emblazoned casket and opening it. "The person who brought me here
disappeared when the noise began at the gate." She looked round in
every direction but the window. "I think there must be a secret panel
somewhere in the room, for while my attention was distracted by the
noise, she disappeared."
"_She!_" cried the officer. "Did a woman bring you here? What kind of
person was it? Could it not have been a man, disguised?"
"A man!" she exclaimed; "oh, no"—then the advantage of prolonging this
cross-examination struck her and she continued slowly, as if pondering
over the suggestion—"at least, that never occurred to me. Her voice was
loud and rough ’tis true—"
"Was she—or he—tall and broad?" demanded the officer, glancing at a
document in his hand and reading from it—"swarthy complexion, black
eyes, black hair, without powder, worn—"
She interrupted him with a laugh. "Surely not, the woman was old, bent,
no taller than myself; a toothless, blear-eyed beldame—"
"And she disappeared, you say? Sergeant, examine the room thoroughly
and break in anything that seems like a secret panel. I fear, Madam,"
the officer said, again addressing Prue, "that I shall be compelled to
arrest you if we can not find the person we are seeking."
"Arrest _me_!" cried Prue. "Why, you will make yourself the
laughing-stock of London if you arrest Lady Prudence Brooke. As to
myself, I should enjoy it amazingly; I have never been arrested, and it
would be something quite new for me in the way of an adventure, but I
have found the queen’s necklace"—she clasped it in her arms with an air
of defiance—"and you must first take me either to Marlborough House,
where it was lost, or to Kensington Palace, where you will easily find
out whether or no to arrest one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting."
She threw off her veil and smiled up at him with all the alluring
archness at her command. It was not thrown away, although the young
soldier made a brave effort to resist her captivating arts, by ordering
his men to leave no loophole of escape for the object of their search or
any one who might be his accomplice. They roughly tested the walls with
blows and kicks, and finding at last a hollow-sounding panel, knocked it
in without delay and found, not a secret passage, but a closet
containing some weapons, a saddle and a couple of cloaks. These they
made into a bundle and were about to search farther, when the sounds of
shouts and shots from the river drew their attention that way.
"By Heaven, they have caught him on the river!" cried the officer,
hurrying to the window. He unclasped the shutter and dashing the window
open, sprang out on the terrace, followed by Prue. The night was
intensely dark and a drizzling rain falling, but at a short distance the
blaze of torches stained the fog a dull crimson, that looked to her
excited imagination like a haze of blood. She stood shivering on the
terrace beside the officer, as he shouted himself hoarse in his efforts
to get into communication with the crew of the boat which had
intercepted Robin’s flight, but the lights drifted farther away and the
shouting ceased, and, at last, she ventured to lay her hand lightly on
the officer’s arm.
"Who is being pursued?" she asked, "and what is all the disturbance
about?"
"Don’t you know that this is the hiding-place of the notorious
highwayman, Robin Freemantle, who is also suspected of being an active
agent of the Jacobite plotters in Scotland? It is strange that you
should be alone here, Madam, and yet know nothing of this man’s escape!
My orders are to arrest him and all persons found in his company;
therefore you must consider yourself under arrest."
"Arrest me if you will," she replied, "but if you refuse to take me to
the Duchess of Marlborough or the queen, the consequences be on your own
head. Rest assured that there will be honors and promotion for the
gallant soldier who protects one of the ladies of the court and brings
her and the treasure she has recovered to safety. But to thrust one of
my condition"—her eyes flashed and she raised her head with indignant
pride—"into prison, will certainly bring disgrace or worse upon you. I
have influence with the duchess and through her, with the duke."
The officer was young and not altogether insensible either to the sweet,
imperious voice, or the arguments it propounded. He hesitated, and
meeting the earnest eyes raised to his, began to waver. This was
evidently a great lady. Her elegant dress and haughty manner abashed
him, and he began to think that if he took her to the Tower in place of
Robin Freemantle, she might prove a dangerous substitute.
"Come, come, Sir Officer," Prue went on, reading the changes of his
expression with an experienced eye, "do not be so hard to convince."
She smiled up at him now with a bewitching petulance and laid her
slender hand on his arm. "’Tis but a step to Marlborough House and I am
in a fever to see the duchess. I was, perhaps, indiscreet in coming to
this strange place alone, but the hope of finding the jewels turned my
foolish head and put all other considerations out of it. I fear I ran a
desperate risk; I might have been attacked by robbers, instead of
rescued by soldiers! I shall never forget that I owe my safety, perhaps
my life, to you!"
By this time the lieutenant was in complete subjection. "I am most
fortunate, Madam, in being of some service to you!" he said gallantly.
"When I came here to take a prisoner, I little expected to become a
captive myself."
Prue finished him off with a glance of irresistible archness. "Oh! I
am quite reconciled to my arrest now," she protested. "Indeed, I should
claim your escort, if I did not feel sure that you would wish to see the
queen’s necklace safely through its adventures. Fortunate man! there is
not an officer in the duke’s army, who would not envy your good luck."
"I can well believe it!" he cried, with an ardent glance. "I would not
change places with a general!"
"The duchess appreciates devotion as much as her husband does courage,"
said Prue, with tantalizing demureness.
"And the Lady Prudence Brooke—does she also appreciate devotion?" the
young officer murmured hurriedly. "Oh! if I could believe so—"
"You would take me to Marlborough House instead of the Tower?" she
interrupted quickly. "Prove your devotion by doing so, and
afterward"—she lingered softly on the word—"we will talk about
appreciation."
The soldiers, by this time, having ransacked the house without finding
anything suspicious, one of them was despatched to fetch a chair for
Lady Prudence, and leaving a guard at the house in case of Robin’s
return, the lieutenant and the rest of his soldiers escorted the
prisoner—and the necklace—to Marlborough House.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*IN THE DUCHESS’ APARTMENTS*
Any doubts that Prue’s escort might have secretly entertained as to the
credibility of her strange story, were set at rest the moment she
entered the doors of Marlborough House. Her reception was that of the
elect; a privileged guest whom all delighted to honor. The obsequious
flunkeys bowed before her, and the stately Groom of the Chambers, by
whose command the lieutenant was shown into a waiting-room, himself
carried the Lady Prue’s request for an audience of the duchess on most
pressing business.
The anterooms were thronged with visitors whose curiosity had been
whetted by a rumor that the long-expected had happened, and that the
queen had gladly availed herself of the loss of her jewels as an excuse
for humiliating the tyrannical favorite whose exactions had lately
increased in proportion to the waning of her influence. It was
whispered that the queen had been most reluctant to attend the
masquerade, and that the duchess, fearing that she might repeat the
slight of a recent public occasion (when Her Majesty had declined to
appear in regal state in compliment to her), had exercised her privilege
as Mistress of the Robes, and caused certain jewels to be conveyed to
the royal tiring-room in Marlborough House. But the queen, on her
arrival, had signalized her disapproval of this audacious proceeding, by
refusing to make any alteration in the conspicuously simple costume she
wore, and the jewels—among which the necklace was the most
important—were left in the tiring-room in care of the attendants.
All this, however, was mere gossip. Those more friendly to the duchess
discredited the whole story and claimed to know that no royal jewels had
come into the house, except on the queen’s person, and that if any were
mislaid, they would certainly be found either at Kensington Palace,
where Her Majesty had been residing for some weeks, or St. James’, where
she had passed the previous day, in order to incur as little fatigue as
possible in attending the masquerade.
Ladies Rialton and Monthemer, with other members of the ducal family and
household, flitted from group to group, making light of the rumored
estrangement between "_poor, unfortunate, faithful Mrs. Morley_" and her
erstwhile inseparable and all-powerful friend, and vowing that nothing
kept them apart but the violent illness of the duchess, over whom the
physicians were in consultation as to the propriety of bleeding her to
avert an attack of fever. But all hints and allusions to the lost
necklace were ignored, and those who were hardy enough to put their
inquiries into plain words, were met with diplomatic replies that
neither affirmed nor denied anything.
With a greeting here and a hand-pressure there, Prue threaded her way
through the crowd and hurried up-stairs to the duchess’ private
apartments. The way led past the little conservatory where she had sat
with Robin last night. It was dark now and the entrance was blocked
with tubs containing the orange-trees and shrubs which had adorned the
grand stair-case and entrance-hall. Prue’s heart beat a shade faster and
a pang of remorse assailed her at the thought that by introducing Robin
to this sequestered part of the house she had exceeded her privilege as
a guest, and exposed both Robin and herself to a suspicion that only her
utmost ingenuity could dissipate.
In the duchess’ dressing-room a little throng of ladies-in-waiting and
intimate friends welcomed her warmly. Deep concern sat upon every face
as they listened to the hysterical cries and moans, in which the patient
in the adjoining bedroom gave expression to her sufferings, and the
broken exclamations and fierce invectives by which she called upon her
doctors and attendants to bear witness to the ingratitude and perfidy of
the queen, and the baseness of her minions.
While Prue hesitated about intruding, the doctor and the apothecary came
out. The former hurried away with a red face and air of offended
dignity, and his satellite only lingered long enough to assure the
ladies that her grace, having refused to be blooded and having ordered
the two medicos from her presence under pain of a drenching with their
own potions, nothing could be done for her until she could be brought
into a more reasonable mood.
"I must see her at once," said Prue, with decision. "I have a cure for
her malady far more efficacious than all the court physicians’
nostrums."
"Why, do you come from the queen? Has she found her diamond necklace?"
A dozen eager questioners crowded about her, but with a smile of
mysterious but encouraging significance, Prue reiterated her demand and
at last escaped from further interrogation, by making her way
unannounced into the presence of the duchess.
The great lady lay upon her bed, her disordered dress and disheveled
hair revealing the ravages of time, which she usually disguised with so
much skill. Her tire-women vainly attempted to soothe her by chafing
her feet and hands and fanning her flushed and swollen face.
"Who is that?" she screamed, catching sight of Prue. "Go away—I can not
see any one—I am very ill—I am dying! Make haste to pay your court to
Masham—Masham! the creature I raised out of the mire—the kitchen-wench,
who will queen it to-morrow when I am dead! Oh! oh! oh!" And the
hysterics were resumed with wilder frenzy than ever.
"Leave her to me," said Prue to the women. "I can cure her, but I must
have her to myself for a few minutes." They looked from one to the
other with bewildered eyes, wondering at Prue’s audacity, yet unable to
resist her calm tone of authority.
When they had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, she bent over
the shrieking, raving duchess, and said, in a quiet, penetrating voice,
"The necklace is not lost, it is quite safe."
The cries ceased with almost ludicrous suddenness. "What do you say?"
gasped the patient.
"I will tell you all about it as soon as you are able to lie still and
listen," said Prue, who had laid her plans on her way from Essex Street,
and had her story all ready. The duchess quieted down and turned her
face partly toward her.
"Is that Prudence Brooke?" she asked. "If you know anything about that
accursed necklace, tell me quickly, before it is the death of me."
"I have news of it," said Prue, passing a cool, soothing hand over the
hot brow and brushing away the heavy, straggling masses of hair, once
the pride of Sarah Churchill and the envy of rival beauties. "If the
necklace is returned what reward will you give the finder?"
"Reward? Oh! he shall be well rewarded; the finder need not be afraid
to ask his own price," cried the duchess. "And yet the thing is
worthless to any one, child—worse than worthless—it is deadly! No one
would steal it except to injure me! But they shall swing for it, no
matter who is at the bottom of it. It is a conspiracy of those who hate
me—"
"It is a mistake," interrupted Prue; "the necklace was not stolen, it
was taken by—by accident."
"Accident! Oh, I know what kind of accident it was; it was a
conspiracy, I tell you!" the duchess reiterated.
"It was a mistake," Prue urged. "I am sure I can prove it."
"Prove it a conspiracy, Prudence Brooke—prove it so that I can get my
revenge upon these wretches and you may ask what reward you will.
Honors and emoluments shall be heaped upon you—"
"I want neither!" cried Prue vehemently. "That is, the finder would not
accept money or anything of that kind." She began to feel uneasy at the
threatening tone the duchess took, and her nimble wit jumped for
shelter. "For myself," she said, in her most cajoling way, "I would ask
a favor—not now, but later—and I want you to promise that you will grant
it, no matter how strange and unreasonable it may seem."
The duchess, who was now quite collected, sat up and looked searchingly
into the guileless blue eyes, bent so eagerly upon her. "_You_ would
not ask anything that would injure _me_?" she said slowly. "My enemies
are so many and so wily, I fear to trust—even you. Is it something you
want for yourself? If so, I promise."
"A thousand thanks," cried Prue. "I may never ask for anything;
certainly never for anything that would hurt my dear benefactress to
grant. ’Twas but a fancy. And such strange things happen—one never
knows what one may be led into. I have had the strangest adventure
to-night—"
"Another time, dear Prue," the duchess interrupted; "I can think of
nothing now but the necklace."
"Yet you will own," persisted Prue, "when you have heard it to the end,
that it is worth listening to. ’Twas thus—as soon as I heard of your
grace’s troubles, I set out to offer my heartfelt condolences. Scarce a
hundred yards from home, the chair was stopped and a rough hand thrust a
paper through the curtains. Here it is; shall I fetch a lamp for you to
read it by?"
"No, read it to me. I have wept myself purblind," replied the duchess,
without attempting to disguise her impatience and lack of interest.
Prue unfolded the paper, now soiled and crumpled from frequent handling,
and read:
"MISTRESS BROOKE:
"Follow the bearer and you will find the queen’s diamond necklace."
The duchess started up and seized her arms convulsively. "Is this true,
Prue?" she demanded tragically. "Then why did you not go at once
without coming to make terms with me first?"
Prue was too well acquainted with the suspicious and selfish nature of
the woman to take any offense. "I thought you would be interested," she
replied sweetly. "Have a moment’s patience and I will tell you how,
reckless of consequences, I ordered the chairmen to follow this unknown
leader, who took us through narrow by-streets, where I momentarily
expected to be waylaid and perhaps murdered. But my desire to serve
your grace was stronger than my fears; besides, as you are well aware, I
am not very timid, especially when there is an adventure to the fore—"
"Yes, yes, I know how reckless you are, but where did you find the
necklace?" the duchess broke in.
"I am coming to that. The chair stopped at last and I descended in a
dark and muddy street, where I followed my conductor afoot to a lonely
house, apparently uninhabited."
"Prudence—you reckless girl—you ventured into such a place alone and
unprotected!" exclaimed the duchess, excited to such a pitch by the
story that she absolutely forgot its reference to herself. "What
madness!"
"Oh! that is nothing to what I would have done, if necessary, for—for
your grace’s sake," cried Prue. "But I confess that all my devotion was
needed to keep up my courage. Inside the house my situation was even
more terrifying. All was dark and empty—it seemed the very place for
secret deeds of horror—yet no attempt was made to harm me; not a living
creature appeared except the person who wrote this message and who,
without any ado, placed this in my hand and begged me to take it away."
Having now arrived at the climax of her story, Prue drew forth the
emblazoned casket and displayed the diamond necklace.
The duchess snatched it from her and gazed at it with entranced eyes.
She flung her arms about Prue, calling her a heroine and a marvel, and
the truest friend woman ever had.
"Any one but you would have gone straight to the queen and left me to my
fate. There are those about that ungrateful woman who would have paid
mighty high for such a chance of humiliating me. What reward did the
robber demand, and how did you satisfy him?"
"There was no robber; only an old woman," said Prue, whipping out her
carefully planned lie without a tremor. "I know not how she came by it,
but she asked for no reward and only seemed to wish to be rid of it.
Indeed, there was no time for me to ask an explanation, if she had one
to give, for at the very moment when the casket was in my hands, there
arose a hubbub in the street outside and the house was surrounded by
soldiers. The old woman disappeared as if by magic, and when the
soldiers broke into the room I was alone; nor could they find any trace
of her, though they battered the place to pieces."
"She shall be found and compelled to give up her accomplice," cried the
duchess furiously. "Soldiers surrounded the house, and yet the miscreant
escaped! Pretty soldiers, forsooth!"
"Yes, truly," cried Prue; "and more than that—they arrested poor little
me—because I was all alone there with the queen’s diamonds; think of
that! I had a narrow escape of spending the night in jail! However, my
tears and entreaties prevailed upon them to bring me here, and all that
remains to be done is to dismiss my captors, and permit me to take my
leave of your grace."
"Not so fast, Prue; you have still something to do for me," said the
duchess. "I must hasten to the queen and you must go with me, and
repeat what you have just told me. Marie!—Alice!—leave off chattering
and tire me with all despatch. I must see the queen without a moment’s
loss of time."
"Surely, ’tis too late to-night," remonstrated Prue, who was sinking
with fatigue. "Her Majesty will have retired."
"That’s no matter," retorted the duchess arrogantly; "I am still
Mistress of the Robes, and by virtue of my office entitled to enter the
queen’s bed-chamber at all hours of day or night. You must accompany
me, and repeat your story, else I might be discredited by the reptiles
who are for ever at the royal ear, poisoning _poor, faithful Mrs.
Morley’s_ mind against her once beloved _Mrs. Freeman_. Come, I am
ready."
As they descended by a private staircase to take the carriage, the Groom
of the Chambers approached, and deferentially inquired what was to be
done with the Viscountess Brooke’s military escort.
"Faith, ’tis the honest soldier who wanted to hale me off to jail,"
cried Prue in reply to the duchess’ look of surprised inquiry. "He came
prepared to arrest a houseful of robbers or conspirators—he seemed
uncertain just which—and finding me alone, with the queen’s necklace in
my hand, would have taken me to prison if I had not coaxed him to bring
me to you first. If I might venture to suggest that your grace bid him
attend us, he can corroborate my story, if needful."
"Let him come," the duchess commanded. "I would I had a hundred
witnesses that it was not found in Marlborough House."
*CHAPTER XX*
*A THREAT AND A PROMISE*
When Prue reached home, about midnight, Peggie, who had been watching at
the window during several anxious hours, met her at the door and almost
carried her up-stairs in a strenuous embrace.
"Was that the Marlborough carriage?" she demanded eagerly.
"Yes; the duchess insisted on bringing me home."
"Then all is well; you have no idea how uneasy I have been. About ten
o’clock, Sir Geoffrey came to see you; on a matter of the utmost
importance, he declared, and the mysterious hints he threw out about the
danger your rashness and love of adventure had led you into, positively
drove me distracted."
"I am deeply indebted to him for his solicitude," said Prue
disdainfully, "but the worst danger my rashness ever brought me
near—that of marrying Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—is happily averted. ’Tis
true I have committed other follies—one of which has snatched me from
the jaws of that peril, only to plunge me into a host of others, from
which I know not how I shall extricate myself. Alack! my dearest Peg,
methinks poor Prue is but a sorry fool after all’s said."
Peggie’s countenance fell into an expression of deep concern. For Prue
to express a doubt of her own ready wit, was to utter heresy against the
first article of Peggie’s faith in her.
"Why, what has happened?" Peggie asked, almost tearfully.
"Oh! nothing but good: indeed, the Fates have showered me with good luck
until I am afraid I shall be buried alive under it."
"Come, there are worse ways of being buried than that," cried Peggie,
brightening up. "A fig for Sir Geoffrey’s croaking, if there be nothing
else to fear. Now tell me where you have been all the evening; with the
duchess, of course, as she brought you home?"
"Not all the time. First I found the necklace. Then I took it to the
duchess and together we returned it to the queen. And now, Peggie,
bring down your eyebrows out of your hair and don’t open your mouth wide
enough to engulf me, and I’ll tell you everything that has happened to
me, if you will undress me, for I am too tired to move a finger."
Peggie most gladly set to work and had her cousin unlaced and unpinned
and comfortably tucked in bed, long before the history of the evening’s
events had been expounded. From her, Prue hid nothing; in fact she was
craving to pour her confidence into that kindly ear and receive such
ungrudging sympathy and shrewd advice as the circumstances prompted.
When Peggie had exhausted the vocabulary of astonishment, admiration,
congratulation and anticipation—had shuddered at Prue’s danger, laughed
at her wily devices, marveled incredulously at her passionate avowal of
love, and rejected all possibility of fear for Robin’s safety, she
withdrew reluctantly, declaring that she should not close an eye that
night—and was fast asleep almost before her head reached the pillow.
Prue was less fortunate, and for an hour or two tossed and turned,
vainly trying every soothing device to calm her racked nerves and woo
repose.