true that this claimant can deprive you not only of your title and
estates, but of your very name."
"You are mad! If such a thing were possible, what is it to you, and how
can you know anything about it?"
"Because all the papers are in my possession. Oh! not here—in perfectly
safe keeping; where they will remain until I die, or claim them back."
"How came they in your possession?" demanded Beachcombe. "In robbing a
coach, I suppose you took them for something valuable."
"They came into my possession by the action of Providence, to afford
your lordship the chance of giving me my life and keeping your own
honorable name."
"Your life, my good fellow! You overrate my power and your own value.
If your papers are worth anything, I’ll give you all the money you ask
for your own spending, and the provision of those you leave behind—"
"We’ll come to that presently," said Robin. "First, I’ll tell you what I
have to offer. Some thirty years ago—while His Majesty King Charles was
on the throne—a certain lieutenant of the Guards, younger son of a great
earl’s younger brother, fell in love with a poor schoolmaster’s pretty
daughter. Passing himself off as a stage-player, under the name of
Gregory Vincent, he won the young woman’s affection, though not,
apparently, her complete confidence; for she went to the pains of
investigating the gentleman’s private life, and discovered his real
name. Then she consented to a secret marriage, at which she substituted
a real priest and legal papers for the sham ones with which her
honorable lover had intended to cozen her."
"This story has already been communicated to my attorneys," interrupted
Lord Beachcombe impatiently. "How are you acquainted with it, and why
do you expect it to interest me in you?"
"I know it because a vast number of letters, written by this gentleman,
first to his sweetheart and afterward to his wife, have fallen into my
hands. They tell the whole history, with many entertaining details, and
would prove racy reading in the _News_ sheet for your lordship’s friends
and foes, especially the latter."
The visitor winced. "No man likes his family affairs held up to
ridicule," he said. "I would willingly buy the letters, if genuine."
"Oh! they are genuine; also the marriage certificate, whereof one of the
witnesses is still living, and the certificates of the birth and baptism
of the son, now twenty-eight years old. I believe your lordship is
twenty-six?"
"And why has this matter been allowed to sleep for thirty years?"
"Because Mrs. Vincent—as she temporarily allowed herself to be
called—although clever enough to find out that her stage-player lover
was really a lieutenant of the King’s Guards, masquerading under a false
name, was unable to trace him when he disappeared, a year after their
marriage, and never knew that in consequence of several deaths, he had
become Lord Beachcombe, of whom she probably never heard, and certainly
never connected with Lieutenant Gregory de Cliffe. The last of this
series of documents is the certificate of the death of the deserted
wife, when her son was about five years old, to whom she bequeathed only
her wedding-ring and a casket, which was to be opened when he came to
man’s estate."
Lord Beachcombe’s sallow face crimsoned with such a rush of blood, that
his eyes were suffused, and he seemed in danger of suffocating.
"Five years," he gasped. "Scoundrel, do you know what you are saying?"
Robin bent his head, without speaking.
"Where are these forgeries? These—these—" Beachcombe stopped,
apparently unable to utter another word.
"As I told you before, they are quite safe," said Robin quietly. "But
an hour after my death, they will be in the hands of the person whom
they most concern."
"And do you—does this impostor imagine that he can oust a peer of the
realm with a few old letters and musty documents, forsooth?" cried the
earl, recovering himself a little. "We nobles hang together, Sir
Highwayman, and are chary of disturbing one of our order for a trifle."
"I do not know whether he can oust you, Lord Beachcombe," said Robin,
looking him steadily in the eye, "but he can prove you a bastard."
Beachcombe sprang to his feet, with hand on sword, as though he would
have drawn it on the defenseless prisoner, and stood, breathing heavily,
unable to utter a word.
"We are alone, my Lord, and not one word that passes between us need
ever be repeated outside this cell," said Robin; "that is, if you agree
to my terms. Otherwise, I may feel compelled to make terms with your
cousin, who would be the inheritor if you were—illegitimate, and your
_elder brother_ were—could be induced to waive his claim."
Lord Beachcombe bent a furtive but piercing regard upon the prisoner.
"And how can you answer for him?" he asked, slowly weighing his words.
"If I buy you off, I may have to fight him in the law courts afterward.
Oh! ’tis intolerable—it’s a conspiracy—it must be a lie—my father a
bigamist!—my mother—! Villain, you shall hang for calling me bastard,
if for nothing else."
"I think not," said Robin. "Your unborn child may be a son, whose fate
hangs upon your word. The rightful heir values my life so highly, that
he himself has instigated this offer. He is willing to give all his
documents in exchange for my life and liberty. Furthermore, for a sum
of money sufficient to carry him abroad and start him in life, he will
sign a deed, if you will have one drawn up, resigning all claims on the
title or estates of Beachcombe. Is that explicit enough?"
During this speech, Lord Beachcombe had quieted down, and was now seated
opposite the prisoner, whom he regarded with fixed attention.
"What does your claimant call himself? Under what name is he known?" he
demanded abruptly.
"You can not know it without perusing the documents," said Robin, "and
you can not do that until I am free to bring them to you myself."
"I tell you," exclaimed the earl pettishly, "that you overestimate my
influence. How can I obtain the pardon of a highwayman who attacked the
Lord Archbishop?"
"I took nothing from his grace but his wig!" cried Robin, with a
boisterous laugh, "and so that he might not catch cold in his venerable
head, I gave him in exchange a comfortable cotton nightcap, that had
once been the property of the Mayor of York! ’Twas a fair exchange, and
methinks the archbishop would scarcely wish me hanged for a joke, when I
might have stripped him of a coachful of treasure."
Lord Beachcombe rose. "There are yet three days," he said grudgingly.
"I’ll see what can be done."
"Three days for _me_, my Lord, but not for you," said Robin
significantly. "I must know by this time to-morrow what my chances are
with you, for the letter I was inditing to your cousin Francis can not
be delayed longer than that."
"Francis!" sneered Lord Beachcombe. "What do you imagine he can do for
you? A man whose name is hardly known at court! An indolent recluse; a
mere bumpkin!"
"For me? Probably nothing," Robin replied, in a stern, threatening
tone. "But what can he do for you, with those papers in his possession?
I may be dead before they reach him, but my revenge will be sure, in his
hands."
"Do you suppose he will put himself out for you—_your claimant_? You
evidently don’t know Francis."
"I do not know him, but I know human nature," retorted Robin. "What
heir does not live in hopes of some day inheriting? I shall make no
conditions with him, but place the proof of your father’s first marriage
in his hands. Can you doubt that he will use that weapon to put himself
in your place? Oh! don’t flatter yourself that my death will clear the
worst danger out of your path. Alive, you have a dozen ways of
silencing me; dead, I have one way to ruin you—utterly."
The two men regarded each other for a few seconds intently. Robin’s
face expressed cold, implacable determination, the other, deadly
hostility. Lord Beachcombe turned suddenly and rapped sharply on the
door. It was instantly opened by the jailer, and he strode out without
another word or glance.
Robin flung himself into the chair, and gave way to a deep and gloomy
reverie. From time to time, broken sentences escaped him. "What is the
use, after all?"—"It makes little difference whether I die now, or live
to be hanged some other time"—and other remarks of a pessimistic and
dismal nature. Then he fell to writing, but after a while, tore the
paper into shreds, and sat moodily watching the sallow reflection of
daylight fading slowly behind the bars.
*CHAPTER VII*
*A WEDDING-RING FOR A KISS*
Robin had been alone half-an-hour or so, when the door was again opened,
and another visitor announced.
"Here, Highwayman," cried the jailer, "a lady wants to see you now. You
Knights of the Road are always in favor with the women."
"I know no women," said Robin roughly. "Certainly none that would come
here to see me."
"Well, shall this one come in?" demanded the jailer. "I’ll warrant
she’s young and pretty, and a real lady, too! She came in a chair!"
"Oh! let her in, let her in. Pray don’t keep a real lady waiting in the
passage," said Robin, who foresaw some begging petition, or, perhaps,
the request of some frolicsome damsel for a lock of his hair for her
album, or a bequest of the rope that hanged him, for luck! "Be seated,
Madam," he added, as a slender figure, wrapped in a heavy cloak and
closely veiled, glided timidly into the cell. "What service can I render
you?"
"Can I have a few words alone with you?" murmured the visitor. The
jailer, who had been hanging round, curious to see and hear, withdrew,
with a laugh and a coarse jest, and locked the door after him.
The lady threw off her veil, revealing the homely features and sparkling
eyes of Margaret Moffat.
"You know me not," she said. "Yet we have met before, Robin
Freemantle."
"I can not believe," replied Robin gallantly, "that, once seen, you
could ever be forgotten by me."
"Well, possibly you did not see me; one far more attractive engrossed
all your attention, and ’tis from her I come, to ask as favor from you,
that which many of the highest in the land have offered in vain."
"You puzzle me greatly," said Robin. "What favor can any lady desire of
a man as good as dead?"
"Why—that’s just where it is—an’ you were not condemned to die, you
could do nothing for my lady."
"My lady! And who is your lady, may I ask?"
"I’ll tell that presently; but first, before I reveal her name, tell me
one thing truly. Are you married?"
"Married? No, the Saints be praised! but how can that concern your
lady? Does she wish to marry me, perchance?" cried Robin ironically.
"That is just what she does wish," said Margaret, as demurely as though
she had really been the waiting-maid she feigned to be. "And for a
token, she sends you this." And she threw down before him the wallet he
had flung into Prue’s lap on Bleakmoor.
He took it up, recognizing it with a whirling brain. The whole scene
sprang up before him as under a sudden illumination—the gathering
darkness and the falling rain—the old chariot, with its steaming horses
and frightened servants—and by the light of his lantern, the lovely face
of a girl, with her hood thrown back and a tangle of dark curls against
the milky whiteness of her neck. He saw the round, bare arms and
tapering hands extended, to show that she had no jewels about her, the
roguish smile disclosing the little even teeth and sparkling in the
depths of the starry eyes, and for a moment his lips once more brushed
her scarlet mouth, and the perfume of her breath again clouded his
brain.
Margaret watched him with amusement, as his face disclosed something of
the varying emotions, over which amazement predominated.
"Does that surprise you?" she inquired mockingly. "Sure, ’tis no
uncommon thing for a man to pay for a kiss with a wedding-ring!"
"There must be some other reason," he said, more to himself than in
reply to her. "That kiss meant nothing to _her_."
"Did it mean anything to you?" asked Margaret, beginning to feel
interested.
"To me?" His face was suddenly irradiated. "You, who bask in the light
of that incomparable loveliness all the time, can never understand what
it means to the man who sees it for the first time—and not only sees,
but touches!—touches with his unworthy lips that cheek of down—those
lips! Ah! how many times since have I felt the thrill of that kiss, and
wondered if she could recall it without horror."
"Well, horror can scarcely be the sentiment you inspired, since she
wishes to marry you," simpered Peggie.
The mist of passion suddenly cleared from his eyes, and he bent on her
so steady and penetrating a glance, that her eyes fell, and she waited
nervously for his next words to give the cue to his thoughts.
"Ha! she wishes to marry me?" he said slowly. "Is it an honest wish of
her own, or is it a trap set by some one else?"
"Oh! indeed, it is entirely her own idea!" cried Margaret eagerly; "not
a soul has any suspicion of it but herself and me, and if you refuse,
you will not even know her name, and the secret will be buried in your
grave."
"Then give me a reason," he said, apparently relieved by her
unmistakable honesty. "Give me the real reason, for I see this is
something more than a mere fine lady’s caprice."
Margaret felt a little natural embarrassment—the man was so different
from what she had expected, that the little plans she had devised on her
way to the prison, did not fit into the circumstances.
"In truth Prue—I mean the Lady Prudence—is deeply in debt and much
harassed by her creditors, who threaten her with the Fleet, and I know
not what beside," she blurted out. "Now, if she were your wife, her
debts would be your debts, and as you, alack, must die on Monday, no one
can make your widow pay your debts!"
"So ’tis my _widow_ the Lady Prudence desires to be; not my wife!" said
Robin, with a bitter smile.
[Illustration: "So ’tis my widow she desires to be!"]
"What difference does that make?" cried Margaret, greatly relieved at
having got over the worst of her mission. "An’ if you think so much of
a kiss, I’ll warrant my lady will not refuse one to her _husband_."
"Aye, such a kiss as I snatched from her on Bleakmoor, with lips denied
and cheek averted. Or such a kiss as she might leave on the face of a
dead stranger; as cold as the corpse itself."
"’Twill be your own fault if you get nothing better than that," cried
Peggie, with a glance that had something of challenge in it. "On
Bleakmoor, Lady Prudence had not seen your face; how could she tell you
were not some blackavised desperado? There is not a handsome young
gallant behind every robber’s mask."
Robin burst out laughing. "Thanks, sweetheart!" he cried. "I trust my
bride-elect has as kind a disposition as her messenger. Yet what does
it matter to me?
"’Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?’"
His rich voice filled the squalid cell with burst of rollicking melody.
"If she be a very Xantippe, I shall not suffer from her temper," he went
on. "And, by the way, I do not yet know the name of the lady who has
honored me by the offer of her hand—in widowhood."
"That I can not tell you, until I know your intentions," said Margaret.
"First, will you marry her?"
"Will I marry her? Surely, she is not accustomed to sue in vain for
men’s hearts and hands! They must fall under her feet—as I do—when she
but glances at them. Aye, I will marry her, though death himself ties
the nuptial knot."
"That is settled, then—" Peggie was beginning philosophically.
"Settled, perhaps, as far as I am concerned; but what about your lady?
Will her caprice last out until you return, think you, or will she be
likely to stay in the same mind until to-morrow? ’Tis nothing to her,
mayhap, to set a poor prisoner’s brain afire, and bid him welcome death
because it brings him five minutes of her company. I may dream myself
her husband for a few hours, and forget everything else in the delicious
hope of seeing her again; but what of her? By the time you go back to
her, she may have changed her mind, or found some less objectionable way
of paying her debts!"
"’Tis like enough," she replied coolly. "You would not be the first she
has served in that fashion. You must take your chance of that."
"I’ll take my chance," the prisoner acquiesced.
"Very well. Now, will you swear not to reveal the marriage to any
one?—unless it be your father-confessor, if you have one."
"That I will willingly swear. If she can keep the secret herself, it
will be safe enough in my grave."
"Now, I have only one more thing to ask. You must not be offended,
but—is Robin Freemantie your true name? I know you ’Knights of the
Road’ do, sometimes, masquerade in name as well as in person, so perhaps
you may have another name—not quite so—celebrated?"
"Aha! my lady wants a respectable grave to bury her debts in!" cried
Robin, laughing sarcastically. "I am fortunate in being able to satisfy
her even in this. I _have_ another name, and a friend who will claim my
body after I am hanged, and bury me where my disconsolate widow may, if
she wish, raise a monument to commemorate my virtues and her woes." He
wrote the name on a sheet of paper and handed it to her.
"And have _you_ no condition to make?" asked Peggie, rising.
"What condition should I make?" demanded Robin, somewhat sternly. "Will
she try to save my life, who only seeks to profit by my death? No! it
will be reward enough to hold her hand for five minutes, while the
priest makes her my wife; for just so long as I can coax her to keep her
carriage waiting! No conditions for me. Yet, stay; I’ll make one that
will not hurt her pride or wound her vanity. Tell her I demand that she
comes to me, looking her prettiest, as becomes a bride. I’ll feast my
eyes upon her loveliness, and if she’ll but kiss me once, I’d thank them
if they would take me out and hang me before the kiss had time to grow
cold on my lips. Fare-thee-well, sweetheart, since you must go, and
thanks for your company. Take my lady back my wallet, and let me first
fill it with gold pieces for yourself."
"No, no!" cried Peggie, not quite able to act up to the character of
waiting-woman to the extent of accepting a fee for her mediation. "My
lady would be vexed with me, if I took aught from you but your consent
to marry her."
"And this," he cried, gaily kissing her. "I’ll warrant you know the old
saw, ’Kiss and never tell.’"
"For shame!" she remonstrated, without any great show of indignation,
however. "Help me with my cloak and call the jailer, if you please.
Alack, my reputation would suffer sadly, if ever this long visit should
be heard of outside the walls of Newgate."
He adjusted her cloak, not forgetting to steal another kiss before she
tied the thick veil over her hood. "To-morrow," she said, as she
hurried out after the jailer, "some time in the forenoon."
As she took her seat in the chair, she laughed softly to herself. "I
must be a good actress," she murmured, "or, maybe, there is not enough
difference between an earl’s granddaughter and a waiting-maid to be
perceptible to a robber! Odd’s life! he doesn’t know the bride’s name,
even now! ’Tis a queer marriage, indeed!"
*CHAPTER VIII*
*AN ORDER FOR A PARSON*
Scarcely had Margaret Moffat alighted from her chair, when Prue darted
out into the little hall and greeted her with embraces.
"Oh! Peggie, Peggie, I have been counting the minutes for your return,"
she cried, literally dancing round her. "Since you went away, all sorts
of delightful things have happened. Our boxes have come from Yorkshire;
think of it, all our finery—packed anyhow, to be sure, but a hot iron
will repair the damage—and we can go to court and to church and to the
play, and to the Duchess of Marlborough’s masquerade! Oh! Peggie, I am
crazy with joy!" and she kissed her cousin again, with an ardor that
must have been rather exasperating to Sir Geoffrey, who was looking on.
By this time, Peggie had thrown off her wraps, and forgetting all about
Robin, had become as joyously excited as Prue.
"Oh! the masquerade—shall we be invited? I was breaking my heart to
think of missing it!"
"We are invited! Scarcely had the trunks arrived, when there came a
messenger from the duchess with the invitations for the masquerade, and
a note bidding me to dinner with her grace, to-morrow, at noon. Think
how overjoyed I was to be able to accept both invitations. I flew up to
grandmother to give her the good news—never thinking, I vow, that she
would do aught but scold—and found her in a most gracious mood. She
gave me a lovely lace flounce. Oh! Peggie, you know her rose-point?
there’s some for you, too; and what do you think? She offered to lend
me her pearls, and promised to give us fifty guineas to help make us
presentable at the queen’s next drawing-room. Isn’t that good news? And
now, Peggie, you must help me prepare for to-morrow; that is even more
important than the mask, for if the duchess should be in great
good-humor with her little Prue, she might take her to Kensington Palace
to make her peace with the queen!"
"To-morrow morning you have already one very particular engagement,"
cried Peggie, laughing. "I see, however, that poor Robin was right in
thinking you might change your mind before I got back!"
"Robin—!" Prue glanced at Sir Geoffrey, and turned scarlet. Then her
eyes danced with mischief. "Tell us all about it, Peggie; Sir Geoffrey
may as well enjoy the joke."
Margaret hesitated, and would have changed the subject, but Prue, wilful
as usual, would not be denied.
"’Tis too good to keep," she laughed. "You must know, Sir Geoffrey,
that I am desperately in debt; ’tis no secret, though no one but Peggie
knows how I have been driven and harried by my creditors. Well, in
utter despair, I hit upon a most original way of paying my debts. I
decided to be the widow of Robin Freemantle, who is condemned to be
hanged next Monday."
"The widow of Robin Freemantle!" he exclaimed, with evident
mystification. "Pray, how can you be a widow without first being a
wife?"
"That was the only difficulty," cried Prue, with a mock-serious air, "so
I persuaded Peggie to go to Newgate and ask Robin to marry me. Did he
consent, Peggie? Did he make terms and demand a bribe, or am I
forestalled by some fair Molly of the Minories, and must I pine in the
Fleet, or marry good Mr. Aarons?"
Sir Geoffrey, who was, perhaps, a little deficient in sense of humor,
could not dissemble his perplexity. He had passed the afternoon at the
feet of his capricious mistress, or rather under the high heels of her
dainty slippers, for she had laughed at his vows and persisted in
turning his poetic rhapsodies into coldest prose. Even her joy over the
arrival of her trunks and the duchess’ invitations, had not improved
matters, for she took little pains to conceal that the prospect of
returning to the field of her former triumphs had reawakened a thirst
for further conquest, which might prove disastrous, both to his
matrimonial views and his rash wager.
It was certainly disconcerting to hear his betrothed calmly discussing
her possible marriage with this one and that one, while he was racking
his brain to devise some means of marrying her without burdening himself
with the debts she must needs bring in her little hand. And Sir
Geoffrey had already discovered that Prudence was never so likely to be
serious, as when she appeared most frivolous.
"Miss Moffat has been to Newgate?" he exclaimed, grasping that one fact
out of a bewildering array of vague possibilities. "What an
extraordinary adventure! And did you really see the miscreant?"
"I saw him," replied Peggie, "and for a miscreant, he was really quite
inoffensive, and even agreeable;" she smiled furtively, as she thought
of the two kisses he had stolen, "and if Prue will choose that way out
of her troubles, she may; for he’s ready to marry her to-morrow, if she
will provide the priest and the ring."
Prue glanced at her suitor, and observing his downcast eyes and the
thoughtful frown upon his brow, thought the joke had been carried far
enough, even for her perverse humor.
"Nay, dear Peggie, ’tis enough folly for once," she said. "Let the poor
fellow die in peace. What good would it do me to be the widow of a
malefactor publicly hanged? I could never claim the rights of such a
widowhood!"