look!" she cried, taking the old lady’s delicate hand in hers and
pressing upon it as reverential a kiss as though it had been Queen
Anne’s own chubby fingers. "You don’t know how enchanted we are to have
you among us again! We have missed you so. Prue, you wicked witch, how
dare you look so lovely? After last night you ought to be pale and
languishing, instead of looking so shamelessly unconcerned and
lighthearted." Prue, without knowing why, changed countenance a little,
at which her tormentor ran on still more volubly. "We were getting on
very nicely without you—a little dull, perhaps, but one can live without
duels, and while you stayed in the North, wives could let their husbands
run alone, even if they had been your bond-slaves. Prithee, was ever
General Sweeting the victim of your enchantments? If so, alack, what is
to become of me?"
A laugh rippled round the room, for Lady Barbara’s husband was
notoriously henpecked, and although he had once been a redoubtable
warrior and a still more formidable rake, it was in the days when Prue’s
mother had not emerged from the nursery and Prue’s self was an
unpropounded problem of the distant future.
Not at all disturbed by the amusement of her audience, Lady Barbara
raised her quizzing-glass and ran her bright, sharp glance round the
room.
"What! Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert! how come you here? Why are you not
flying for safety to your Yorkshire Castle? Or perhaps your
parliamentary immunities extend to the slaughter of the innocents as
well as the spoiling of the Egyptians!"
Sir Geoffrey, very red in the face, came forward, bowing low. "Dear
Lady Barbara, as you are strong, be merciful," he murmured imploringly.
She gave him a look very unlike her ordinary merry defiance. "Merciful
to _you_, who have no mercy even for the nursing mother and the suckling
babe? Never! Lady Beachcombe is one of my ninety-and-nine dearest
friends. I have just come from her. There was a sight to wring the
heart of a monster! the weeping mother in one room and the wounded
husband and father—"
"Oh, tush!" interrupted Sir Geoffrey, recovering his aplomb. "’Twas the
merest scratch. A strip torn from my lady’s kerchief would have bound
it up and left something to spare—"
"Don’t quarrel, you two," interposed Prue’s sweet, cooing voice. "Bab,
come and sit beside granny and I’ll give you a cup of chocolate, while
you tell her the latest news."
"The latest news! There is so much, that the difficulty is to know
where to begin. I went, this morning, to visit my interesting friend,
Lady Beachcombe, and according to promise, to give her full description
of the ball, including"—here she shook her finger at Prue—"all the
doings and misdoings of her lord. I was prepared to be cautious with
the dear creature, but instead of finding myself welcomed as a bearer of
news, I heard so much that my poor head fairly swims with trying to
remember it all."
"Begin with the least exciting and work up by easy stages to a climax,"
suggested Peggie, edging toward her cousin and trying to attract her
attention.
"No, begin with the most thrilling while our nerves are strong enough to
bear it," Prue proposed eagerly.
"First, then," Lady Barbara began, highly enjoying her anticipated
triumph, "there was a robbery at Marlborough House last night; and sure
no common thief would venture to steal Her Majesty’s diamond necklace
from the royal tiring-room."
The general chorus of incredulity and indignation realized her
expectations and she looked around with a mysterious smile. "No common
thief, indeed; but Robin Freemantle, the highwayman, is out of jail, and
’tis said—indeed my authority can not be questioned—that he was among
the maskers."
Prue felt cold shivers trickling down her spine, but the consciousness
that Sir Geoffrey was watching her, gave her strength to fix a smile
upon her face and pour out the cup of chocolate with a steady hand.
"Why do they think he had anything to do with this?" some one inquired.
"Tell us everything quickly, Barbara, before we die of curiosity."
"Why, now we come to the best story of all," cried the fair newsmonger.
"On his way to the ball, Lord Beachcombe was waylaid by Robin Freemantle
and a band of ruffians, who carried him off—carriage, servants and all
complete—to a secret cavern and left him there for several hours, having
robbed him of his mask and domino and borrowed his invitation and his
carriage!"
"The devil!" ejaculated Sir Geoffrey, suddenly very much enlightened.
"Fie, Sir Geoffrey; you should leave such remarks to our poor friend
Beachcombe, when he discovered, this morning, the purpose for which his
disguise had been taken."
"But he was there; I spoke with him," said Prue, feeling the color ebb
from her cheeks and surreptitiously trying to pinch some of it back.
"Did I not see you supping with him?" retorted Lady Barbara archly. "I
refrained from dwelling upon that subject to my poor friend, Lady
Beachcombe, but I saw what I saw! Before midnight his property was
restored and he was set free. He hastened to the ball, and doubtless he
would have done much better to go straight home, eh, Sir Geoffrey?"
"He seemed in a bad humor," said Prue reflectively, "but not more so
than usual."
"He might well be in a bad humor. It appears that he was instrumental
in getting Robin Freemantle pardoned when he was in Newgate, condemned
to be hanged."
"That is strange!" Peggie exclaimed. "’Tis the first time I ever heard
tell of a charitable act of his!"
"’Twill be the last, no doubt; the man is an ingrate. His first use of
his liberty was to steal his benefactor’s mask and domino, and under
cover of them to rob the queen’s Majesty. Oh! ’tis outrageous!" Lady
Barbara ran on volubly. "But he will be punished; and speedily." She
became mysterious. "His retreat is known. When Beachcombe questioned
his servants and added his own suspicions to theirs, he came upon
important clues, and when I left he was going to place them in the hands
of the authorities, from whom this miscreant will certainly not be
rescued a second time—by him!"
"Or by any one else, it is devoutly to be hoped," remarked Sir Geoffrey;
"don’t you agree with me, Lady Prudence?"
"You played thief-taker before, Sir Geoffrey," she retorted, with
unaccustomed acrimony. "You should offer your services again; his
escape would then be impossible."
"Quite impossible!" cried Lady Barbara, who only caught the last words.
"His home will be surrounded by soldiers, and he will be lodged in the
Tower, when they catch him."
"Do they send soldiers to catch a highwayman?" inquired Peggie.
"And why the Tower?" objected Lady Drumloch. "Methought that was
reserved for gentlemen; ’tis too much honor for robbers and footpads.
Will they also behead this person; like a gentleman?"
"’Tis likely," cried Barbara. "I had so much to tell you, that I forgot
that this Robin is not a mere ordinary highwayman; he is a Jacobite
plotter, no less, and is known to carry letters and messages from rebels
in the South to those in the North and back again—doing, I presume, a
little highway robbery on the way, for the good of the cause. Mayhap he
appropriated the queen’s necklace as a contribution to the treasury of
the ’King in Exile.’"
"Barbara!" exclaimed Prue and Peggie together, in a panic.
"My dear Lady Barbara," put in the thin, incisive voice of Lady
Drumloch, "the ’King in Exile’ is the queen’s brother and probably—may
the day be distant—will succeed her. I can not permit such insinuations
to be made in my presence, against the cause for which my husband and my
son laid down their lives."
"Pray pardon me, dearest Lady Drumloch," cried Lady Barbara, really
shocked at her own want of tact. "I meant no harm—my tongue runs away
with me—and to be sure, I have no greater fancy for a Dutchman on the
throne than any other loyal Englishwoman. Yet ’tis true that Robin
Freemantle is only the _nom de guerre_ of one of the most turbulent
rebels against the queen’s government—"
"If by that you mean the Whigs, you should rather say against the
Duchess of Marlborough’s government," retorted Lady Drumloch crisply.
"And what is the real name of this—rebel?" inquired Prue.
"Why, he calls himself De Cliffe, and if he really is an offshoot of the
family, that would explain why Beachcombe obtained a pardon for him,"
said Lady Barbara.
"Indeed, it requires explaining," remarked Prue, who had quite regained
her self-command. "It is much easier to understand why he is sending
him to the Tower, if he be a poor relation."
During the laughter that followed this sally, other guests arrived and
the loss of the queen’s diamond necklace having, by this time, become
pretty generally known, poor Prue had to listen to every variation of
the story and every kind of theory concerning it, all leading to the
same conclusion, that Robin the highwayman had been at the masquerade
ball and profiting by opportunity—the Ruling Planet of adventurers—had
carried off a prize of incalculable value.
With difficulty she eluded Sir Geoffrey’s ironical condolences, and took
her accustomed part in the heedless chatter, watching the clock as
minute by minute slipped away and still her visitors lingered.
"Oh! if they would only go," she whispered to Peggie. "Do you think if
I were to fall in a fit, or make James give an alarm of fire, that it
would speed the parting guest?"
But the longest afternoon comes to an end some time, and Lady Drumloch’s
weary looks presently reminded her guests that she was but recently off
her sick-bed. So with a great rustling of silks and sweeping of
voluminous curtseys, they withdrew, with as many farewell speeches as
though they did not expect to meet again in a few hours at dinner, rout
or playhouse, and left the old countess to be carried up-stairs, and the
two girls to their own devices.
When they were alone, Peggie threw her arms round her cousin. "Oh! my
poor Prue," she cried; "what I have suffered for you the last hour—"
"Tell me of your sufferings by and by, Peggie," said Prue, rather
ungratefully. "If you would help me, bid James fetch a chair, while I
get me a cloak; I must hasten to the duchess."
"The duchess! Oh, Prue, dearest, don’t do anything rash; for Heaven’s
sake, try to be discreet. If you can not help Robin, do not ruin
yourself for the sake of a thief!"
"You are quite mistaken, Margaret; every one is determined that Robin
has taken the necklace, and if I did not know him better than you do, I
might think the same. But trust me; for once I will be the
personification of prudence, and you will see that everything will come
right. If any one should ask you where I am, say I have gone to offer
my services and sympathies to the duchess. Sure, ’tis a terrible blow
for her, and there are those about the queen who would rejoice if it
were mortal. No one will wonder that I should wish at such a time to
prove my friendship for one who has so often stood by me."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE DEN OF THE HIGHWAYMAN*
Prue allowed James to direct the chairmen to Marlborough House, but, a
short distance away, she stopped them, and giving them a crown, desired
them to carry her with the utmost speed to Essex Street, where she would
reward them amply for their diligence. Scenting an intrigue, with the
usual accompaniment of a generous douceur for their share in it, they
trotted off at a pace that gave their light burden hard work to keep her
seat.
With all their haste, it was dark before they reached Essex Street,
where Prue desired them to seek out "Pip’s Coffee-House," a small
hostelry of retiring, not to say furtive aspect. A flickering oil-lamp
hung over the entrance, and through the red-baize window-curtain a dull
glimmer penetrated.
Excited as she was, Prue was not without alarms at the sinister
possibilities of this adventure, so vastly different from the sparkling
follies of her giddy career. But "Cowards fayle," and Prue was no
coward, nor was she capable of drawing back when curiosity and
inclination combined to thrust her on. She descended, and bidding the
chairmen wait, boldly entered the house and knocked at the first door
she came to.
A voice called out, "Come in," and she obeyed. The room was of moderate
size, divided into small compartments, each containing a rough wooden
table and a couple of benches to match. The floor was sanded, the
ceiling low and smoke-blackened, but there was no appearance of squalor,
and the few occupants, who were reading the _News_ sheet or playing
dominoes, looked respectable and orderly enough.
Reassured, Prue approached the man in charge of the little curtained
bar, and in a timid voice inquired for "Mr. Steve Larkyn."
He stared at her, but her veil effectually hid her face, though the
sweetness of her voice and the distinction of her bearing could not be
disguised.
"Steve Larkyn? I’ll call him, my lady," said the man.
"I’m no lady," retorted Prue sharply. "If I were I should not be asking
for Steve Larkyn!"
She was sorry for her quickness the next moment, for the man laughed
rather rudely, and opening a door behind him, called out, "Hullo, Steve,
here’s a lady asking for thee, that says she ain’t no lady."
The Steve Larkyn who came hurrying out was so unlike the one she had
seen in disguise, that she was about to repudiate him, when with a
sudden grimace he changed himself back into the rustic foot-boy, all but
the shock of tow-colored hair, which no longer covered his sleek brown
head. The change passed like a ripple of wind over a smooth pool, but
it reassured Prue.
"Can you come outside a minute?" she said, in a very low voice; "I must
speak with you."
He followed her into the street, and once out of range of observant eyes
and ears, she grasped him by the arm, and demanded to be taken instantly
to the captain.
"I can take a message," said Steve, hesitating. "It will attract less
notice than a visit from a lady."
"Waste no time in idle objections," she cried, almost fiercely. "I
_must_ see him; what I have to say is for his ear alone, and even if
otherwise, ’twould be a waste of precious time to tell my tale twice
over. Lead me to him instantly or take the responsibility of his
certain death upon your own head!"
"Come, then," he replied; "but you must come afoot. ’Tis ill enough to
take a woman into a secret, without a pair of spying lackeys to boot.
Can you walk a short distance? The road is dark and rough."
"No matter, I can walk it." She paid the chairmen liberally, and
dismissing them, followed Steve down a steep and narrow lane leading to
the riverside. It was unlighted, and she slipped and stumbled on the
miry, uneven causeway until Steve, in pity, begged her to lean upon his
arm. "’Tis not far now," he said, less gruffly, and a few yards farther
they came to a huge and gloomy gateway, within which a little door
admitted them into a dark hall. Steve struck a light and led the way
across the echoing emptiness and up a broad staircase. He scratched
with his nail upon a door, which was promptly opened by Robin himself,
fully equipped for a journey.
"Steve!" he exclaimed. "What has happened, and who is this with you?"
Before he could answer. Prue stepped forward and throwing off her veil
replied, "Your wife!"
"Lady Prudence!" he cried, scarcely believing the evidence of his
senses. "In the name of Heaven, what brings you here? Why are you so
pale and excited? Something terrible has happened?"
"No; but will happen unless you instantly escape." She came into the
room and closed the door, leaving Steve outside. "Oh! Robin, Robin,"
she cried, clasping her hands and looking at him with reproachful eyes,
"I know all that happened last night. How could you be so mad? You can
not hope to escape again if you are arrested for this."
"Indeed," said Robin grimly, "if I am taken this time, ’twill be worse
than hanging! But I’ll never be taken alive—"
"There is time to escape," she urged. "Your retreat is known and you
will be arrested to-night. Lord Beachcombe has discovered where he was
brought yester night—"
"Ah!" said Robin, with a bitter smile. "I should have taken extra
precautions against the bloodhound instinct of hatred! And so, Dear
Heart," he went on, in a very different tone, "you came to warn me of
danger? ’Twas very noble of you, for if you had left me to my fate, in
a few hours you might have been a free woman."
Prue burst into tears. "Oh! you are cruel, cruel," she sobbed. "I do
not want freedom—that way."
"I believe it," he said, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.
"Do not grieve, my hunted life is not worth one of those tears—"
"But hasten," she interrupted, listening attentively and holding up her
hand to silence him. "I know who you are and that you are concerned in
Jacobite plots. Soldiers will surround the house and you will be
arrested and taken to the Tower as a traitor. You have very little time
to escape—"
He glanced at some papers on the table and began to gather them up and
conceal them about him. In doing this, he uncovered a jewel-case of
purple velvet embroidered in gold with the royal arms.
Prue uttered a faint shriek and covered her eyes, as if to shut out the
sight that confirmed her worst fears.
"Oh! Robin!" she gasped. "The queen’s necklace—!"
"Was it the queen’s?" he replied carelessly. "Well, now it is yours, if
you care to have it." He opened the case and displayed the diamonds
flashing like a string of fire. "’My faith! the gems are gorgeous; they
will look well on the peerless neck of my beautiful Prue."
"_I_ wear the queen’s diamonds! You must be mad! What possessed you to
take them? Oh, I hoped so that it was a mistake and that you were
innocent of this."
"Innocent of what? Do you really think I stole the necklace? My dear
Lady Prudence, I am a highwayman when occasion serves, but I am not a
thief. Last night, on the king’s business, I waylaid the wrong man, and
all I got for my pains was this fine casket, which I never opened until
now. Evidently I robbed the thief, confound him! and the papers I was
commanded to secure are God knows where!"
"Oh! Robin, I am so glad!" she cried. "They said Robin the highwayman
was at his tricks again, and had stolen the queen’s necklace from
Marlborough House, and oh, I was so ashamed to think such a thing could
be said of—-_my husband_!"
She half turned away, murmuring the last words so softly that only the
ears of love could have caught them.
"Oh! Prue—angel—is it really possible that you think of me as your
husband? Oh! I know there has been an empty ceremony which meant
nothing to you, and to me only vain longing and a mad dream of
unattainable happiness; but what a fool I am! Of course I ought to have
understood that you fear to be brought to shame if it should be
suspected that the thief of the queen’s necklace is your—"
Prue’s eyes flashed and her little high-heeled shoe tapped angrily on
the floor.
"You are indeed a fool!" she exclaimed. "I do not know why I have any
patience at all with you. Will you begone from here at once, sir, and
not offend me by tarrying when I have risked so much to save your life?"
He started and flushed guiltily. "Selfish brute that I am! I forgot
the danger to you. A thousand thanks, dear Lady Prudence, for your
warning. I will profit by it when I have conducted you to safety."
"You will do nothing of the sort," she retorted imperiously. "When I
arrived you were preparing to depart; do so at once, for if you wait for
the house to be surrounded by the soldiers it will be too late. Even
now, if you leave it alive, you may fall into an ambush. Is there no
exit except into the street?"
"Yes; this room opens on a terrace overlooking the river, and although I
believed myself safe in London for a few days, I have a boat in
readiness in case I should be forced to leave in a hurry," said Robin.
"There are hiding-places in Southwark and Lambeth where the queen’s
whole army might hunt a week for me in vain."
"Be cautious then, for that may be known to your enemies; and, above
all, be speedy—"
While she was speaking, the door was flung open abruptly and Steve
Larkyn—his face blazing with fury—darted in.
"You are betrayed, Captain!" he ejaculated. "This woman has brought the
soldiers with her. For the love of God, do not stop to listen to her,
but escape while there is time—"
"You hear?" cried Prue, in a frenzy. "Go—go instantly! I command you!"
"What, go away and leave you here to meet the soldiers alone? Never!"
said Robin, with a calmness that contrasted strongly with the excitement
of the others.
"Then I will remain with you, and when the soldiers come I will declare
that I helped you enter Marlborough House, and show the diamonds to
prove that I was your accomplice; nay, I will say that my familiarity
with the duchess’ apartments gave me access where you could not have
entered and that _I_ stole the diamonds and gave them to you!"
"You will do this?" he gasped, utterly stupefied.
"I will; and if necessary I will proclaim myself your wife and let them
think I have had my share in whatever you are accused of."
"But why? In the name of God, what is the meaning of this madness?"
She stretched out her arms to him with a gesture of utter
self-abandonment. "It means that I love you, Robin. I love you, and
would rather die with you than live without you!"
He caught her in his arms and strained her to his breast with all the
pent-up passion of his being in that fervid embrace.
"Leave you—now, my darling, my heart’s heart—"
She tore herself from his arms. "More than ever now," she pleaded. "If
you hope ever to possess me, fly, and I swear that I will come to you—if
not on earth, in Heaven. Stay, I have an idea." She snatched up a
sheet of paper and thrust a pen into his hand. "Write," she commanded,
and he wrote at her dictation.
"MISTRESS BROOKE:
"Follow the bearer and you will find the queen’s diamond necklace."
"There," she exclaimed, laughing and crying together, "leave the rest to
me, and go—if you do not wish to destroy us both. Hark! the soldiers
are already at the gate," she flung the window open—"trust to my woman’s
wit," she cried, "I shall not only be safe but covered with glory and
honor."
He pressed a burning kiss upon her willing lips and sprang through the
window. "Follow your master," she said to Larkyn, who stood by, an
effigy of astonishment. He obeyed without demur, and she shut the
window, closing and fastening the shutter and half-drawing the faded
curtain.
Then she resumed her mantle and veil and looked around for any sign of
Robin’s late occupancy. He had secured all his papers and on the table
nothing was left except the purple velvet case and some writing
materials, which she thrust into a drawer. In doing so she came upon a
packet addressed:
"To Mistress Larkyn,
"In care of Mine Hostess of
"The Fox and Grapes."
She took it up and recognized Robin’s writing. The angry blood glowed in
her veins. "The insolent varlet!" she muttered. "He has been writing
to a woman—’Mistress Larkyn,’ indeed!—Mine Hostess of the ’Fox and
Grapes,’ forsooth! ’Tis some low intrigue, and I thought him my true
lover and loyal husband. I will see how he addresses this creature."
She was about to tear open the packet, when a crash below stairs and the
sound of hurried footsteps warned her that the soldiers had broken into
the house. She hurriedly thrust it into her bosom and waited.
A voice shouted harshly, "In the queen’s name!" and the door was opened
without ceremony. Half-a-dozen soldiers with drawn swords rushed in, and
at sight of the little cloaked figure, came to a halt in some confusion.
But Prue, without waiting to be interrogated, threw back her veil,
exclaiming, "Soldiers!" in accents of well-feigned joy and relief. "Oh!
I am so glad! I was afraid, when I heard the noise, that I had fallen
into a den of robbers, who would, perhaps, kill me for the sake of the
queen’s necklace."
"The queen’s necklace!" exclaimed the officer in command. "Who are you,
and what do you know about the queen’s necklace?"
"I am the Viscountess Brooke," she replied, in her loftiest tone, "and
this message will explain why I am here, and what I know about the
queen’s necklace."
She landed the paper to him and watched anxiously to see its effect. He
read it dubiously and turned it over and over, evidently at a loss how
to deal with a matter outside of his instructions.