laugh as heartily as you please at this merry jest. When you are free,
will you—" he hesitated—"I owe you a chance to make a better use of your
freedom next time, yet it irks me to think that you will very likely
throw it away again upon one who is not worthy of you."
"Do you mean Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert?" she said. "Do not fear, I shall
never marry him."
"You will not?" he exclaimed eagerly. "You do not love him? Oh! you
give me new life; I care little what becomes of me, if I am sure you
will not marry Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."
"Hush-sh," she whispered, peering round in the dim twilight of their
retreat; "I thought I heard a movement; suppose any one had overheard
you!"
He clapped his hand on his sword, but everything was still except the
distant music and the approaching voices of another pair in search of
solitude.
"Let us go," said Prue, rising in a tremor and adjusting her mask. "I
would not, for the world, have anything happen to you, and I fear you
are not safe here; we have been incautious—prithee, begone from this
house—"
"Do not be uneasy, dear Lady Prudence; I am safe here," said Robin,
devouring her with his eyes. "I may never see you again; do not banish
me—"
"Never see me again?" she interrupted. "Why not? I am sure you are in
some danger you will not tell me of, else why should I never see you
again?"
"Would you care if you did not see me again?"—he was beginning, in a
passionate whisper, when Peggie, released from her sheepskin and clad in
somewhat scanty drapery intended to represent springtime, pounced upon
them, delighted with the semi-nudity that displayed her charming form,
while the mask concealed her plain face.
"Have I been away long enough?" she cried saucily. "Have you had plenty
of time to quarrel and make love? Come, Prue; eleven o’clock has
struck, and we shall scarcely be in time for a country-dance before we
unmask. Hasten!"
She was drawing Prue after her by one hand, but she hung back, extending
the other to Robin, who stood irresolute, longing to follow, yet not
venturing, unbidden.
"Farewell," she said, in a thrilling voice. "Prithee, do not linger."
He pressed a kiss on her finger-tips and was still looking after her
with his heart in his eyes, when a hand brushed his arm with a peculiar
touch, and turning with his wandering senses suddenly on the alert, he
saw a figure in a monk’s habit, strolling slowly toward the most crowded
card-room. He followed, and soon caught up with him.
"Your dress is too conspicuous," said the monk, in a harsh whisper.
"There is work to be done, instantly, and your dress unfits you for it."
"Show me the work," said Robin, apparently greatly interested in two
players who were throwing dice for high stakes.
"I expected to find you at your post, and after a long search, where do
I discover you? _You_, of all men—at the feet of the most heartless
little Jezebel in London," said the monk, with bitterness.
Robin laughed silently. "Have you also been under her feet?" he asked.
"Well, if it were any one else, I would kill him for such a calumny upon
the most virtuous and adorable lady in the world; but I can not spare
you, so give me your news."
"The papers stolen from a certain general are here, in the possession of
a man who does not know their importance, but only that Madame Sarah
will pay handsomely for them. Not being able to obtain audience of her,
he is now leaving the house."
"Why do you make such a long story of it?" said Robin impatiently.
"Describe him to me, and I will see to the rest."
"There is no hurry; he has a sweetheart among the maids, and will be
some time about his adieux. I will show him to you, but you must get rid
of that scarlet affair; what have you underneath? Oh! that is still
worse; satin and velvet and diamonds! Why couldn’t you come quietly
dressed, like the rest of us?"
Robin blushed under his mask, for he knew very well that if Prue had not
been among the guests, the monk’s frock or the student’s cap and gown
would have been fine enough for his purpose.
"Never mind my dress," he said shortly. "You can lend me your frock,
and if you have no further business here, you can do me a service."
As they went out together, Robin explained to his friend the manner in
which he had obtained a domino and an invitation, and, incidentally, the
predicament of Lord Beachcombe. Together they sought and found his
carriage, at a place previously arranged for, and within it the exchange
of garments was effected.
"Now go to the house by the riverside, where you will find Lord
Beachcombe tied hand and foot in the dark in the guard-room, and his
lackeys under similar conditions in another room. Steve Larkyn is in
charge of them. Restore the mask and domino to Lord Beachcombe, return
him and his varlets to the carriage, blindfolded, and when you have
taken them a safe distance from Essex Street, set them free to go their
way to the ball or the devil, whichever pleases them."
The carriage drove away and Robin, completely concealed under the monk’s
gown, made his way back to the house. Not, however, through the
brilliantly lighted main-entrance, but this time by a side-door that led
to the servants’ quarters.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*AT THE UNMASKING*
When Prue and Robin had left the conservatory a sufficiently long time
to insure their return to the ball-room, out from behind a clump of
plants slipped Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert. Observing her exit from the
ball-room with a tall and conspicuously habited masker, he had followed
with the intention of interrupting a tête-à-tête and forestalling one of
Prue’s little flirtations that, however harmless in themselves, were
dangerous, as he knew by experience, to anterior claims.
When he found that, avoiding the well-lighted rooms, Prue guided her
companion to an out-of-the-way retreat, where it was unlikely that they
would be disturbed by any one less familiar with the house than herself,
his annoyance increased, and with it his anxiety to know who the favored
swain might be, and when Peggie, with the good-natured intention of
giving Robin an opportunity, left them to rid herself of her sheepskin,
the green-eyed monster took complete possession of Sir Geoffrey and
prompted a baseness of which, a moment before, he would have blushed to
think himself capable.
The only available concealment was at such a distance that at first
nothing reached him but the murmur of voices. He could see that Prue
stretched out her hands to her companion, and that he kissed them with
ardor, but until his own name was mentioned, he heard nothing but a
disjointed word here and there. Then, with ears preternaturally
sharpened by something even more poignant than jealousy, he overheard
Prue’s repudiation of himself and her companion’s expression of relief
and gratitude for the same.
It was fortunate, perhaps, that the colloquy was so soon brought to an
end by Peggie’s eagerness to carry her cousin off to the ball-room,
whither Sir Geoffrey followed as quickly as he deemed wise, only to find
Prue already standing up in a country-dance, and the tall masker in
scarlet missing. He hunted everywhere for him, but in vain, and finally
withdrew to one of the card-rooms, where he played with a marked absence
of his usual skill, and also of the luck for which he was proverbial.
At midnight a flourish of trumpets announced that the moment for
unmasking had arrived. The dancers formed a double line and marched
past the dais, each couple unmasking as they saluted the duchess and her
royal guest. Following them came an almost interminable procession of
the beauty, talent and rank of the country, and among the very last of
these, Sir Geoffrey’s search was rewarded. The tall figure in its
scarlet drapery suddenly appeared, he knew not whence, and within a few
feet of him, doffed domino and mask and revealed the familiar but
unlooked-for person of Lord Beachcombe.
Instantly there flashed into Sir Geoffrey’s mind an explanation of the
words he had overheard, which roused him to an almost uncontrollable
fury. This man, once his rival, was still in love with Prue, and after
goading him into a monstrous wager about her, had exerted some infernal
arts or arguments to induce her to play the jilt once more and thus rob
him, at one stroke, of his bride and his money.
"Oh!" he muttered, with intense bitterness, "such a trick is worthy of a
man who would not pay his own sister’s dowry, until he was sued for it!
He shall answer for this treachery with his heart’s best blood, and as
for her—" His look boded ill for the future of the capricious beauty
toward whom his feeling just then was less like love than hate. He was
forced into self-control, however, by the reflection that to provoke a
meeting on this issue would place him in a more than equivocal position
and that it would be necessary to find some other cause of quarrel.
Beachcombe, meanwhile, unconscious of what had happened under shelter of
his disguise, saluted his hostess and his sovereign and passed on with a
bland exterior and a temper in a highly inflammable state.
Sir Geoffrey lost no time in throwing himself in Beachcombe’s way. They
exchanged greetings and then, "How goes the courting?" asked my lord.
"How is it you are not in attendance on the fair widow?"
Sir Geoffrey’s fury choked him. Was ever such impudence as this
scoundrel’s?
"Do you require an explanation on the subject?" he said, between his
clenched teeth.
"Far from it," retorted Beachcombe, with a jeering laugh. "It will be
quite enough for me to know that she has jilted you; I care nothing for
the details. Still, if I were you, I would not carry my willow quite so
openly."
"No doubt your lordship regards it as quite permissible to prejudice the
Viscountess Brooke against a suitor who has a wager with you, dependent
on her favor," sneered Beaudesert.
"I hardly fancy it would be diplomatic," drawled the other, not having
the clew to Sir Geoffrey’s meaning, and relishing his peevishness as
evidence of defeat. "As the lady has probably never pardoned my speedy
consolation, I doubt not that anything I might say against you would
only drive her into your arms. This is the first time I have seen the
Lady Prudence since Her Majesty requested her to retire from the court a
year ago. She appears to me even more beautiful and vivacious than
formerly. I must endeavor to make my peace with her; one can not afford
to be at odds with so bewitching a creature, especially if she is to be
attached to the queen’s household again, where we shall be obliged to
meet constantly."
Sir Geoffrey was so dumfounded by what he took to be the earl’s audacity
and dissimulation, that he fell back and allowed him to follow in the
wake of the subject of their conversation. It was but a small
consolation to him that Prue was in his power through her rash marriage;
she had already shown him that she considered him _particeps criminis_,
if she did not go so far as to lay the blame on his shoulders. It was
plain to him that Beachcombe would give him no opening for a quarrel
about her and that he would have to find some other cause for the duel
he was determined to force upon him, but that gave him no uneasiness. At
that period dueling, though nominally unlawful, was a highly popular
means of settling any and every difference between gentlemen, and love,
cards, etiquette, family jars, political opinions and a host of more or
less trivial causes gave plausible excuse for the indulgence of personal
hatred. Sir Geoffrey was a dead shot and a fairly skilled swordsman,
and had come off scathless in encounters with far more formidable
antagonists than this young lordling, whose prowess was still untried
and whose reputation for courage or any other lofty quality was yet to
make.
With a wager of five thousand guineas contingent upon Prue’s fidelity to
him, Sir Geoffrey was not prepared to be overnice about the pretext that
would put such an antagonist _hors de combat_ for a few weeks.
While he was turning over in his mind a variety of baits by which he
might draw Beachcombe into a quarrel, the latter pursued his way through
the crowd, exchanging greetings and receiving congratulations upon the
advent of his son and heir, and at last reached Prudence. It was no
very easy task to edge his way through the throng of her admirers, nor
had he any special reason to felicitate himself upon his success when he
had gained it. He came up, bowing low, with his hand upon his breast,
pouring out the customary stream of high-flown compliments and
asseverations that the sun, moon and stars had refused their light since
her eyes, the brightest of all luminaries, had been withdrawn from the
firmament!
Prue regarded him with one of her most beaming smiles.
"’And pray, sir, when came you from hell?
Our friends there—did you leave them well?’"
she inquired, with an air of flattering interest.
In the midst of the laughter that greeted this sally, Peggie was heard
to exclaim, in a voice of mock-horror, "Prue! how shocking!"
"My dear, you must blame Mr. Prior, not me, if you object to the
quotation," said Prue demurely.
"Maybe," retorted Peggie; "but in conversation one can not see the
inverted commas, and you know Lord Beachcombe does not read poetry."
"True, I apologize," said Prue, and turning again to her former suitor,
she dropped a deep curtsey. "How is it, Lord Beachcombe, that we have
not seen you earlier?" she asked graciously. "When did you arrive
from—home? and did you leave her ladyship and the baby well?"
The laugh that followed this was utterly incomprehensible to the proud
father, who replied with urbanity, feeling that Prue showed great
self-denial in making these inquiries so publicly and exposing herself
to the hilarity of those who could not fail to remember how she had
forfeited the proud position of wife to the present and mother of the
future Earl of Beachcombe. He felt quite sorry for the regret and
mortification she must be suffering and was inclined to concede that the
punishment was overharsh for the frailty of a creature so winsome.
He offered his hand to lead her into the supper-room and the magnetic
thrill of her touch sent the blood surging through his veins in the old
accustomed way—he looked down into the sparkling depths of her lovely
eyes and straightway forgot—everything that he ought to have remembered.
It needed but the gloomy frown of Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert to incite him
to offer the most effusive attentions and Prue to permit, if not
actually encourage them, until wearying of a pastime that had nothing to
recommend it but its folly, she turned the battery of her fascinations
in another direction.
It must not be supposed that Lord Beachcombe was without curiosity as to
the use Robin had made of the invitation and disguise he had borrowed so
peremptorily. He questioned several people, but no one seemed to have
observed the scarlet domino, and the one person who could have
enlightened him, he did not dream of connecting with the exploits of a
highwayman. He began to feel reassured, and a couple of bottles of wine
helped to restore his damaged _amour propre_, though his temper was
considerably ruffled. He followed Prue to the ball-room, but his
invitation to dance was coldly declined and he retreated to the
card-room where Sir Geoffrey was already seated and hailed his coming
with fierce joy. It would be strange, indeed, he argued, if means could
not be found to fasten a quarrel upon a man who came to the card-table
with a naturally morose temper heated with wine and still further
excited by the bitter-sweet arts of a coquette.
That Beachcombe was still infatuated with his old love, Sir Geoffrey had
not the slightest doubt, and that he had persuaded her to jilt him he
had, as he firmly believed, the evidence of his own senses.
The play was high, and Sir Geoffrey’s luck had taken another turn. The
pile of guineas in front of him grew apace and gradually the others
dropped out, except Beachcombe, who had also been winning, though not so
largely. His luck soon gave way before Sir Geoffrey’s, and in a short
time he had lost all his winnings and a considerable sum besides.
Seeing him hesitate and half rise from the table, his opponent
laughingly exclaimed, "Don’t leave me, Beachcombe; I’m in the vein
to-night—"
"Unlucky in love, lucky at cards," sneered Beachcombe. "I see the widow
_has_ jilted you."
"That’s a lie and you know it!" cried Sir Geoffrey. Both the men started
to their feet and stood glaring at each other across the table. Most of
the other games were suspended, and a breathless hush fell upon the
whole assembly.
"Is that intended for an insult?" said Beachcombe thickly. A laugh or
two expressed the opinion of the onlookers as to the propriety of such a
question.
"You can take it any way you please," retorted Sir Geoffrey. "What I
have said I am ready to repeat, if you require it, and uphold in any way
you demand."
A gray-haired man in general’s uniform came forward and laid a hand on
the arm of each.
"Gentlemen," he said, "the duchess will be much offended, if this should
go further under her roof, on such an occasion as this. If you wish to
continue this discussion, my quarters, near by, are at your disposal
after the ball. Until then, pray let us avoid any unpleasantness."
Beachcombe turned on his heel and walked off to the other end of the
room. Sir Geoffrey accepted the old general’s invitation, and pocketing
his winnings, repaired to the ball-room, his temper and spirits vastly
improved.
There he had the good fortune to find Prue in a gracious mood, and
willing to make up for her previous neglect by dancing with him and
allowing him to linger at her side until the ball came to an end. Then
he had the felicity of shawling her and handing her into her carriage,
where she bade him good morrow and permitted him to press a kiss upon
Robin’s pearl-embroidered gloves.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*LADY BARBARA’S NEWS*
The sun was flushing the horizon when Prue and Peggie left off comparing
notes about the ball and laid their weary heads on their respective
pillows. Peggie, light of heart and easy of conscience, was very soon
asleep, but Prue was less fortunate. The more tightly she closed her
eyes, the more distinctly she saw everything that had happened to her
since yester morning’s sun had looked coldly upon her grief and remorse.
Could it be only yesterday that she had been awakened by the hideous
thought that her _husband_ was expiating his crimes upon the gallows?
Only yesterday that she had bemoaned herself as the wickedest and
crudest of women, while she believed him dead: yet was ready to reproach
him with perfidy when she saw him alive? Oh! it was impossible that
only yesterday morning she had scorned herself for the folly that bound
her to a malefactor. Why, last night she had treated him as an equal,
had taken his word as a gentleman, had felt and acknowledged anxiety for
his safety, and had permitted him to kiss her hands; not out of pity as
when she married him, but just as if he had been of the same social
flesh-and-blood as herself. She vainly reminded herself that this Robin
was the same who had waylaid her on Bleakmoor; the same who had lain in
Newgate Prison, a felon condemned to the gallows; the same she had
married because he was doomed to death, and for no other reason; oh!
more the shame to her! As to him, his part in that ignoble contract was
blameless and even generous. With which thought last in her mind, she
fell asleep.
When she opened her eyes, Peggie stood at her bedside, smiling over an
armful of roses.
"Guess what little bird sent these to you," she said.
Prue started up eagerly. "Is he here?" Peggie shook her head. "What,
did he go away without seeing me?" cried Prue, her face falling and her
lip drooping like a grieved child.
"No, he sent them by his lackey. You had better make haste to be up and
dressed, in case he comes to be thanked."
Prue jumped out of bed and began dressing in a great hurry.
"How comes _he_ with a lackey, forsooth!" she said presently, feigning
to cavil so that Peggie would go on talking.
"Why, does not Sir Geoffrey always send his lackey with flowers for
you—and grandmother?" laughed Peggie.
"Sir Geoffrey!" cried Prue, starting away from the roses as though she
had suddenly encountered their thorns.
"Of course; who did you think had sent them?" inquired Peggie blandly.
"Why—I thought—you said—Oh! Peggie, what did you mean by a little
bird?" pouted Prue.
"Ha! ha! ha!" Peggie screamed with laughter. "So the only bird you can
think of now is a Robin! Why, Prue, you foolish coz, what is the use of
setting your heart on him? You know you can not have him."
"And suppose I can not; is not that enough to make any woman set her
heart on a man?" cried Prue. "Take those nasty things out of the room,
Peggy; the smell of them makes me quite sick."
Peggie started to go, sniffing them voluptuously. "Poor Robin!" she
murmured; "’tis well he can not see how his roses are treated. Nasty
things, indeed! I never knew the smell of roses to make you sick
before."
Prue flew after her. "Margaret!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes.
"How dare you torment me like this? Tell me, this instant, who sent
those flowers to me?"
"Why, didn’t I tell you they came from Robin?" asked Peggie, regarding
her with guileless surprise.
"Give them to me this instant! Oh, Peggie, Peggie, you know you tried
to make me think Sir Geoffrey sent them—"
"I only said he always sent flowers by his lackey," Peggie interposed.
"Was there nothing with them? Not a letter, not a message?" Prue went
on. "Oh, Peggie, just a word—?"
"Not a word. But the day is not over yet, and mayhap Captain
Scatterbrain will bring his own message. He is mad enough for anything.
Now don’t keep smelling those ’nasty things’—you know the smell of roses
makes you sick to-day—and make haste down-stairs. Grandmother is
feeling almost well to-day and will take her chocolate in the
drawing-room. She wishes you to join her anon, so that she can hear
from your own lips all about your triumphs last night."
When Prue came down presently, she wore a great cluster of red roses at
her breast, and one or two nestled in the rich braids of her hair. It
was a pity Robin could not see how well they became her, but they were
not altogether wasted, as Sir Geoffrey, coming in a short time later,
made them the occasion of some charming compliments.
Old Lady Drumloch, with no sign of weakness about her but her delicate
waxen pallor, reclined on a couch enveloped in her cashmeres, sipping
chocolate, and listening with great complacency to her granddaughter’s
account of the masquerade. She greeted Sir Geoffrey without enthusiasm,
accepted his congratulations upon her recovery with resignation, and
remorselessly turned him over to Peggie for entertainment, while she
kept Prue in close attendance upon herself.
Other guests dropping in, Prue was kept so busy dispensing chocolate and
sweetmeats that she hardly noticed the portentous gravity with which Sir
Geoffrey drew Peggie apart and engaged her in a low-voiced conversation,
which at first amused, then surprised, and finally caused her to exhibit
unmistakable signs of uneasiness. Her efforts to catch Prue’s eye being
abortive, she was on her way across the room, when the door was thrown
open, and with a great rustling of silks and clattering of fans, three
ladies were announced. "Lady Limerick, Miss Warburton and Lady Barbara
Sweeting."
Of the new-comers, the latter deserves a word of introduction, for Lady
Barbara had been the sharer, and many thought, the instigator of half
the frolics of Prue’s lively widowhood. They were fast friends, and if
the fading charms of Lady Barbara suffered by contrast with Prue’s fresh
loveliness, those who desired the friendship of either were usually wise
enough to treat both with impartial gallantry.
A great favorite of Queen Anne and also a dangerous rival of Sarah
Churchill, Lady Barbara owed her popularity chiefly to her skill in
collecting and disseminating scandal. She knew everything long before
any one else suspected it. Projected marriages, family jars, political
intrigues supplied her with an ever-fresh stock of amusing anecdote.
Mischievous but rarely malicious, she often pricked but seldom stabbed,
and was as ready to turn the laugh against herself as to make fun out of
her most cherished enemy.