least, for what I order now."
"They have learned wisdom at last," retorted Lady Drumloch coldly, "and
that is more than can be said of you, who during four or five years of
widowhood have jilted half the peerage, made yourself the byword of the
court, and now go in fear of the debtors’ prison!"
"There was no talk of a debtors’ prison for me when I was Queen Anne’s
favorite lady-in-waiting," said Prue, with a touch of arrogance, "but
now they only remember that I was banished from court—"
"And that the rich lovers you jilted have married other women, while you
are still ’the Widow Brooke,’" Lady Drumloch interrupted.
"But they will change their tone when they find that the queen has
forgiven me," said Prue, ignoring her grandmother’s last thrust, "and
now she has sent me such a gracious message by Lady Limerick—but, alack
the day!—what am I saying? How can I present myself before Her Majesty
without a decent gown to my back? Oh, Grandmother—" She fell on her
knees, and would have clasped the pale, slender hand that lay on the
coverlet. But Lady Drumloch drew back out of her reach and regarded her
with resentful eyes.
"Well?" she queried in her driest voice. "What do you propose to do?
You have a plan, no doubt, to accomplish what you have set your heart
upon."
"No—I have no plan," cried Prudence despairingly, "but surely you, dear
Grandmother, will not let your little Prue lose her last chance of
winning back the queen’s favor, for lack of a few guineas to buy a
gown!" and once more she tried to get possession of the reluctant hand.
But Lady Drumloch pushed her away with such force, in her anger, that
she almost overturned her on the floor. "I thought I should soon come
at the cause of all your pretty speeches, you false jade!" she shrieked.
"Is it not enough that I give you shelter in the home you have disgraced
with your reckless follies, that I have to admit your wanton
companions—only Mary Warburton and Lady Limerick, forsooth! Do you
think I am so deaf as not to have heard the voices of half a dozen men,
and your dear friend, Barbara Sweeting, sharer and inspirer of half the
mad frolics that have made you notorious?—but I must pay your debts and
give you money, when I’m so poor I can only afford one woman to wait on
me, and can not go out for an airing because a carriage is too great a
luxury for me—even a hired one! _C’est honteux—c’est infame_"—and the
angry old woman, who seldom lapsed into French, except in moments of
great agitation, burst into hysteric cries and weeping, at which Lowton
hurried in, and the girls, with scared faces, fled.
"She is much worse than she used to be," whispered Peggie. "Formerly,
when you asked for money, she used to tell you to go to the devil, and
scold you roundly—but she gave it after all. And now—I do not think she
will."
"If she waits until I ask her, she certainly never will," said Prudence
proudly. "To-morrow I will go to old Aarons—though I vowed the last
time should be the very last."
The girls were still lingering upon the staircase, listening to the
soothing murmurs of Mrs. Lowton and the outcries of the invalid,
gradually sinking into whimpers, when a loud knocking announced the
arrival of a visitor of importance, and James presently came up with a
petition from Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert for a few words with the Lady
Prudence, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour.
"The lateness of the hour! Why, ’tis barely nine o’clock," cried Prue,
blushing and sparkling with delight. "Go, James, and tell Sir Geoffrey
I will be with him immediately. Come, Peggie."
And away she flew to reassure herself, by a glance at her mirror, that
her scene with Lady Drumloch had not dishevelled her luxuriant curls,
and to disguise the shabbiness of her gown with a lace kerchief and a
knot of ribbon.
"A plague on all milliners and tailors," she pouted; "to think that I
should have to receive my betrothed after three weeks’ separation,
looking more like my lady’s scullery-maid than her granddaughter."
"Sir Geoffrey will never know what you wear, if you sit away from the
lamp, where he can just see your eyes by the firelight," counseled
Margaret. "No man cares to look at your gown, who can see your face."
"Flatterer!" cried Prue; but she kissed her cousin on both cheeks, and
certainly gave no sign of doubting her veracity.
Sir Geoffrey was impatiently waiting in the dim drawing-room, where
James had reluctantly lighted a pair of candles in an ancient silver
sconce that Benvenuto Cellini himself may have chiseled. The two ladies
swept the most ceremonious of curtseys, but at the sight of Prue’s
radiant loveliness, her visitor dropped on one knee, and taking both her
little hands in his, kissed first one and then the other with unaffected
ardor.
"How have I lived all these centuries?" he cried—"they can not have been
merely weeks—without my Goddess, my Star—" and so on, after the
highflown fashion of the days of Pope and Dryden. To which Prue was
well accustomed, and did not find any too fantastic for her highly
cultivated vanity.
"Rise, Sir Geoffrey," she said very graciously, and when he obeyed,
offered him her glowing cheek, upon which, one may be sure, he made
haste to imprint more than one or two impassioned kisses. Then Margaret,
who at first kept discreetly in the background, came forward and
presented her hand, contenting herself with a salute of a more
perfunctory nature.
"When did you return to town, Sir Geoffrey?" Prue inquired.
"Can you ask?" he said reproachfully. "You may be sure I have only
waited to shake off the dust of travel, before hastening to throw myself
at your feet."
"And how did you leave Bleakmoor?" she went on, "and have you seen our
host and his friends since we left them?"
"Bleakmoor, deprived of the sunshine," said Sir Geoffrey, including the
two girls in a low bow, "has by now been given over to the bats and
owls. Brooke hath betaken himself to Malvern, and his friends are
scattered to their own homes. The hunting is better since the thaw, but
I have lost all taste for the field when Prue no longer leads the hunt."
"We scarcely expected that you would follow us so soon," remarked
Peggie.
"Was I in too great haste?" he demanded. "Had I been warned of your
sudden journey, I might, perhaps, have offended by offering my escort."
"You would have had a chance of playing the knight-errant," said Prue,
"and coming to the rescue of two forlorn damsels set upon by footpads
and forced to resort to all kinds of feminine wiles to protect their
jewels."
The baronet rapped out an oath. "The fellows attacked you and I was not
there to make mincemeat of them!" he exclaimed. "By Jove, these rascals
become more and more audacious every day. A band of them attacked Will
Battersea and myself on the North Road, where we had the good fortune to
capture the ringleader and hand him over to the officers of justice."
"Bravo!" cried Margaret, clapping her hands. "Tell us all about it, Sir
Geoffrey."
"Oh! ’twas the usual thing," he began. "We were on a lonely road, not
far from Willesden—Will and I riding in front, with our fellows close
behind—when several masked horsemen appeared from behind a clump of
bushes, and covering us with their firearms, demanded our money or our
lives—"
("Stand and deliver—" murmured Peggie, with a covert glance at her
cousin.)—"We proceeded to argue the matter," Sir Geoffrey continued,
"and either by accident or to intimidate us, one of the rascals let fly
and hit my man Brown in the shoulder. Instantly, there was a mêlée, in
the midst of which approaching shouts were heard and the highwaymen, at
the word of command, dashed off, pursued by Will Battersea and myself.
A parting shot, fired at random, brought down the horse of one of the
highwaymen, who threw his rider into a ditch and rolled over him. There
we found him with a broken collarbone, and handed him over to the
mounted constabulary, who had arrived so opportunely."
"I shudder to think what might have happened," said Prue gravely, "had
their arrival been less well-timed."
"Spare your tremors, my dearest," replied Sir Geoffrey, rather nettled
by her tone. "You surely do not think that Will and I were in any peril
from half-a-dozen highwaymen? To say nothing of our men, who were both
sturdy rustics and had served in the West-Riding Yeomanry. I vow I was
disappointed at the interruption, and would rather have taken Robin
Freemantle with my pistol at his ear, than pulled him out of a ditch
with the help of a constable."
"Robin Freemantle!" the two ladies exclaimed simultaneously. Then the
blood rushed so tumultuously to Prue’s face, that she was thankful for
the dim light that hid her confusion.
"What! was it he that assailed you on Bleakmoor? The fellow is
ubiquitous!" cried Sir Geoffrey. "I will not forget to add this to his
other crimes, when I am witness on his trial. The man who has dared to
attack the fairest lady in England—the protégée of her Grace of
Marlborough—should be drawn and quartered; hanging is too good for him."
"Sir Geoffrey! I forbid you to mention my name!" she exclaimed, in a
great flutter. "It may not be the same man—besides, he took nothing
from us, did he, Peggie? Nothing, that is to say of any—any—"
"My dear Prudence—the mere fact of his attacking you would rouse the
country," cried her lover, rather pompously. "It would have more effect
upon the jury than a dozen ordinary highway robberies—"
"I do not wish to rouse the country," interrupted Prue. "What! am I to
be discussed by lawyers and jurymen, and lampooned, forsooth, in the
Flying Post! My grandmother would never forgive it—"
"Dearest Prue, pardon me for suggesting anything that could for one
moment distress you; it was but my eagerness to punish the scoundrel for
his crimes. Let us relegate him to oblivion. Such subjects are not for
the lips and ears of Beauty. Tell me, sweet Prue, when may I hope to see
Lady Drumloch and implore her sanction to my suit?"
"I have already broken the matter to her," replied Prue, "but, as we
anticipated, without any great success, at present. She is, as you
know, an ardent Jacobite and can not be expected to approve your
politics, which are considerably more important to her than my
happiness. Mayhap, when she becomes acquainted with you she may blame
me less. You must exercise your eloquence on her as you did on me," she
added, with a coquettish smile, "and then I think I can safely leave our
cause in your hands. My prayers shall accompany you, and if necessary
we will kneel side by side and implore the ancestral benediction."
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE MONEY-LENDER INTERVENES*
Either her hysterics or her gout kept my Lady Drumloch in her chamber
long enough to try the brief patience of Prudence Brooke. Sir Geoffrey,
secure of his bride, was less impatient, for after all, the
grandmother’s consent was a mere matter of form, although he had
reasons—upon which he did not care to dilate—for wishing to propitiate
the old lady, and secure her good graces.
He came to Mayfair as frequently as his parliamentary duties permitted,
and never without sending up to the sick-room the most sympathetic
messages, accompanied by bouquets of rare flowers, baskets of hothouse
fruit and dainty porcelain or enameled boxes of French bonbons, and his
gifts to Lowton were as lavish, though of a different character.
Finding no abatement in her grandmother’s austerity, about a week after
Sir Geoffrey’s arrival, Lady Prudence ordered a chair, and concealing as
many of her charms as could be hidden by a cloak and hood, made a
pilgrimage to the city.
Almost under the shadow of Aldgate Church, at the entrance of a narrow
court, of quiet appearance but sinister reputation, lived a certain Mr.
Moses Aarons, reputed fabulously wealthy. Few were the gay inheritors
of paternal acres to whom the little office in Aldgate was unfamiliar,
and in the safes and deed-boxes that encumbered the upper floors of the
dingy house many a bond and mortgage told a history of vast estates held
by a hair, and noble fortunes of which little remained but the name.
Mr. Aarons was a man of unpretending appearance, with very little about
him to suggest the Jew money-lender. Immaculately dressed, in a suit of
fine plum-colored cloth, with silk stockings of the same hue, and
wearing his own iron-gray hair slightly powdered, and gathered in a
black ribbon, he might have passed for a respectable lawyer or merchant,
had not some suggestion of power in his smooth voice and heavy-lidded
eye, belied the modesty of his appearance.
The chair of a fine lady was no unaccustomed object at his door—nor,
indeed, was the Viscountess Brooke a stranger. When his clerk bowed the
lady into Mr. Aarons’ sanctum, he rose to greet her, and returned her
sweeping curtsey with a bow as ceremonious.
"My Lady Brooke! This is, indeed, a condescension," he said. "My poor
place is not adapted for the entertainment of such fashion and beauty."
"Most excellent Aarons," cried Prue, a little haughtily, "a truce to
your compliments, which are only meant in ridicule, I fear." She threw
back her hood, however, not disdaining to try the full effect of her
charms upon this Jew, from whom she had come to cajole a few hundred
pounds, if possible, without security.
"Your ladyship’s long absence from London hath surely been to some magic
spring," said the usurer, with an exaggerated deference that bordered on
insolence. "We heard you were breaking squires’ hearts in Yorkshire,
but sure ’twas some southern sun that has been ripening the peaches on
your cheeks."
Prue burst out laughing. "Are you turning poet, Mr. Aarons?" she
inquired flippantly. "Take my advice, and keep to your own trade; no
one will ever read the verse of Shakespeare or Milton with half as much
interest as the magic prose that can turn a scrap of dirty paper into
golden guineas."
"Your ladyship is tired of poetry, and wishes for a little prose by way
of change, no doubt," suggested the money-lender.
"Change, forsooth! That is just what I am perishing for," cried Prue.
"Fate has been dealing me the scurviest tricks, and now the chance of my
life has come, and I tremble lest I lose it for want of a few pounds.
The queen has bidden me to court, and I hope the best from Her Majesty’s
condescension. But, alas! I can not make a fitting appearance at
court, for I am—as usual—penniless. You must help me out of my troubles,
good Mr. Aarons, and this time I shall pay you principal and interest,
and recover the diamond necklace that has been so long in your care."
"If the security you offer is no better than last time, my lady
Viscountess—" the money-lender began.
"Alack! this time I have nothing at all to offer as security," she
interrupted. "You know where most of my jewels are, and on my way from
Yorkshire, I was set upon by Robin Freemantle, the highwayman, and
robbed of everything he could lay his hands on!"
"The outrageous villain! Did your ladyship lose much?" asked the Jew,
with ill-concealed sarcasm.
"I scarce remember how much, but he left me with nothing but a few
worthless trinkets I had concealed in my cousin’s jewel-casket, which
fortunately escaped. So I arrived in London destitute. My grandmother
is too ill to think of aught but prayers and potions, and I am most
anxious to return to the court, where, doubtless, her Grace of
Marlborough will do something for me—she loves me like a daughter—but I
can not wait on her grace without a gown and a carriage."
"The milliner will, no doubt, be enchanted to provide the one, and the
liveryman the other," said Aarons suavely.
"True, but every one knows I was banished from court, and nothing will
satisfy them that I am in favor again but to see my name in the _Court
News’_ account of the queen’s levee. I can not get there without money,
and for that I look to you, who have stood my friend before. Now
listen," she went on quickly, laying her little dimpled hand on his arm,
in her eagerness to interrupt the impending expostulation. "I am going
to be married—oh, yes, I know what you would say—’tis not the first time
by several, and I am still the Widow Brooke! This time, however, you
may consider it final; within a month, I wed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."
The money-lender started. "Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!" he exclaimed.
"Your creditors, my lady Viscountess, will scarce be pleased at this
hearing, and may find cause to remind you that there are lodgings for
ladies in the Fleet and Queen’s Bench. Sir Geoffrey is a member of
Parliament, and can not be arrested for his own debts, let alone his
wife’s."
"Arrested! Do you mean to suggest that Sir Geoffrey can not, or will
not, pay my debts?" she cried angrily.
"He may be willing; indeed, who could doubt that any man would esteem it
an honor to pay the debts of Lady Prudence Brooke? But that he is able,
is quite another matter, and you may take my word for it, that Sir
Geoffrey Beaudesert couldn’t pay his own debts, if every acre he owned
was free, instead of mortgaged, lock, stock and barrel."
"You are maligning a gentleman, sir!" she exclaimed, losing all control
of her temper. "I will tell him how you have lied to me, and he will
have his servants beat you within an inch of your life! Sir Geoffrey a
bankrupt!—his estates mortgaged!—was ever such a slander? He is a man
of substance, I tell you. I have visited him in his ancestral domain,
where he entertained me royally. He is lord of the manor, and has the
retinue of a duke—no man in Yorkshire is more highly respected—he is
M.F.H. and might be Sheriff of his Riding an’ he chose!" She began to
subside a little, though still angry, and looking, it must be owned,
transcendently lovely in her excitement, with cheeks like damask roses,
and flashing sapphire eyes. "Good Mr. Aarons, why did you give me such
a scare?" she went on, with a ring of almost entreaty in her tone.
"Tell me you were joking. What can you know about Sir Geoffrey’s estate?
He hath borrowed of you, mayhap; who has not? But since he has come into
his patrimony—"
"His patrimony, Lady Prudence? His father was one of King James’ most
devoted followers, and one of the most lavish while a guinea could be
raised to prove his loyalty. Sir Geoffrey can not cut a tree in his
’ancestral domain,’ and you may be sure there was a bailiff or two
wearing his livery among the ducal retinue that dazzled your ladyship."
"Mr. Aarons, you must be mistaken," she persisted stubbornly. "If his
fortunes are so low, why does he seek to join them to those of a
portionless widow? Sure, there are heiresses a-plenty who would gladly
buy his title with their dowries!"
"Oh! your ladyship has but to look in your mirror to answer that
question," cried the usurer, with a low bow and a look of open
admiration. "There are also men of wealth and substance who would
gladly pay the debts of Lady Prudence Brooke, and settle such a fortune
upon her as would keep her busy in the spending."
"No doubt, no doubt," said Lady Prudence hastily, "but I am betrothed to
Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, and these benevolent persons do not greatly
interest me. Let us quit the subject of the fortunes Sir Geoffrey and I
are throwing away, and return to business."
"Yet believe me, Lady Prudence," he insisted, "you will never wed Sir
Geoffrey Beaudesert."
She rose with great haughtiness. "I decline to dispute the subject with
you, Mr. Aarons—" she began.
"You will not marry Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert," he repeated. "If you do
not refuse the match, he will find some way to release himself; ’tis his
misfortune more than his fault. Mark me, Lady Prudence, and do not let
him place you in a false position. You want to be a rich woman as well
as a great lady. You can marry a man who will give you the finest house
in town, the most splendid establishment, the choice of a dozen country
seats, and more money to spend than you have ever dreamed of, and who
asks nothing in return but to see you queen it at his expense."
She smiled a little, and met his glance with a most deceptive air of
innocent curiosity.
"And who is the _gentleman_, Mr. Aarons?" she inquired, in her sweetest
tone, with but the hint of an emphasis.
"Can you not guess?" he replied more boldly.
"Faith, I came hither seeking a money-broker, and was not prepared to
find a marriage-broker instead!" she said, shrugging her pretty
shoulders. "Do not keep me in suspense, good Aarons; I am dying to know
the name of the admirable creature who desires to rescue me from
poverty—and Sir Geoffrey—and confer so many benefits upon my
unworthiness."
He placed his hand upon his breast, and bowed deeply.
"You see him here, fair Lady Prudence," he said. "The humblest of
slaves, the most ardent of admirers and, if you will, the most devoted
and indulgent of husbands."
She burst into a peal of laughter, but the faint note of bitterness that
permeated the charming music was not lost upon the money-lender’s sharp
ear.
"Truly, Mr. Aarons, your jest is subtle and well-conceived, and a
fitting rebuke to my silly vanity," she began. But he interrupted her,
"In truth, Madam, ’tis no jest, but a serious offer. I have always
admired your ladyship, and a year ago, endeavored to give fitting
expression—"
A knock on the door interrupted his flow of eloquence, and the clerk,
from without, announced that Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert’s chariot had just
driven to the door, and that "his Ludship" was in the act of alighting.
"Great Heaven!" cried Prue, turning scarlet and then pale. "How shall I
escape? I would not be found here by him for a thousand pounds! Do not
admit him, good Mr. Aarons, I beseech you—"
"Take Sir Geoffrey up-stairs, Jacob, and tell him I am engaged, but will
wait on him anon," said the Jew. Then turning to his fair client with
an insinuating smile, he added, "Now, if your ladyship chooses, you may
have an opportunity of judging between my statement of this gentleman’s
finances and his own—"
He indicated, by a gesture, a door in an obscure corner of the room.
"What! play the spy upon my betrothed husband? Never, never!" exclaimed
Prue indignantly. Yet she did not go away, and her pliant form seemed
to sway toward the little dark door, as though a stronger will than her
own controlled her muscles.
"’Tis no harm," said the Jew, in his silkiest tones, as he opened the
door leading into a room scarcely bigger than a closet, but light, and
furnished with a single chair, and a table littered with papers and
thick with dust.
Half-involuntarily, Prue yielded, and the door closed upon her. "I need
not listen," she said, half-apologizing to herself for an action she
disdained. But the room was small, and that, perhaps, was why she did
not think it worth while to move away from the door.
The blood rushed to her head when she heard Sir Geoffrey’s voice, and
for some moments she was conscious of nothing but a confused murmur, out
of which, at last, her own name rang sharp and clear.
"The Lady Prudence Brooke has honored me by accepting my hand," she
heard Sir Geoffrey say, in a tone that was evidently intended to
discourage adverse comment.