tenderness in his voice. "Accept the blessing of a dying man."
"Oh! poor soul—must thou really die?" sighed Prue, at last raising her
eyes, filled with tears.
At the sight of those sweet, dewy eyes, the newly made husband thrilled
in every nerve. "If those tears are for me, sweet Prudence," he said,
"death is not so hard to bear."
"’Tis sad; indeed, I would I could do aught to comfort thee!" she
murmured, half turned away, yet lingering.
A dark flush swept his cheek. "I could tell you, if I dared, how to
make me forget everything but—yourself," he said.
"If you dared!" She flashed an arch glance at him. "On Bleakmoor, you
were not so—so ceremonious, Sir Highwayman. Ask me for what you please.
My powers are limited, but I will gladly do what I can to console you."
"An’ thou wouldst really comfort me, kiss me once, as though I were thy
real husband and thou lovedst me." He held out his arms to her, with
such prayer and such insistence in his eyes, that Prue, startled, hung
back an instant, and then, half involuntarily, drooped toward him, and
permitted herself to be clasped in his passionate embrace.
When she drew herself away, her cheeks were rosy-red and her eyes cast
down. But Robin, transferring his lips to her hand, fell on his knees
before her.
"Oh!" he softly uttered, "I can bear to die now. Death itself can not
rob me of your kiss."
"Then you forgive me for—marrying you?" she said.
"Forgive you! Oh! if you had killed me, I could have blessed you, but
would not have presumed to think of pardon," he passionately breathed,
"and now—" Words failed, and his lips finished the invocation on her
hand.
She placed her other hand gently on his bowed head, and pressing it
back, stooped and kissed him on the forehead. It was as pure and tender
a caress as a mother could have bestowed on her sleeping babe, but it
touched both hearts as the most passionate embrace of love could not
have done. It was a farewell benediction.
Not another word was spoken, and when Sir Geoffrey returned, Prue
allowed him to wrap her in her cloak and hood and lead her away, without
even a backward glance at Robin, who, as soon as the door had closed
behind them, threw himself on the floor where she had stood, and gave
way to an ecstasy of recollection, none the less delicious because there
was no future to discount its bliss.
When at last he rose to his feet, he gathered up the manuscript at which
he had worked since daylight, and tore it into fragments.
"Since my death will benefit her, I will not attempt to live," he
exclaimed. "She has paid for my life in full and with interest, and
I’ll not cheat her of her bargain."
He sat down, and on his last remaining sheet of paper, wrote a short
letter.
"FRIEND STEVE:
"As soon as I am dead and according to your promise (in which I have all
confidence), buried, as we agreed together, you will take the iron box
you wot of and convey it to Mistress Prudence Brooke, to whom I bequeath
it, to do whatever she will with the contents. I do not know where this
lady lives, but you can easily discover her, as she is of the court and
a lady of title, being besides of a beauty so incomparable, that by it
alone you can trace her.
"Do not grieve after me. We must all die, and I have ridden so often
with Death on the pillion, that we are old comrades. Besides, I have
reasons that you wot not of for welcoming him as a benefactor to others
besides
"Your friend,
"ROBIN FREEMANTLE."
He was sealing this missive, when the cell-door opened, and a man of
grave and imposing appearance was ushered in.
"I am Lord Beachcombe’s attorney," he announced himself, "and at his
command, I come to confer with you about the strange statement you made
to him yesterday. He has given me his full confidence, and empowered me
to make terms with you, if I find it advisable."
*CHAPTER X*
*THE FOLLY OF YESTERDAY*
Prue came home late that afternoon, in the wildest of spirits. Her
return to society had been a genuine triumph, and even her enemies and
detractors, who had been successful in ousting her from royal favor and
keeping her in disgrace for a year or more, had been compelled to join
in the chorus of welcome and feign, if they did not feel, a decent
pleasure in her reinstatement.
Lady Drumloch, who was still unable to leave her room, as soon as she
heard Prue’s voice, despatched Lowton with a message, commanding her
granddaughter to repair instantly to her and give a full account of the
day’s adventures.
"Can you picture the effect, if we obeyed her to the letter?" whispered
Peggie. "I wonder how she would take the announcement of your—" Prue
clapped her hand quickly over her mouth, at which Peggie indulged in a
convulsion of silent laughter, indicating by signs and gestures the
triumphant sense of power conferred on her, by the knowledge of her
cousin’s tremendous secret.
Checking her exuberance by an imperious glance, Prue followed Lowton
into the sick-room, where the old lady reclined on a couch, near a
bright fire. A look of real delight sparkled in the old lady’s eyes when
they fell upon Prue’s graceful figure and animated face.
"Come hither, child," she cried; "kiss me and let me bless thee. Truly,
Prudence, thou dost often vex my pride with thy follies, but thou dost
always charm my eyes. What said the duchess to you? Did she chide?"
"No such thing, dear Grandmother. I have heard no word to-day but dear
Prue this; sweet Lady Prue that. Her grace kissed me on the cheek and
cried out how pleasant it was, for once, to be able to kiss a face fresh
from nature, without having to pick out a spot where the paint and
powder were not thick enough to poison one. And I’m not surprised, for
half the women there were plastered so thick, ’twas like a frescoed
wall, and one looked to see it crack when they smiled. The duchess was
not much better herself; but she was all smiles and affability, and all
my intimate enemies took the cue and overwhelmed me with flatteries, and
Lord Ripworth lisped out, ’Gad, Viscountess, nothing happier than your
return has occurred in three months. We have been so dull, that we have
taken to religion as a diversion; now your ladyship has come back to
court, we shall, at least, have something to talk about."
"The varlet! His mother was a chambermaid, and if people did not talk
about her, it was because anything that could be said was too gross for
utterance. I trust you set him down thoroughly."
"Oh! no; I was bent on showing how amiable I had grown in the country.
I only remarked that whatever he might talk about, I had never heard him
accused of saying anything of consequence. There was a large party to
dinner, and I heard all the gossip. First, Lady Beachcombe has
presented her spouse with a son and heir."
"’Tis your own fault, Prudence, that such an event is naught but gossip
to you," said Lady Drumloch severely.
"Oh! la, la! no one can accuse me of an envious disposition," laughed
Prue. "Lady Beachcombe is welcome to all the honors of her position. I
would not have changed places with her this afternoon for a dukedom, to
say nothing of the privilege of nursing Lord Beachcombe’s heir."
"Perhaps ’tis all for the best," the old lady conceded. "The present
earl is a turn-coat, like his father, who came of a loyal stock, and was
so devoted to the throne that he offered his allegiance to every
successive usurper of it. I would rather see you married to an
honorable Jacobite, who could use your influence at court for the cause
of King James the Third."
"The De Cliffes are all _mauvais sujets_, are they not?" queried
Margaret innocently.
"No, child, there have been De Cliffes as loyal as the Drumlochs and
Wynnes; De Cliffes who were worthy to aspire to the hand of a woman
whose forefathers laid down their lives for Charles the Martyr.
Unfortunately, of late generations, the scum has risen to the top in
more families than the Beachcombes."
"Well, dear Grannie, as you think so ill of Lord Beachcombe, ’tis as
well, perhaps, that circumstances prevented my marrying him, and left me
free for at least one more season to enjoy life," said Prue; "and truly,
never had I better reason to value my freedom than to-day."
"You have not told us yet what you did this afternoon," cried Peggie, to
whom her cousin’s triumphs always gave intense and unselfish enjoyment.
"After dinner, the duchess dismissed her guests, and accompanied by Lady
Limerick and myself, drove to Kensington Palace, where we had audience
of the queen. Her Majesty was extremely gracious, and appeared to have
forgotten all my peccadilloes. She inquired if I still played the
guitar, and when I sang one or two ballads composed by Herr
Haendel—whose music is now quite the rage—was pleased to observe that I
must come to Windsor in the summer, and sing to her in the twilight.
After that we played basset. ’Twas a dull finish to the day, for the
queen fell asleep and nobody dared waken her, so the game was not very
lively."
"If you go to Windsor, ’twill be as lady-in-waiting, surely," said
Peggie.
"The duchess will do her utmost for me, but she is less powerful than
formerly. Mrs. Masham, whom she placed about the queen’s person to
further her interests, has completely secured the queen’s confidence,
and means to use it to her own profit. I think the duchess would like
to use me to check Mrs. Masham."
"Sarah Churchill would scarcely be so gracious to any one she did not
expect to serve her in some fashion," said Lady Drumloch. "Well, my
dear, I wish thee good fortune. Be wise this time, and do not let thy
wild spirits wrong thee."
Prue became suddenly pale as death. "’Tis late in the day for me to
become wise," she said, in a low, wild voice. "Oh! Grannie, Grannie,
I’m afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble, and the worst of me
is yet to come!"
The old lady raised herself on her arm, and gazed with a look of terror
into Prue’s disturbed face. "What have you done, child? Let me hear the
worst at once!"
"’Tis nothing," interposed Peggie, putting her arm round her cousin, and
drawing her gently but forcibly away. "She is excited and overwrought,
and methinks she has quarreled with Sir Geoffrey—"
"Is that all?" ejaculated Lady Drumloch, sinking back with a laugh that
ended in a groan of pain. "I’ll forgive that easily enough; he is no
choice of mine, and now Prudence is back at court, ’tis odd if she can
not do better than marry a bankrupt baronet."
"Better or worse," cried Prue passionately, "I’ll never marry him; I’d
rather marry a—a highwayman."
Peggie gave her arm a vicious pinch, but the comparison was so
monstrously improbable, that Lady Drumloch did not deign to take any
notice of it.
"You were very much in love with Sir Geoffrey a week ago," she remarked
austerely, "but your fickleness appears to have no limit."
"Dear Grandmother!" exclaimed Prue, recovering her self-control, "’tis
not fickleness, but simply the result of sound reasoning. I love
certain qualities, and while I believed Sir Geoffrey possessed them, I
loved him for their sake. I am still faithful to the thing I love; but,
unfortunately, Sir Geoffrey has it not, at least, not enough of it for
me. But let us not despair; the Duchess of Marlborough is determined to
marry me off, and has been graciously pleased to select a husband for
me."
"Indeed, and who may he be?"
"I know not; his name is still a secret. I have, indeed, a suspicion
that it may be Lord Beachcombe’s new-born heir, for she remarked that by
the time her choice was ready for presentation to me, I might perhaps be
settled down, and sobered sufficiently to make a tolerable
wife-of-sorts!"
Peggie, watching her cousin closely, came to the conclusion that she was
talking nonsense to keep herself from thinking, and at the first
opportunity, coaxed her out of the room and away from the danger of
betraying herself to Lady Drumloch, whose keen wits and close
observation were the more to be dreaded, the less she displayed them.
As a result of the report of Prue’s return to court, and her flattering
welcome there, the shabby little drawing-rooms of her grandmother’s
house were crowded that evening and all next day, by those who hastened
to offer congratulations and make excuses for neglect that she was too
thorough a woman of the world to resent. The throng of courtiers found
her, indeed, most accessible. She had a jest and a compliment and a
friendly word for every one. Arch glances and enchanting smiles fell
alike on friend and foe; perhaps more especially on the latter, as Prue,
for once, attempted to follow her grandmother’s instructions, and be
wise!
Long after midnight, the tired girls performed the last sweeping
curtseys to their parting guests, and leaving the yawning James to
extinguish the lights, crawled wearily up the long, narrow stairway to
their attic bedrooms. Peggie, bursting with long-suppressed curiosity,
offered her services to unlace her cousin from the stiff prison of
whalebone and buckram in which her slender form had been encased for so
many hours, and unpin the luxuriant curls and puffs from the cushion
upon which the hair-dresser had disposed them early in the morning.
Prue sighed with relief as Peggie, regardless of her own fatigue,
removed the monstrously high-heeled shoes and filmy silken hose, and
rubbed her cramped feet until they ceased to tingle and smart with the
restored circulation, but vowed she was too tired to talk, and,
moreover, had nothing to tell but what Peggie already knew.
"What said Robin, when we left you alone?" Peggie whispered. "Did I
keep Sir Geoffrey long enough finding me a chair? I sent three away
before I could be satisfied that the chair was clean and the chairman
sober."
"Long enough for all we had to say," said Prue pettishly. "Do you
suppose we were exchanging vows of eternal fidelity, or arranging for
our next meeting?" Then, pathetically, "If you were as tired as I am,
Peggie, you would rather be in bed than gossiping, and to-morrow we are
going to Lady Limerick’s drum, and the play afterward, and want to look
our prettiest; so kiss me, dear coz, and get thee to bed."
Nor was she more communicative the next day. From early morning, the
house was besieged by a procession of apologetic tradesfolk, eager to
explain away their threatening letters and dunning messages, and placing
themselves and their wares at the disposal of the reinstated favorite.
No talk now of the Fleet and the sponging-house—no more writs and
suits—nothing but dapper tailors and coquettish milliners’ assistants,
suave jewelers and mysterious, ill-shaven foreigners with dirty parcels
from which they extracted, under vows of secrecy, laces from France or
Flanders, or embroideries from the distant Indies, such as might have
tempted the most austere of Eve’s daughters to break at least one of the
ten commandments.
And in the midst of all this excitement, Lady Prue flitted, bubbling
over with mirth and triumph. Her bright presence lighted up the
sick-room, and under its influence, Lady Drumloch declared she would be
carried down-stairs on Sunday to receive callers, and that before a week
was over, she would be strong enough to drive to Kensington Palace and
pay her respects at the queen’s next drawing-room. She bade Peggie
fetch her jewel-casket and try the effect of her antiquated diadems and
brooches upon herself and Prue, and spent an hour or two deciding which
of them the emeralds would best become, and which one ought to have the
amethysts. Finally, however, the matter was left undecided, and except
that she bestowed the promised pearls upon Prue and a filagree bracelet
upon Margaret, the casket was relentlessly restored intact to its
hiding-place.
All day long, Peggie watched her cousin, without being able to detect
the faintest sign of compunction, or even recollection of the folly of
yesterday and the tragedy that would crown it in a few hours. At Lady
Limerick’s drum, she led the scandal and laughter, as of old, and at the
play, sat in her modest little box with Margaret beside her, and an
ever-changing crowd of beaux behind her chair. Sir Geoffrey came late,
and had scarcely time to greet her, when a message called her to the
Duchess of Marlborough, in whose box she spent the rest of the evening.
He did not venture to follow there, uninvited, so it was not until the
play was over that he found an opportunity to address her. He was
waiting at the carriage door to hand her in, and without giving her time
to object, followed and took his seat beside her.
"Do you not see my cousin sitting with her back to the horses?" inquired
Prue, in the most freezing tone, as she drew herself as far as possible
from him.
"Pardon my inadvertence, Miss Moffat!" he exclaimed, in a tone less
gracious than his words, and bouncing over to the other seat in a great
hurry.
"Never mind me," said Peggie, stifling a laugh. "I prefer the front
seat."
"So much the better for me," remarked Prue, coolly spreading out her
voluminous skirts. "Did you see the _Spectator_ to-day, Sir Geoffrey?
No? You must read it; the article about Lady Beachcombe and the new heir
will make you die of laughing. You were too late, I think, to see the
beginning of Mr. Congreve’s new play; how do you like the end? Very
sentimental, isn’t it?"
"I can not say I noticed it," said Sir Geoffrey sulkily; "I was thinking
of other things."
"Then why come to the play to think of other things?" she inquired
innocently. "’Tis an ill compliment to Mr. Congreve."
"When Lady Prudence Brooke is present, Mr. Congreve can not expect to
attract much attention," said Sir Geoffrey, with an effort to recover
his customary gallant bearing. "Do not blame me too severely if I am
unable to keep my thoughts from you, even at the play, dearest Prue."
As they arrived in Mayfair at this moment, Prue was spared the effort of
a retort. Peggie, alighting first, ran into the house, leaving Sir
Geoffrey to escort her cousin, but at the door of the drawing-room Prue
stopped.
"I am very tired, Sir Geoffrey," she said, attempting to withdraw her
hand from his clasp, "and must beg you to excuse me this evening. My
cousin Margaret will entertain you."
"She will do nothing of the sort," said a laughing voice from above;
"Cousin Margaret is on her way to bed!"
"Then I will ask you to excuse me, Sir Geoffrey, if I follow Peggie’s
example. I have lost the habits of gay London life, and two days of it
have made me almost sick with fatigue."
"Give me but five minutes," he entreated, "and I swear I’ll detain you
no longer." He opened the door as he spoke and led her into the room,
in which a single lamp, turned low, emphasized the darkness.
She stood facing him without a word. Suddenly he tried to take her in
his arms, but she repulsed him with a gesture almost of horror. "You
forget, Sir Geoffrey," she said, "that I am the wife of another man."
He laughed ironically. "Is it possible that you are taking this farce
seriously? I feared I had had the misfortune to offend you, and am
relieved to find that nothing worse has come between us than Robin
Freemantle."
"That is enough for the present," she said. "While one man can call me
wife, all other men must keep their distance."
"Even your betrothed lover, Prudence?" he pleaded reproachfully.
"You more than any one," she replied resolutely. "Without you, I could
not have married this unfortunate man, and you should, at least, respect
the wife you helped him to."
"Heaven give me patience!" he cried, exasperated. "Do you really look
upon yourself as the wife of this gallows-bird? Pray, do you propose to
don widow’s weeds on Monday?"
A shudder quivered through her. "I don’t know what I shall do on
Monday," she said, in a low, strained voice, and ran out of the room and
up-stairs without another thought of Sir Geoffrey.
He waited for a few minutes, in hopes of her return, and then went down
and let himself out into the moonlit street.
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE MORROW’S WAKENING*
Before Sunday evening, Peggie really lost patience with Prue. She was
so saucy and coquettish, so bubbling over with merry stories and foolish
jests, that even in church she could not keep still, but fluttered her
fan and whispered behind it to Peggie, until that lively damsel was
quite ashamed of her levity. Not one word could she be induced to say
about Robin. Astonished at her indifference, Peggie tried in a variety
of ways to entrap her into some expression of feeling about him, but she
became impatient under questions, and received any suggestions of
sympathy with cold flippancy or even more provoking silence.
All the afternoon, a stream of visitors poured through the little house
in Mayfair. Superb equipages and sumptuous sedan-chairs blocked the
thoroughfare, while their occupants, in gorgeous array, offered their
congratulations to the Lady Prudence, and sipped weak tea and chocolate
out of her grandmother’s egg-shell "chaney" cups. Lady Drumloch did not
venture into such a crowd, but, decked in her priceless cashmeres and
laces, received a favored few in her dressing-room, and listened with a
flush of pride on her pale face to the praises of Prue’s beauty and the
prognostications of a future even more brilliant and eventful than her
past.
"You must persuade her to marry well and settle down, dear cousin," Lady
Limerick advised. "Twenty-two is quite old enough, even for a widow, to
give up frivolous flirtations and choose a husband. The men are all
wild about her, I know; but if she jilts a few more of them, the rest
will get frightened and leave her in the lurch, and she will have to be
satisfied with a crooked stick, like many another spoilt beauty."
"She must please herself," Lady Drumloch replied. "The harder she finds
it to choose before marriage, the less likely she will be to repent
afterward."
For all that the old lady took occasion to read her granddaughter a
sharp lecture upon the necessity of mending her ways before too late.
To which, Prue listened reverentially, and promised speedy amendment.
Five minutes afterward, in the privacy of their own room, she was making
Peggie die of laughter at her caricature of herself as a reformed
character, with all her fascinating caprices exchanged for the cares of
the nursery and still-room, obedience to a tyrannical spouse replacing
her sway over a score of suitors, while she wielded Mrs. Grundy’s birch
instead of defying it. Not one solemn or repentant thought clouded the
laughter of her blue eyes, and when her cousin kissed her good night and
bade her sleep well, she cried out:
"Why, I’m two-thirds asleep already," and turned upon her pillow with a
sigh of voluptuous drowsiness.
But in the night, Peggie, who always slept with the communicating door
open between the two rooms, was awakened by a sound so strange and
unaccustomed, that her heart stood still for a moment, with awe. From
the little white bed, wherein Prue usually slept as calmly as a child,
came sounds of grievous weeping, sighs and sobs and broken words of
self-reproach, and prayers for pardon for herself and pity for one in
extremity.
Peggie started from her bed and crept stealthily to the door, where she
was not long discovering the cause of this unexpected outbreak.
"Oh! if I could only once ask him to forgive me," Prue sobbed. "Oh!
Robin, Robin, I did not want you to love me; I did not mean to be cruel.
My God! he will die without knowing—oh! me, oh! me—"
"Poor little Prue, how unjust I have been," thought Peggy remorsefully.
"I was past all patience with her heartless indifference, and here she
is breaking her heart over a frolic marriage with a highwayman!"
She crept in quietly, and lying down beside Prue, put her arms round the
little quivering form and drew the tear-damp face upon her kindly bosom.
"What is the matter, Prue? Don’t cry so dreadfully," she said, soothing
and petting her. "There, there, be comforted, darling. You are not to
blame. We persuaded you, and after all Robin is none the worse for
knowing he leaves some one behind to weep for him."
"But he doesn’t know it. How can he?" sobbed Prue. "He thinks me a
heartless, mercenary coquette—just as Sir Geoffrey does, and you, too.
You know you thought so, Peggie—"