name—one quite familiar to you—and though he will die as Robin
Freemantle, he will be married and buried under his own name—or what he
claims as his own—Robert Gregory de Cliffe."
Both her hearers repeated the name in tones of astonishment, "De
Cliffe!"
"Of course, it is an assumed name, but ’twill serve, none the less,"
said Sir Geoffrey, with a constrained smile.
"De Cliffe," repeated Prue; "’twould be strange, indeed, if that name
became mine by such a means. Lord Beachcombe would be greatly edified,
if he knew I had a second opportunity of bearing his family-name." She
laughed merrily, "If such a thing could be taken seriously, this would
almost tempt me."
"And why not?" cried Peggie. "I protest I see no reason for throwing
away such a chance. You marry the man to-morrow, and on Monday you will
be a widow. His body will be claimed by a friend and buried under the
name of De Cliffe, and if your creditors harass you, all you have to do
is to produce your marriage-lines and they may go hunt for their money
in Robin’s grave."
Prue looked irresolutely at Sir Geoffrey. Her caprice for this marriage
was almost played out, but she wanted to be coaxed out of it, and to
make a great favor of yielding up her own wilful way to the
remonstrances and entreaties of her lover. Sir Geoffrey, on the other
hand, had rapidly turned the matter over in his own mind, and arrived at
the conclusion that however this escapade might affect Prue, it would
have two points in his favor. First, the riddance of those debts which
he was so unwilling to shoulder, and second, the advantage that the
possession of such a secret would give him in pressing his suit to a
speedy marriage, and in maintaining his marital authority later on. Sir
Geoffrey adored Prue, but with the experience he had gained of her wiles
and guiles, he had no objection to the handling of a weapon that would
keep them in due subjection.
He remained silent, so after a pause that began to be ominous, Prue said
softly, "And you, Sir Geoffrey; how does this project strike you? Peggie
has given me a girl’s advice; I should like a man’s opinion."
He hemmed a little, and glanced from one expectant face to the other.
"Woman’s wit," he began at last, "is often more to the point than
man’s—"
"Wisdom," suggested Peggie, filling in a slight hesitancy.
He laughed deprecatingly. "Oh! my dear Miss Margaret, I was not
thinking of laying claim to wisdom—merely to logic, with which we poor
dull-brained men try to compensate for our lack of feminine intuition.
You, who are wise as well as witty, can well afford to be merciful—"
"Still," persisted Prue, "you are only complimenting Peggie’s wit; you
are not telling us what you think of her scheme."
"Peggie’s scheme!—oh—" murmured Margaret, _sotto voce_.
"My dearest Prudence, surely I do not need to say that the idea of any
man having even such a ghost of a claim upon the woman I adore, is
abhorrent to me," Sir Geoffrey began, rather pompously. "’Tis absurd to
think that a few words to a stranger could free you from so much
anxiety, while I, the most faithful of your slaves, am forced by cruel
Fate to stand aside, for fear of aggravating your woes." Having got
thus far, however, it occurred to him that this was too serious a view
of the matter, so he went on with a careless laugh, "To be sure you
would only see him once—the fellow’s audacity would be rightly punished
by such a torment of Tantalus—and your creditors—the wretches have
threatened you with the Fleet, did you say? By Saint George, ’tis no
more than they deserve to be balked of their prey—it seems almost worth
while—"
"I see," interrupted Prue, without the least appearance of annoyance,
"that you agree with Peggie. We will consider it settled. I’m so glad
we have told you about it," she went on, in her most vivacious manner.
"I really don’t see how Peggie and I could have managed without you; and
to think that I was foolish enough to be afraid you would be shocked!—"
"Oh! I _am_ shocked—distracted, at the idea of any man—" he began, but
she interrupted him, playfully shaking her forefinger at him.
"Now, now! don’t let us try to be sentimental about it. The plan is a
very good plan; very sensible and ingenious. I am proud of having
originated it. Peggie, I know, is proud of having successfully carried
out the negotiations, and you will have a right, my dear Sir Geoffrey,
to be proud of the part you are going to play in bringing it to a
triumphant end."
"I am entirely at your disposal, my dear Prudence," said Sir Geoffrey,
rather taken aback at thus finding himself assigned an acting part in
the comedy, "but I hardly know what I can do—indeed, the fewer persons
concerned the better, I think—the less likely to attract
attention—comment might be caused by any—a—unusual action on the part of
a member of Parliament—the newsmongers are always on the look-out for—"
"Ta-ta-ta! don’t you suppose that I should make a spicier mouthful for
the newsmongers than even a member of Parliament?" cried Prue
impatiently. "Who is to procure the marriage license and the priest,
Sir Geoffrey, unless you do it? Don’t you think I should attract more
attention in Doctors’ Commons than Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, M.P.? And
surely, you can more easily find some accommodating parson who will keep
the secret and be sure to tie the knot so securely, that when the time
comes to reap the reward, there may be no slip ’twixt cup and lip.
Then, to-morrow morning, you can conduct me to Newgate, on my way to
dine with the duchess, and take care that Peggie and I do not get
clapped into a dungeon by mistake."
"If it can be done so soon," Sir Geoffrey began reluctantly, yet
scarcely venturing to make any further excuse.
"If it can not be done then," cried Prue imperiously, "it will not be
done at all. You may be sure, once I get back to court, I shall have no
time for marrying malefactors, or members of Parliament either, mayhap."
Sir Geoffrey made no further protest, but considering that the benefit
to himself was so undeniable, gave in gracefully, and pledged himself to
his lady’s service with many courtly vows. Indeed, the tempting
prospect of Prue, divested of her debts, and free in three days to
bestow herself upon him, rose before him in such glowing colors, that
even Lord Beachcombe’s wager was cast into the shade, and only served to
add luster to the vision of his fickle and inconsequent mistress,
reduced to sweet reasonableness and proper wifely submission by the
judicious use of her discreditable secret.
He, therefore, took his leave, having to content himself for the nonce
with the tips of Prue’s fingers to kiss, and leaving the cousins to the
delightful occupation of turning over their recovered wardrobes, and
devising the means of making a resplendent appearance at court with
their present possessions and the thrifty outlay of Lady Drumloch’s
fifty guineas.
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE WEDDING*
"My mind misgives me," said Margaret, when the two girls were at their
toilet the next morning. "’Tis not too late, Prue, for reflection, and
if ill betide thee, dear, I shall feel as if I had brought it on thee."
Prue turned from her mirror with a petulant gesture. "Tell me, Peggie,
truly," she said, with an air of deep concern, "do you not think the
hairdresser has trussed my hair too high on top? Would not a curl or two
more on the neck be an improvement? Prithee, unpin this lock and let it
fall negligently behind my ear. Ah! that’s better." She turned back to
the mirror, and regarded her reflection critically. "Am I too pale,
Peggie? Do you think a touch of rouge—the least touch—would be
becoming?"
"For the wedding, do you mean? Faith, I always thought a pale, pensive
bride more interesting. Not that you are either. A shade more color
would spoil you. I think you are even a little flushed."
"_You_ are pale, Peggie," said Prue, looking fixedly at her. "What’s
the matter?"
"Oh! I dreamed all night of troubled water, Prue. You know that’s
ill-luck! ’Tis not too late to give up this foolish marriage—"
"Foolish marriage! Why, Peggie, ’tis the first wise one I have ever
contemplated. And as for a dream, why I dreamed three times running of
a black cat, and if anything bodes good luck that does."
"But suppose after all the object of the marriage should fail," urged
Margaret.
"Fail! How can it fail?" cried Prue pettishly. "Besides, you know the
motto of the Wynnes: ’_Cowards fayle. I winne_.’ Well, I have failed
often enough, yet not from cowardice, God wot! And still I am always
hoping to win, I scarce know what."
"Your new motto will suit you just as well," said Peggie, "’_Nil
timeo_.’"
"Ha, ha! the motto of the De Cliffes. Was ever such audacity as this
Robin’s? I’ve a mind to ask him, when the deed is done, if he has any
directions to give about his hatchment, or if I shall refer the matter
to the head of the house."
"Oh! Prue, are you utterly heartless? I declare, since I have seen the
poor young man I am sorry for him and I wish I had not helped to turn
his execution into a jest."
"Would you have me weep?" said Prue, almost sternly. "There is always
time enough for that when there is nothing else to be done. Ah! I hear
Sir Geoffrey’s voice. You are dressed, Peggie, prithee go down to him
and bring me word whether he has done his part, and is ready—and
willing—to give away the bride."
She turned for a last look in the mirror as Peggie hurried away, and the
half-scornful smile with which she surveyed her own charming reflection
had none of the levity with which she had so easily deceived her cousin.
Yet it certainly was not a picture to provoke disdain. Never had the
wilful beauty looked to greater advantage. The restless brilliancy of
her sparkling eyes, the changeful color that flushed and paled her cheek
with each quick-drawn breath, the nameless but irresistible charm that
animated every feature, might have excused a more complacent glance.
But Prue, though by no means prone to deal severely with herself, was a
good deal more ashamed of her scheme than she would have cared to own,
even to herself, and perhaps secretly longed for some insurmountable
obstacle to stop her in spite of herself.
She was determined, however, that she would not be the one to raise a
difficulty. She was so unspeakably mortified by the new light
yesterday’s events had thrown on Sir Geoffrey’s wooing that the idea of
placing a barrier between herself and him, gave her keen satisfaction.
That the possibility of her inheriting a fortune from her grandmother
should have influenced his pursuit of her ever so slightly, wounded her
vanity, that nerve-center of her being; and that he should have lent his
countenance and help to a scheme that would give her, even nominally, to
another man, no matter how brief or indefinite the tenure, dealt it an
almost mortal blow.
"He has yet a chance," she murmured. "He may have found on reflection
that he can not bring himself to sacrifice me for the sake of a couple
of thousand pounds’ worth of debts, and he may implore me to refrain for
his sake. I might not be persuaded—one can never answer for oneself—but
he would come out of it without dishonor." She mechanically smoothed a
ribbon here and adjusted a flounce there and, half turning, tried to
obtain a full view of her back in a glass two feet square. "’Tis
provoking to be obliged to dress by guess-work," she commented. "If I
were to marry old Aarons I could have three or four tire-women, and a
dressing-room with the walls all covered with mirrors, so that I could
see every side of myself at once. Pah! what is coming over me that I
could even think of such a creature? What with marrying criminals and
receiving offers from usurers the Viscountess Brooke must be coming to a
pretty pass."
With which she made a deep curtsey to as much as she could see of the
Viscountess Brooke in the little looking-glass, and running out of the
room met Miss Moffat coming up-stairs.
"Hasten, Prue," she whispered breathlessly. "All is arranged. Sir
Geoffrey has the ring and license in his pocket and a parson in the
carriage. If the bride is ready—" She had entirely recovered from her
brief spasm of reluctance and was as merry as a child and as reckless of
consequences.
"The bride is quite ready," cried Prue. "Nothing is lacking except—"
"Except what?" inquired Peggie, as she broke off abruptly.
"Oh! a trifle or two; nothing worth mentioning," laughed Prue, snatching
up her cloak and hood and running lightly down-stairs, where Sir
Geoffrey awaited them, not altogether at ease about his own part in the
affair, and palpably relieved that Prue was in the best of spirits and
inclined to treat the whole adventure as a frolic.
"’Tis all your own fault—and Peggie’s," she laughed in her sauciest way.
"If I were not the most good-natured person in the world I should scold
you both soundly and refuse to make a fool of myself for your
amusement."
"Will you change places with me and let me take your chance?" cried
Peggie. "It can not make much difference to Robin."
"What, when I am all dressed up in ribbons and laces for the wedding?
No difference, forsooth! What do you say to that, Sir Geoffrey?"
"I was just going to suggest that you were altogether too fine a bride
for the occasion," said Sir Geoffrey, rather glumly. "A less
resplendent toilet would be less likely to attract attention."
"Eclipse me then under this big cloak," she replied, giving it to him.
"Do you think, you foolish man, that I am dressed up like this to wed a
footpad? I am on my way to Marlborough House to dine with the duchess,
and must hasten or I shall be late and may chance to get a box o’ the
ear for my first course."
Robin Freemantle sat at the rough table in his cell, writing busily.
Several closely written sheets were spread out before him, and when he
finished the last and signed his name to it he threw the pen down and
sat drumming on the table with his fingers. It was an idle action but
by no means idly performed, for the frown on his forehead and the
movements of his long, sinewy hands were full of purpose, and angry
purpose, too.
Presently the frown died away and a look of wistful sadness replaced it.
He took up the written sheets and turned them in his fingers as though
half-disposed to tear them up, smiling bitterly as he glanced from page
to page.
"What good will it do me," he muttered, "when my bones are rotting in an
unmarked grave, to bequeath a feud to perhaps unborn generations? Shall
I fling down my mother’s reputation for the lawyers to fight over, like
dogs over a bone, when I am not there to protect it, and when the
outcome of the struggle will interest me as little as it will her?"
A dim vision, more imagination than memory, rose before him of the fair,
young mother who had faded from his life twenty-three years ago, and
beside it another face radiant with life and laughter, a pair of blue
eyes sparkling through curled lashes, a pair of round, white arms
gleaming in the darkness, a scarlet mouth—every nerve tingled at the
thought that his own had touched it, and might again. But no! she had
been merely playing with him. How could he have been fooled by the ruse
of a spoiled beauty to feed her own vanity and punish his audacity?
_She_ want to marry _him_! It was fantastic, absurd, and what could be
more improbable than the reason for such a folly? She had a wager on
it, perhaps, or merely wished to amuse herself at the expense of the
daring highwayman who had robbed her of a kiss. Well, she had had her
way. He had shown that she had but to beckon and he was ready to
follow, and that had doubtless ended her whim.
"She will not come!" he said, aloud, in a tone of poignant
disappointment, that plainly showed how he clung to the promise he
feigned to discredit.
The jailer opened the door noisily.
"Visitors for the highwayman," he announced. "More fine ladies and
gentlemen."
Robin sprang to his feet, looking eagerly from one to another. Whatever
his expectations were, the first glance disappointed them. A
pimply-faced, watery-eyed little man, in rusty black, entered first,
conducting Margaret Moffat by the hand in a ceremonious fashion, that
had something in it reminiscent of the time when he did not need filling
up with gin to make him remember that he was a student and a Doctor of
Divinity. And close behind him, followed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—tall,
handsome, dressed with the sober elegance that became the budding
statesman, supporting on his arm a lady, enveloped from head to foot in
a hooded cloak, that completely concealed her.
"May I inquire—" Robin began. Then his glance fell upon Margaret, whose
air of coquettish simplicity would not have misbecome my lady’s
confidential maid, and recognizing her, his hopes rose again, and he
burst into a hearty laugh. "Ha, my fair friend; have you come to
enliven my solitude once more? What! Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert? I can
not say I anticipated the honor of a visit from you. I fancied you had
already seen more of me than you approved."
Sir Geoffrey flushed. "My good fellow," he said haughtily, "I have no
personal enmity toward you; I merely did my duty as a citizen in
appearing as a witness against you."
"Oh! I had forgotten that," said Robin negligently. "I was thinking of
the time when I and my friends were chasing you and yours, and the
constables shot my horse—poor Firebrand, I wonder what became of him—and
turned the tide of battle."
"’Sdeath, fellow!" Sir Geoffrey began furiously, but Prue checked him
with a light touch on the arm.
"Pray, gentlemen, do not waste time quarreling; what does it matter now
who fled and who pursued?"
At the sound of her voice, at once gentle and imperious, the two men
dropped their warlike air, and Robin, who was astounded to recognize
Prue in Sir Geoffrey’s companion, seemed petrified into a statue of
expectancy.
"If we can have a few minutes’ privacy—?" she suggested.
Sir Geoffrey beckoned to the jailer, and after a murmured conference,
enlivened by the clinking of coin, the latter consented to see that they
were uninterrupted for as long as they wished.
While that was being arranged, Prue approached Robin with a timid air.
"Master Robert de Cliffe—or Robin Freemantle"—she said, "I thank you for
consenting to my wild scheme, and I pray you, forgive me if it seems
heartless."
"Madam, I deem myself fortunate, if my death be of any use to you," he
replied, with a ring of bitter sadness in his tone.
Prue, greatly surprised by the voice, which had none of the roughness of
the robber’s greeting on Bleakmoor, looked more closely at Robin, and
discovered that he was young, handsome, and by no means
ferocious-looking.
"I would not have you feel harshly toward me," she said, in a low,
thrilling voice. "It is not too late, even now, for me to withdraw, if
you deem me overbold."
A spasm of apprehension shivered through him. Had she brought his dream
so near realization only to snatch it from him? Could a woman be so
cruel to a dying man? He met her questioning look with one of agonized
supplication. "Withdraw—now?" he muttered, unable to voice the prayer of
his eyes. "Then why come at all—to mock me?"
But Prue was quick to read men’s hearts, and what she saw in Robin’s,
translated his few abrupt words into a language that stirred hers to
pity. Therefore, to console him (the jailer having by this time
retired), she now threw off her wraps, and revealed such a vision of
loveliness as fairly illuminated the dingy prison cell. His look of
delighted surprise satisfied her.
"I recognize you now, but you are far, far more beautiful than even my
dreams of you! And have you really made yourself so fine to gladden a
poor prisoner’s eyes?" said Robin, gazing with rapture upon the graceful
figure in its dainty garb of brocade and lace, the lovely face, from
which eyes of the most dazzling brightness smiled alluringly upon him;
the little hand, so tapering and dimpled, stretched out to him with a
gesture, half-entreaty and half-command. As he took it in his, she
blushed a little, remembering how he had behaved the other time she
offered it. But this time, he bent his head and laid a courtly and
reverential salute upon it.
"We have nothing to wait for now," said Sir Geoffrey, impatiently
observing this little episode. "Parson Goodridge, have you shown the
papers to this gentleman, to make sure they are correct?"
Robin mechanically took up the papers the parson had laid on the table,
and read out the names from the marriage license. "Robert Gregory de
Cliffe," he nodded approval and glanced further down. "Prue, widow of
James Stuart Brooke and daughter of Reginald Wynne and Anne Drumloch,
his wife." All the titles had been eliminated, and there was nothing to
show that the bride was not of plebeian origin. Robin smiled slightly.
Was it worth while to be mysterious with a man virtually dead? He
recalled that Peggie had made him promise to keep his marriage with "my
lady" a secret, but it was apparent that he was not to be trusted with
more of the secret than was absolutely necessary.
"It is quite correct," he said, laying the paper down.
"Then let us proceed to business. Master Goodridge, pray do your office
quickly. Let us have no homilies on the duties and pleasures of
matrimony"—Sir Geoffrey laughed maliciously—"but make the ceremony brief
and binding. We will not intrude on your privacy," he added, turning to
Robin, "any longer than is necessary."
"I am ready," said Robin curtly.
The ceremony was quickly performed. Robert Gregory and Prudence duly
accepted each other as man and wife for all the vicissitudes of their
mortal life, severally vowed love, honor and all the rest of it, pledged
themselves by the giving and receiving of a ring, to share each other’s
worldly goods, and finally received the blessing of the church, borne on
the gin-flavored breath of Parson Goodridge.
A short ten minutes having sufficed to make the Viscount Brooke’s widow
the highwayman, Robin Freemantle’s, wife, the parson pocketed his
dog-eared book, also a generous fee from the bridegroom, and took his
departure.
"Do not forget to keep your own counsel," Sir Geoffrey warned him.
"This has been a good morning’s work for you, Master Goodridge, and
there is better to come when your testimony is wanted, if the secret be
well kept."
"I shall keep it, never fear; I shall keep it," mumbled the degraded
creature, already drunk in anticipation of the glorious possibilities of
a pocket so unusually well lined. "A secret is the only thing I have
ever learned to keep."
And he disappeared, chuckling at his own wit.
"Now," said Sir Geoffrey, turning to Prudence with a smile, "all that
remains is the pleasant ceremony of congratulating the bridegroom and
saluting the bride, and then we had better be going."
Prue was standing a little apart, with down-cast eyes and a certain
trouble in her pensive face, that almost foretokened tears. She drew
back a step at Sir Geoffrey’s words, and put up her hand, palm-outward.
"Let us have no more mockery," she said coldly. "We have made ourselves
quite contemptible enough, without further buffoonery. So far from
congratulating the bridegroom, we should do better to apologize to him."
She stamped her foot slightly but positively, as he seemed disposed to
persist. "As to the bride, sir, for once she is in no humor for folly.
Be kind enough to take my cousin out and find a chair for her; then you
can return and see me to my carriage."
"And leave you here?" he exclaimed.
"Where else would you leave me?" she retorted, in a jeering tone. "Are
you afraid to leave me with my _husband_?"
Sir Geoffrey would still have lingered to remonstrate, but Peggie, whose
ready sympathy divined her cousin’s motive, placed her hand within his
arm, and drawing her veil closely over her face, announced herself ready
for departure.
"The gentleman is not _my_ husband," she remarked demurely. "It would
scarcely be proper to leave _me_ alone with him, and you can not escort
us both at once."
But when they were alone, the words of extenuation Prue intended to
speak, seemed hard of utterance. There was a little lump in her throat,
and she could think of no commonplace form of excuse that seemed to fit
the occasion. Robin gazed at her as though he wished to fill his whole
soul with her image. Yet, although they were scarcely twenty inches
apart, he made no attempt to touch her.