her ear, "In the library," with a glance and gesture that needed no
interpretation. With an immense effort of self-control, Prue stopped
long enough to compliment her friend on her new and gorgeous equipage,
and then slipped away, with her heart throbbing in her throat, and ran
down-stairs, to find Robin awaiting her, rather inefficiently disguised
in a gold-laced velvet coat and a voluminous periwig, in which his
marked resemblance to Lord Beachcombe struck Prue with absolute
consternation.
"Robin, Robin!" she cried, when the door was closed, "how could you
dream of coming here, of all places?"
"I have dreamed of nothing else," he replied. His eyes were glowing and
his whole countenance transformed by a sublime transport of adoration.
Few men are capable of this ecstasy and few women privileged to behold
it; none, it may be conjectured, can resist its enchantment. Prue,
trembling with a strange joy, yielded to the arms of her lover-husband,
and there forgot everything else for a few blissful moments.
"Dearest, you must not stay here," she murmured, when he released her
lips, "your worst enemy is in this house." And in a few rapid words she
told him of Lord Beachcombe’s search after the papers, his prediction of
Robin’s visit and his suggestion of using her as a bait to the trap he
proposed setting for him.
"Go, now—at once, Robin, my husband, and send me word where to come to
you; it is safer so. Oh! I will come! you need not fear—you see, I do
not even ask if you want me to! Send for me, and be not too tardy about
it—"
"Tardy, Heart of my heart," he murmured, with his lips to hers. "Every
moment I spend away from you is an eternity in purgatory. If I must go,
tell me that you love me, that I may have something to live upon until
we meet again."
"Oh! I love you, Robin—indeed I love you—yet I take blame to myself for
telling you so often, who have never yet said it to me. Some day you
will, mayhap, remind me that I did all the wooing, and all the marrying,
too! Nay, swear to me, Robin, that thou’lt forget that ever I asked
thee to many me—" and she hid her face, all blushing with love and
shame, upon his shoulder.
"Forget!" he exclaimed. "If ever I forget, it will be because my body
is dust and my soul in torment! Yet I can not believe it. I fear to
close my eyes in sleep, lest when I wake I shall find I have been
dreaming—dreaming that these arms have held the dearest and sweetest
woman in all the world and these most unworthy lips have been permitted
to offer her worship. Oh! I scarcely dare to say, ’I love you.’ I
would I knew some other word that could express the adoration that fills
my heart to bursting! I loved you the moment my eyes fell on your angel
face—from the moment I kissed you. Oh! how dared I kiss you? Yet I was
punished! You can not imagine the fire that kiss left in my veins—the
unappeasable longing in my heart!" His lips were seeking hers again,
but she thrust him away with tender vehemence.
"No, no," she cried, "don’t stop to kiss me now, but go, while yet the
way is open."
She had her hand upon the lock when it turned gently and the door opened
a few inches. The eyes of Lord Beachcombe and Robin met over Prue’s
head and the flash of mutual animosity struck through her like an
electric current. She glanced quickly from one to the other, and the
secret of their kinship revealed itself so convincingly in the two faces
that she did not even feel surprised. It seemed as if she must always
have known that they were brothers.
The door closed again so swiftly that the whole incident was over before
any one could have drawn a breath.
"It is too late!" whispered Prue, then threw herself into Robin’s arms
in a kind of desperation that was half rapture. "He will betray you,
but they must take me too; I will not be separated from you."
"He will not come here for me," said Robin, cool and practical in the
presence of danger. "It will be best for me to go at once, before he
has time to call assistance. I can surely beat off half-a-dozen of his
lackeys single-handed. If I give him time to set a posse of constables
in wait for me, I may have more trouble with them. Farewell, Heart of
gold; I will send a safe messenger to you soon. Oh! I must see you
again very soon; I have so much to say to you—"
"Yet, wait," said Prue, detaining him. "Let me think; I would not risk
your life unnecessarily. Stay here and I will return instantly."
She was back in a few minutes accompanied by a gorgeous vision of rich
brocade and costly lace. These embellishments fitly set off a stately
figure that had once been slenderer and a charming face that showed few
of the ravages of time and, indeed, had more than replaced the graces of
youth by the archness and gaiety time had but enhanced.
"Barbara, this is my friend Captain de Cliffe," said Prue. "We met in
the North Country. Permit me to present him to you."
Lady Barbara’s evident astonishment did not affect the ceremoniousness
of her deep curtsey, to which Robin, not less surprised by Prue’s
manoeuver, responded with a gravely respectful salute.
"Methinks I have heard of your meeting with this gentleman—on
Bleakmoor," said Barbara, with twinkling eyes. "I, myself, claim a
distant kinship with the De Cliffes; what branch do you belong to,
Captain?"
"I am an unworthy twig of the senior branch," replied Robin.
"Ah! that accounts for your strong resemblance to the late earl," said
Barbara, seating herself near the window, and so compelling him to face
the light, while she coolly scrutinized him. "And if the present earl
were a handsome fellow, you would be like enough for brothers. As it
is—"
"As it is, he hates me like a brother," said Robin negligently, "and in
that the resemblance between us is not to be denied."
"Dear Barbara," cried Prue, "let me make a confession to you. Captain
de Cliffe is also known as Robin Freemantle, the highwayman."
"And when I told you so t’other day, you pretended to be surprised,"
cried Barbara reproachfully. "Little did I ever expect that my Prue
would so deceive me."
"’Twas not to deceive you, dear Barbara, but a roomful of curious
gossips, all ready to fall upon poor little me and tear my secret to
shreds. Scold me as much as you will, some other time, dearest Bab, but
help us now!"
"Us?" cried Barbara, turning her shrewd eyes from one to the other with
sudden enlightenment. "Aha!" she smiled knowingly, and Prue, blushing
and faltering, found no word to explain away her unvoiced suspicion. "I
am glad, at any rate," she went on rather dryly, "to find Sir Geoffrey’s
nose out of joint! But if you want help, why did you not ask
Beachcombe, who seems all too willing to return to your feet, and who
has already, if I am not mistaken, once rescued this gentleman from
Newgate?"
"Barbara, he wishes nothing so much as to get him back there. Scarce an
hour ago he proposed to me to decoy him here that he might seize him and
rob him of valuable papers. No doubt he would kill him if he resisted,
or throw him into prison. So now, dear Barbara, help me to devise some
way of getting him away from here unobserved."
"That is not difficult," Barbara assured her. "My new chair is amply
large for two. If Captain de Cliffe will give me his arm, we will walk
out of this house together and he can escort me home."
"But, Bab, if that wretch is on the watch, he may attack you. Remember,
he has seen Rob—Captain de Cliffe here, and if you had seen his face as
I did, when he looked in at the door! Oh, you may be sure that even you
would not be safe at his hands, if you stood between him and the object
of his hatred!"
"I have a better plan," said Barbara, laughing mischievously, "and one
that promises more diversion. You are tall, Captain," she looked him
over with an approving eye, "a proper man, i’ faith! Do you think you
could be trusted to take the place of one of my chairmen? They are all
six-foot men, chosen to match in size; I am very fastidious in such
matters. Three are new to my service, but the fourth is a faithful lad,
who can be trusted to hold his tongue. In his livery you can defy my
Lord Beachcombe and his myrmidons and walk away under their noses."
This proposition was quite to Prue’s taste and Robin, who was too
anxious to get away without causing her any serious trouble, to care
much in what guise he fared forth, gratefully consented. So James was
despatched to call Lady Barbara’s man Thomas, to whom she conveyed her
commands in the fewest possible words, and the two ladies withdrew while
the exchange of costume was effected, and the stolid Thomas, too well
accustomed to his mistress’ whims to raise the least question, resigned
his crimson coat and gold-laced hat, his silk stockings and buckled
shoes, and even his powdered bob-wig, to the new chairman.
By this time Prue’s usual afternoon court was assembling in far greater
numbers than the little house could easily accommodate, and the rustle
of brocades and the ripple of gay voices filled the air. Outside the
library Barbara hesitated. "I think I will not go back to your
visitors, Prue, my tongue is apt to slip out of my control and I might
say something compromising," she said. Then, seeing the door open into
the empty dining-room, she went in, drawing Prue after her.
"Is it serious, child?" she demanded, with a hand on each shoulder and
Prue’s eyes vainly attempting to meet her searching gaze unflinchingly.
"Is it possible that the heart that has resisted a hundred and one
skilled assaults can have surrendered to the ’Stand and deliver’ of a
brigand? Come, tell me everything!—if you are in love with him—"
"Oh! no, no!" cried Prue, shrinking in horror from the extent of the
revelation she might be drawn into if she began with such an admission.
"Love! what nonsense—for a highwayman?" and she laughed, though with
less than her usual abandon.
"Yet he is a charming fellow," said Barbara insinuatingly. "He might
have caught your fancy—but, in fact," in a gay tone, "I’m glad he has
not, for to own the truth, I am more than half disposed to carry off
your highwayman and hold him prisoner for a day or two. ’Twill be safer
for him and his adventures will surely keep me entertained for a
while—and, who knows? I might amuse myself by making a conquest of this
gentle savage!"
"Oh! Barbara, fie!" cried Prue, to whom the picture of Robin under the
influence of another woman’s fascinations was far from agreeable.
"It is condescension enough for you to save his life—"
"Condescension i’ faith," laughed Barbara. "At least I can promise that
_my_ condescension shall end—where charity begins—at home! Eh, Prue?
Well, I hear my new retainer in the hall, so fare thee well, dear
Gossip," and with a kiss on either cheek, she rustled out and was
respectfully assisted into her chair by Robin, who then took Thomas’
vacant place at the rear pole.
The street was thronged with the equipages of Prue’s visitors and,
mingling with the crowd, Lord Beachcombe, closely followed by
half-a-dozen lusty fellows, exchanged greetings here and there, without
relaxing his vigilant watch upon the entrance. He scarcely vouchsafed a
glance toward Lady Barbara, and as she swung past him in her gorgeous
sedan-chair, with her four tall chairmen at full trot, she was so elated
that she had half a mind to stop and speak to him. But wisdom prevailed
with her, for once, and she contented herself with waving her jeweled
fan in saucy greeting. He responded with a careless wave of the hand,
and the next minute she was out of sight.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*THE PARSON SELLS A SECRET*
As the afternoon progressed, Lady Drumloch’s little house filled to
overflowing. Reports of the adventures of the diamond necklace had
brought a crowd of flattering, envious and above all, curious
acquaintances round the dainty table where the cousins dispensed
chocolate and coquetry.
Some vague rumors had reached Lady Drumloch, through Lowton, of a
nocturnal exploit by which Prue had distinguished herself in some
mysterious way, but she was in absolute ignorance of the actual facts,
and had great difficulty in controlling her own curiosity, while
maintaining an appearance of urbane indifference under the cross-fire of
questions, congratulations, thinly veiled censure and half-incredulous
comment by which the guests displayed their varied interest. It was in
vain that Peggie used her ready wit to turn the conversation into safer
channels; in vain that Prue vowed the whole thing a ridiculous
exaggeration, and refused to be made a heroine or to be coaxed or goaded
into compromising admissions. The necklace, she declared, had been
accidentally carried away by some person employed at Marlborough House,
who, becoming terrified by the possession of the dangerous treasure and
wishing to be rid of it, had conveyed it to her as a sure means of
getting it back to the rightful owner; that she had brought it to the
duchess and together they had returned it to the queen; and there, so
far as she was concerned, Prue regarded the incident as closed, and was
quite tired of answering silly questions and explaining things that
really needed no explanation. Would they please not worry her about it
any more, but talk of something else?
Still, it was not easy to change the current of conversation, for each
new-comer had some fresh rumor to be contradicted, some new extravagance
to be laughed at or some malicious inference to be drawn from Prue’s
unwonted reserve, and her grandmother’s ill-concealed annoyance.
But if the afternoon wore away slowly to Peggie and Prue, it was a
long-drawn torture to Lord Beachcombe, whose watch upon the house was
never relaxed, notwithstanding the gibes of the gay throng as it passed
in and out, marveling what kept Prue’s quondam lover hanging round Lady
Drumloch’s door, and the rising murmurs of his followers, whose numbers
had been reinforced by numerous loungers on the lookout for mischief or
profit.
A constant stream of guests, arriving and departing, passed before him;
still no one at all resembling Robin Freemantle appeared. Dainty ladies
in brocade and jewels passed in and out of the door, their servants
being obliged to force a way for them through the gathering crowd of
idlers. Beaux as dainty and as gaily costumed, handed them into their
equipages, lisping quaint oaths and shaking their jeweled canes in the
faces of the overbold; still no Robin Freemantle. One after another the
carriages rolled away, the chairmen trotted off with their fair burdens,
the casual onlookers dispersed, and left the street to Lord Beachcombe
and his noisy retinue.
At last he could control his impatience no longer. Hurriedly directing
his men to keep vigilant watch for their quarry, he once more knocked
for admittance and demanded a word with Lady Brooke. James, the
imperturbable, would have conducted him up to the drawing-room, but he
stalked haughtily to the library and abruptly opened the door—to find
the room deserted.
Prue soon appeared, all smiles and artless witcheries, quite determined
to see nothing strange in this untimely visit, and as ready to gossip as
though she had nothing more serious on her mind than the latest epigram
and the newest scandal. Lord Beachcombe, however, was in too deadly
earnest to encourage her frivolity, and with very little circumlocution
inquired for Captain Freemantle.
"Captain—Freemantle—?" she questioned, with a puzzled air. "Do you mean
the highwayman? La! how should I know anything about him? You must be
dreaming, Lord Beachcombe!"
"I am not dreaming, Viscountess," he said resentfully. "Nor was I
dreaming a couple of hours ago, when, quite by accident, I saw him
here," he indicated the spot by a motion of his hand, "in
close—ahem—_conversation_ with your ladyship."
"With me?" she cried. "Oh! you are in error. The gentleman you spied
upon—pardon, I mean accidentally interrupted—is your relative, Captain
de Cliffe—"
"The difference is merely nominal," he interposed, with a sour smile.
"It is of great importance that I should have a few words with
that—_gentleman_."
"Oh! how unfortunate," she cried, with profound regret; "he went away
hours ago—oh! ages ago!"
"Went away? Impossible! he could not have left this house without my
knowledge," exclaimed Beachcombe, too thoroughly roused for
dissimulation.
"Indeed!" said Prue, ominously gentle. "May I inquire since when you
took upon yourself the right to observe the movements of my guests?"
He pulled himself together a little. "My dear Lady Brooke," he said, as
suavely as he could, "can you not understand my anxiety about you? You
surely are not surprised that I was reluctant to leave you unprotected
in the power of a ruffian—an escaped convict—"
"Whose escape you procured, I am told," she replied, "for family
reasons."
"The same reasons for which I am now anxious to meet him," retorted the
earl. "I know not by what arts he has induced you to help him—or to
conceal him, perhaps—under a mistaken compassion for a fugitive—"
"Would you wish to search the house, Lord Beachcombe?" said Prue,
majestically rising. "If so, do not hesitate to make the minutest
investigation. You will be quite as successful to-day as your
emissaries were yesterday. Captain de Cliffe came into my grandmother’s
house openly and without precaution and walked out of it two hours ago,
just as you, Lord Beachcombe, will do when you have satisfied yourself
of my veracity—and with as little prospect of ever returning!"
Lord Beachcombe stood dumfounded. Could this pale, proud woman, her
azure eyes suddenly black with anger and her clear voice vibrant with
passion, be the gay, frivolous creature, who had played with his heart
for a few weeks and tossed it back to him with a gibe and a laugh; whom
no one could anger, because nothing ever seemed worth being angry about,
and whose deepest emotion had always been more volatile than the bubbles
of champagne? What had happened to work such a transformation?
"I fear that you have misunderstood me, Lady Prudence," he said at last.
"If I have unwittingly offended you, I beg to apologize most humbly."
Prue preserved a disdainful silence.
"Pray pardon my inadvertence," Beachcombe went on, still more abjectly.
"I can not leave you again under sentence of banishment—at least permit
me to withdraw—"
"What! without searching the house?" interrupted Prue trenchantly; "I
should advise you not to miss an opportunity that may not recur."
Lord Beachcombe drew himself up with a grieved air. "I merely wished to
withdraw any remark that might be displeasing to you, Viscountess. It
would grieve me beyond expression to offend you. If, in my excitement,
I appeared incredulous, it was not that I presumed to doubt your word,
but that I found it hard to believe that Fate could have played me so
scurvy a trick."
Prue accepted his apologies with a dignified coolness that left him no
excuse for prolonging his visit, so he departed, much crestfallen, but
far from being convinced. While he was dismissing his followers with a
none too liberal douceur, an elderly man, attired with rich simplicity,
saluted him unobtrusively. Beachcombe stared after him as he
disappeared into the house, at first not recognizing the somewhat
plebeian figure, then muttering, "What is that old Jew doing here?"
drove away, pondering on the strangeness of Prue’s visitors and the
atmosphere of mystery with which she had surrounded herself.
Could he have penetrated the actual motive of Mr. Aarons’ visit, his
surprise would have grown into amazement, for surely no greater tribute
to the versatility of Prue’s charms could be offered than the fact that
they had brought Mr. Aarons to her feet. At least thirty of his fifty
years had been spent in the exclusive pursuit of wealth. Pleasure he
only knew by name. Love was to him merely a curious spell under which
men became utterly reckless of consequences and unhesitatingly bartered
their present possessions and future prospects for the means of dazzling
a silly woman or purchasing a worthless one. That it brought easy prey
into his net was the only thing he knew in its favor, and it must be
acknowledged that his late proposal of marriage to the Viscountess
Brooke was not prompted by any sentiments loftier than those he so
contemptuously disparaged.
He knew her to be thoughtless and extravagant, for her visits to him had
been the invariable result of losses at the card-table, or debts equally
pressing and unprofitable. Such gossip about her as reached his ears,
roused his derision, which her frequent matrimonial entanglements
certainly did not abate. Yet he was no more capable of resisting her
fascination than any butterfly of the court, and although his
declaration had been to some extent unpremeditated, he was resolved, now
he had offered his hand to the "Widow Brooke," to lose no time and spare
no effort to win her acceptance.
He had waited a week, trusting that her necessities would drive her back
to him, but hearing of her triumphant return to court, and her startling
adventures later, decided to wait no longer. Therefore it was that,
armed with what he believed to be an irresistible argument in his favor,
he presented himself at Lady Drumloch’s door at the very moment of Lord
Beachcombe’s hasty exit.
Prue and Peggie were in earnest consultation on no less important a
subject than the imminent explanation with Lady Drumloch, who, after the
revelations of the afternoon, would certainly require a prompt and
thorough enlightenment. That she would be deeply scandalized by the
truth, yet was too shrewd to be put off with any evasion, the cousins
were quite aware, and their consultation was as to the form their
confession should take, rather than any plan of concealment or
prevarication.
When James announced that "Mr. Aarons" was below and besought an
audience of the Viscountess Brooke, Prue was not quite sure whether this
interruption was a welcome respite or a tiresome delay.
"Aarons!" exclaimed Peggie. "What brings him here?" Then, lowering her
voice, "Can he be coming to pay his court to you, Prue?"
"I know not," returned Prue, shrugging her shoulders. "I should scarce
have imagined that he would presume to present himself here. Well, bid
Mr. Aarons come up, James; we will receive him here."
"We!" laughed Peggie, making for the door. "_I_ have no wish to see him,
and I am sure he does not come here on my account." And she decamped
without giving her cousin time to remonstrate.
Prue greeted the money-lender in her stateliest manner, and entrenching
herself behind the little tea-table, requested him to be seated.
"This is indeed a surprise," she said. "I should never have supposed
that the busy Mr. Aarons had time to spare for visiting."
"You are right, Viscountess. I never, in my life, made a visit without
an object," he replied, "but the busiest of men may discover that there
are other things in life besides business. I, for example, have
discovered that youth, beauty and accomplishments—such as yours—may
outvalue wealth and power—such as mine."
"You are mistaken, Mr. Aarons," said Prue, in a moralizing tone. "Youth
is fleeting, beauty is but skin-deep and accomplishments—such as
mine—are apt to lead their possessor into mischief of more kinds than
you wot of."
"Most mischief can be repaired by money," said Aarons insinuatingly,
"and what can not be achieved by youth, beauty and accomplishments with
unlimited wealth to boot? You, dear Viscountess, have gone far without
money. Think what you could aspire to with more than you could spend if
you tried your hardest!"
"Why tantalize me with such visions?" cried Prue. Then suddenly
recalling the motive of her last visit to the money-lender, she added
maliciously, "Sir Geoffrey, according to you, will not be likely to test
my extravagance so severely!"
"Sir Geoffrey!" he exclaimed, with a frown. "He is no match for your
ladyship. You have but to wait a few weeks for the dissolution of
Parliament to see him luxuriously lodged in his town mansion of the
Queen’s Bench. Be warned by me, Viscountess, unless you wish to share
his lodging."
"You mean that I, also, may be arrested for debt?" she retorted with
disdain. "If I remember aright, you threatened me with the debtors’
prison t’other day."