"Never, never! Besides, your debts to me are amply secured, and my
confidence in your prospects is so great that I came to-day expressly,"
he drew a morocco case from his breast-pocket, "to restore the necklace
you left in my care. Your court toilets must need diamonds to set them
off, though _you_ do not, and it is a pity to keep this hidden any
longer in my strong-box, where there are many—and still finer ones,
waiting to adorn the loveliest of her sex."
As he spoke, he opened the case and displayed a necklace of fine
diamonds, Prue’s wedding-gift from her father-in-law, the Earl of
Overbridge. At this sight, her eyes sparkled more brightly than the
gems, and her hand involuntarily stretched out toward the glittering
thing.
Aarons watched her with a sardonic smile, in which triumph and
admiration contended with his innate contempt for feminine weakness, and
thrusting the casket into her hands, said, in a voice far less harsh
than usual, "It is yours. Only let me have the pleasure of seeing you
wear it."
The softening of his tone roused Prue with a sort of shock. The scorn
and repulsion with which she had listened to Aarons’ first declaration
revived, made sharper by an unfamiliar touch of shame, and she withdrew
her hand as though the gift had stung her. Then, swift as thought, a
bright glow and sparkle sprang into her face, and she darted from the
room, leaving Aarons transfixed with amazement.
He was still in the same position—leaning forward with the open
jewel-case in his outstretched hand—when she fluttered back, radiant and
breathless, and dropped into her seat behind the table with a laugh of
glee.
"Pardon my discourtesy, my good Mr. Aarons," she cried. "You took me
somewhat by surprise; I was not prepared for so much forethought. Tell
me, was it not two hundred guineas you lent me upon that necklace?"
[Illustration: "——Was it not two hundred guineas?"]
"Yes—but—" began the usurer.
"One moment," Prue quickly interposed: "I am hopelessly stupid about
such matters, but even I know that there is interest to pay for that
loan. Please tell me how much? Another hundred pounds, perhaps, or—"
"I don’t know how much," Aarons interrupted bruskly. "This is not a
matter of loan and interest."
"Oh! pardon me, I think it is," said Prue, drawing up her slender neck
with a vast access of dignity. "I am charmed to have my diamonds once
more—God he knows for how long!" and she took the jewel-case from
Aarons’ unresisting hand. "And here, my good sir, are three hundred
pounds; if I am still in your debt, let me know and I will pay you some
other day."
She placed three of Robin’s bank-notes before him, and lifting the
necklace from its velvet bed clasped it about her throat.
"There!" she cried, facing Aarons with a bewitching smile. "Now you can
have your wish: I have put it on so that you can see me wear it!"
"It is a sight I shall always remember with admiration," said Aarons,
recovering his self-command with the ease of long practice, "and I will
leave it to your mirror’s reflection to remind you that I only await a
word from you to place my fortune at your feet."
"Ah!" sighed Prue, "if it were only a question of your fortune! Must
you go, Mr. Aarons?" for he had risen, and hat in hand, was already
bowing himself out.
"Unfortunately, I am much pressed for time, Viscountess, so I am
reluctantly compelled to take my leave; but I trust not for long. Fare
you well." And he was gone, leaving the bank-notes where she had placed
them on the table.
In the hall he found James engaged in an altercation with a red-faced
person in shabby black of a quasi-clerical cut. This individual was not
precisely drunk, but most evidently not very sober, and the voice in
which he expressed his intention of seeing and speaking with the
Viscountess Brooke—if he had to wait until midnight—was very husky and
rather bellicose.
"If I can not see the Lady Brooke, I’ll wait and see Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert," he insisted, as James reiterated the utter impossibility of
such a visitor to any member of the family.
"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert does not live here," replied James loftily.
"You had better call at his house."
The tipsy gentleman leered in a most impertinent fashion. "I’m a good
deal more likely to find him at Lady Brooke’s house than his own," he
observed confidentially.
A hand was placed on his arm, and turning with a nervous start, he found
the harsh gaze of Mr. Aarons bent sternly upon him.
"Parson Goodridge! you here and in this condition?" exclaimed the
money-lender.
"Me here? Well, so are you!" hiccoughed the reverend gentleman. "Who
the devil would expect to find old ’shent-per-shent’ in a lady’s
boudoir?"
"I am frequently in places where you would least expect to meet me,"
said Aarons, with a scowl at the other’s tipsy familiarity. "But this
meeting is opportune; I want a few words with you, and as you will gain
nothing by waiting here, you may as well come with me."
Goodridge hesitated and made an abortive attempt to wriggle out of the
usurer’s firm grasp.
"You can’t do anything to me," he said at last, in a resigned tone.
"I’m safe in the ’Rules,’ and all the creditors in London Town can not
touch me."
However, he made no further resistance, and when they reached the
street, Aarons’ manner changed completely. His hand slipped through the
parson’s arm with a friendly pressure and his voice lost its grinding
harshness.
"Is there no quiet place of entertainment near by, where we can have a
little talk—on business?" he inquired. "Pleasant business, Parson;
business that may fill your pockets with gold, mayhap; or, if not that,
at least will give us a chance to crack a bottle of good wine together."
"You have come to the right man if you are thirsty," replied Goodridge
solemnly. "I never drink between meals myself, but there are few places
within the pale of civilization, where I can not help a fellow-creature
to quench his thirst."
With which exordium, he turned into a narrow lane or mews, at the
farther end of which a mean little inn advertised its attractions by a
sign from which the device had long since disappeared.
"’Tis better inside than out," the reverend gentleman declared, and he
was so far right that the unoccupied coffee-room was cleanly sanded and
a bottle of not absolutely poisonous port was soon on the rough wooden
table between the oddly assorted couple.
Aarons plied his guest discreetly, while he led up to the subject he
wished to discuss. He praised the beauty and charms of Lady Prudence,
and congratulated Goodridge on the friendship of a lady so high in the
queen’s favor. No doubt her influence would obtain some fat preferment
for his reverence? Goodridge winked with great unction, but was not to
be drawn by any mere conversational bait.
"My interest in the viscountess is, of course, money," said Aarons, with
an air of great frankness; "that is the only interest I have in any of
these fine dames. They _will_ gamble at cards, and run into debt; until
they get desperate and fly to me with their jewels, to stave off their
creditors until luck turns or some wealthy relative leaves them a
fortune. Many of them owe me money, and it is my business to see that
they do not cheat me out of it. Sometimes it is worth my while to pay
well for a little information."
"Sometimes it may pay better to keep a secret than sell it," said
Goodridge, with latent boastfulness.
"Unless you are clever enough to make one pay you for keeping it and
another for selling it," suggested Aarons. "Not that I want you to sell
me any secret of the Viscountess Brooke’s. ’Tis easy for me to know all
I want about her affairs. My interest is in her lover, Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert."
Goodridge laughed and held out his glass for replenishment.
"Sir Geoffrey, I fear, is not worthy of this lady," said Aarons, passing
the bottle over to his guest. "She might make a much better match if
she could be prevented from marrying him. It would suit me better to
have her marry a rich man who could pay her debts, you understand, than
one such as Sir Geoffrey, who is himself only kept out of prison by
being in Parliament. Now, it is more than likely that such a gay
gallant has many a little entanglement or intrigue or what not, that it
would be useful for me to know about, and any one who could serve me by
discovering some such irregularity would do a true kindness to the lady
and help himself at the same time."
Goodridge laughed again, and emptying his glass, refilled it and held it
with an unsteady hand between his bleary eye and the dim window. Aarons
watched him with a wry smile, patient and sardonic, looking for the
psychological moment when his lips would unclose under the influence of
the repeated bumpers.
"Boy," he called to the attendant, "another bottle; shall it be the
same, Parson?"
"This is fair, but they’ve a better one," replied Goodridge, smacking
his lips.
"Bring us a bottle of the best you have," Aarons ordered, and when it
came, he filled both glasses and proposed the health of the beautiful
viscountess, and a rich husband for her.
Again Goodridge laughed, and this time with such rapturous glee that
Aarons was quite confounded.
"What a merry fellow you are, Parson," he grunted; "I’d give a guinea to
know what you are laughing at."
"A guinea!" cried Goodridge. "You would give more than that, I’ll
warrant. Why, I was thinking that there’s no more chance for Sir
Geoffrey Beaudesert than there is—for—_you_, for example—or me!"
"You think not?" queried Aarons, passing over the personal application
of the remark with a mental reservation.
"I _know_ it," said Goodridge, with tipsy solemnity. "I’ll take my oath
on it."
"Your oath may be priceless," said Aarons, "but I can only _pay_ for
proof."
"And what," said Goodridge, setting down his empty glass, "may you be
willing to pay for proof that Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert can not marry the
Lady Prudence?"
Aarons eyed him warily. "I have a judgment against you, Parson, for
forty-three pounds and costs. I will vacate the judgment and give
you—five guineas. ’Tis a liberal offer for—I know not what."
For answer, the reverend gentleman leaned across the table, and
extending his right hand within a few inches of Aarons’ nose, snapped
his fingers half-a-dozen times.
"That for your judgment!" he shouted truculently. "I’m in the Rules for
life and you can neither keep me in nor let me out. Why, man, I’ve a
score of judgments against me, and if you vacated yours, I should be no
better off; nay, worse, for it might remind the creditors who have long
since forgotten me. No, no, most excellent money-lender, my secret may
be worth nothing or it may be worth much, but only cash can buy it—ready
cash!"
Aarons, with a scowling brow, reflected. Was it worth a large sum to
break off the match between those two headstrong young people? If
Goodridge was to be believed the marriage was impossible, and no
expenditure of his beloved gold was needed to prevent it. On the other
hand, the triumph of proving to Prue some hidden treason of Sir
Geoffrey’s allured him, and the possibility that she might avenge
herself by taking another and wealthier husband, included the
probability of that other husband being the one to enlighten her and
offer himself as the ready instrument of retaliation.
"I will give you ten guineas, cash," he said, after a pause.
"When you know my secret, you will think it cheap at ten times ten
guineas," said Goodridge.
Aarons rose and began to button his surtout. "I see," he said, "that we
are not like to agree, and as my time is valuable you will excuse me if
I leave you to finish the bottle alone." As he spoke, he allowed some
loose coins to rattle in his pocket, and in paying the reckoning, pulled
out a handful of golden guineas and tossed one to the waiter.
The sight of the money produced the effect he had expected. Goodridge’s
moist eyes glistened and his lips pursed themselves greedily. "Sit
down, Aarons," he said thickly, "and have a parting glass."
With an air of reserve and ill-humor, the usurer poured a small quantity
of wine into his glass and without resuming his seat nodded to his
guest, and muttering something that might have been either a toast or a
malediction, sipped it with a deprecatory expression.
"Come now," said Goodridge, after waiting vainly for him to renew the
negotiations; "what is it really worth to you to stop this marriage?"
"It may not be worth a great deal to me," said Aarons carelessly, but he
sat down; "you never can account for women’s vagaries. If I get her out
of this affair, she may do worse instead of better."
"She can’t do worse," chuckled Goodridge. But Aarons had not the key to
his merriment and all his suspicions were centered on some unpardonable
misdeed of the bridegroom elect.
"Were you going to tell her so when I met you at her house?" he
inquired, smiling grimly. "What do you expect to get from her?"
"That’s my business," he retorted. "But I wasn’t going to offer _her_
any secrets for sale. Oh! no, the Lady Prudence is my good friend, and
if I need a few guineas, she’s too kind-hearted to refuse me."
Suddenly it dawned upon Aarons that there was something sinister in the
situation; a woman like the Viscountess Brooke was not the friend of
such a miserable wretch for mere kindliness. He felt that whatever the
price, he must know the whole truth, if this man could be induced to
tell it.
"Will you take twenty guineas for your fine secret?" he asked with a
sneer.
"No, but I’ll take fifty and give you full value," said Goodridge. "I
haven’t the proofs here, but I’ll tell you the secret for half the money
and you shall give me the rest, when I give you the proofs. It’s a loss
to me," he half-whimpered, "for if I kept the secret and used it right,
I might live well on it as long as it remained a secret."
Aarons counted out twenty-five gold coins upon the table, and covered
them with his hand. "Now," he said, "there is half your price, and if
you can give me a satisfactory reason why Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert can
not, by any possibility, marry Lady Prudence Brooke, that money is
yours, and as much more when I have your proofs. But if you are
deceiving me, beware! I am not a man to be trifled with."
"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert can not marry Lady Prudence Brooke for the very
good reason that she is already married," Goodridge whispered, leaning
across the table with his mouth at Aarons’ ear.
The usurer started back and his face became black with fury. "Lady
Prudence married!" he exclaimed.
"Sh-sh-sh!" Goodridge glanced round apprehensively; "don’t blurt it out
for the whole town to hear. Yes, she is married. I myself performed
the ceremony."
"You performed the ceremony!" muttered Aarons, with increasing anger and
amazement. "Tell me the whole story; whom did she marry, and when?"
"Is it worth the money?" asked Goodridge, leering at his scowling face.
Aarons pushed the twenty-five guineas across the table with quick
impatience, and the other picked them up, counted them and stowed them
in his pocket, before continuing.
"I married her less than a week ago," he then went on. "The wedding
took place in Newgate Prison, and the bridegroom was Robin Freemantle,
the highwayman. Now you know as much as I do."
"You lie, you damned scoundrel!" roared Aarons, beside himself with
rage. "This is an invention to rob me. You think to get my money for a
tissue of lies and then laugh at me for a credulous fool! A woman who
could pick and choose among a dozen titles and fortunes many a felon in
jail! If this is a joke, it is a dangerous one, Mister Parson, as you
will find unless you return my money and make me a humble apology."
Goodridge had risen to his feet and, considerably sobered by this
unexpected outburst, faced the infuriated man, pale beneath his vinous
flush.
"Did you think to get such a secret as that from me and then rob me of
the price?" he stuttered. "I swear by the Cross you accursed Jews
despise, that I have told you the truth. Last Friday I married
Prudence, widow of James Stuart Brooke," he sank his voice to a whisper,
"to the highwayman, then under sentence to be hanged last Monday."
A gleam shot across Aarons’ face. "Hanged last Monday!" he exclaimed.
"Why, then, she’s a widow again."
"That’s what she expected to be, I’ll be sworn," said Goodridge, with
great significance. "But I said _under sentence_. That sentence was
not carried out. He was reprieved and set at liberty, and my lady is
still his wife."
A dark frown furrowed the usurer’s brow. Before his eyes rose the
vision of the beautiful object of his desire, with the diamonds he had
thought to buy her with around her milky throat and the banknotes he had
refused in payment lying unregarded on the table. He ground his teeth
in impotent fury to think how he had been the dupe of his own fatuity,
and a savage longing rose in him for revenge upon the disdainful beauty,
whose astounding caprice had placed her out of his reach.
Tipsy as Goodridge was, he had been crafty enough to hold his tongue
about Sir Geoffrey’s part in the transaction, therefore it was not
unnatural that Aarons’ thoughts should turn to his erstwhile rival as a
fit instrument of Prue’s humiliation. To expose her, degrade her and,
if possible, ruin her socially, he would spare neither money nor skill,
but he felt himself unfit for the task; the blow from his hand might
recoil upon himself and leave her unscathed. Besides, his ideas were,
for the moment, too chaotic, and he was not the man to weaken his
purpose by undue haste.
With a tremendous effort of his iron will, he subdued all outward
expression of anger, and even called up a smile of grim amusement. Once
more rising from the table, he bade his companion adieu without any
further allusion to the twenty-five guineas, much to the reverend
scamp’s relief.
"Take my advice, Parson, and keep a silent tongue in your head," he
remarked. "_I_ will keep your secret, because it will not serve me to
betray it, but if you take many more into your confidence, you may get
into trouble."
With which he strode away, leaving Goodridge to the congenial society of
the half-empty bottle.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*A SUPPER FOR THREE*
Prue’s delight at the restoration of her necklace was so great that she
forgot her fatigue, and Peggie found her dancing before a mirror and
trying a variety of coquettish poses to show off the sparkling jewel and
the fair throat it adorned. At first she could not resist the
temptation of teasing Peggie by feigning to take Mr. Aarons’ proposal
seriously.
"Fancy, dear coz," she cried; "this Croesus tells me his strong-box
literally bursts with diamonds only awaiting my acceptance. He promises
me the finest of town-houses, with equipages and retinue to turn the
grandest of our duchesses green with envy—the purse of Fortunatus, which
will only be the fuller the more I spend! How pleased grannie will be
to own Lady Prudence Aarons for a granddaughter!"
Peggie broke into smiles. "Lady Prudence Aarons! Picture grannie’s
face when you present the new grandson-elect to her ladyship."
"But seriously, Peg," Prue went on more soberly, "this man aspires to
marry me, and would have bestowed my own necklace upon me as a gift, had
I not insisted upon paying him."
"_Paying him!_" cried Peggie, in accents of the most profound
astonishment. At the same moment her eye fell upon the little table and
she pounced upon the neglected bank-notes with amazement too intense for
words.
"He left the money!" exclaimed Prue, gazing at the notes as Peggie
wildly fluttered them before her. "I have done Aarons injustice. He
must be really in love with me."
"Prue! where on earth did this come from?" demanded Peggie, utterly
mystified.
"Not from Aarons," replied Prue, a tender smile creeping over her lips
as she took the notes with an almost caressing touch. "Don’t be afraid;
I am not yet sold to the devil. But come, Peggie, we have no time to
waste. We must dress for Lady Rialton’s dinner and I must show myself
at half-a-dozen routs and balls before I can even spare time to think.
Oh! I wonder where Barbara is going to-night!"
"You are bound to meet her somewhere," said Peggie consolingly, "and if
not, you may be sure she’ll take good care of your Robin, so don’t be
uneasy."
Prue gave her a half-comical, half-reproachful glance. "I never saw
Barbara look as charming as she did to-day," she pouted. "Those tall
lace heads are certainly very becoming to her kind of figure—they make
her look quite slender—and the touch of hair-powder gave an extra
sparkle to her eyes."
"’Twas not the powder on her hair, but the rouge on her cheeks that made
her eyes sparkle," quoth Peggie, who was a trifle jealous of Barbara’s
influence.
"Do you think so? Would a little rouge improve me, do you think? I am
sure I look faded." Prue peered anxiously into a mirror, but the sight
that greeted her eye was reassuring. "I wish I had kept him here; we
could have hidden him somewhere," she said, with a regretful sigh.
"Where?" cried Peggie trenchantly. "Under grannie’s bed, belike! Any
other place might have been searched if Lord Beachcombe had brought a
constable with a warrant!"
"He is capable of that, even now," Prue agreed. "Barbara’s coquetry is
more dangerous to me, perhaps, but safer for Robin."
Poor Prue was doomed to a good many heart-pangs that evening, and
without even the accustomed support of Peggie’s sympathy. After Lady
Rialton’s dinner the cousins separated. Peggie returned home, and Prue,
with less heartiness than usual, pursued the round of social functions.
Her first inquiry at every house was for Barbara Sweeting. No one was
surprised at that, because the two were known to be the closest allies;
but she had not been seen anywhere, a circumstance that caused some
remark in so pious a pilgrim of pleasure. Various reasons were
suggested, such as an attack of vapors, the return of General Sweeting’s
gout, or chagrin at not having been invited to take part in the amateur
theatricals at Marlborough House, none of which satisfied Prue, who,
perhaps for the first time in her life, felt the serpent-tooth of
jealousy.
But if Barbara’s absence disturbed her, she was goaded almost beyond
endurance by the persistence of Lord Beachcombe, who followed her like a
shadow, ignoring alike her snubs and the gibes of those who fancied
themselves on the trail of a renovated infatuation. In self-defense she
kept Sir Geoffrey in close attendance, reckless of significant glances
from curious eyes that were swift to mark his air of triumphant
proprietorship, until at last, worn out with disappointment and fatigue,
she begged him to call her chair, as she was dying to go home and get to
bed.
"And do, I implore you, leave me to go away alone, Sir Geoffrey," she
entreated, in most pathetic tones. "I am too weary to entertain any
one; you must see for yourself that I am almost too tired to speak."
It was impossible to contradict her, for her pale face and clouded eyes
betrayed intense nervous strain. Sir Geoffrey contented himself with
obtaining permission to inquire after her health at an early hour next
day, and repaired to his club, where he speedily found distraction at
the card-table.
But Prue, tired as she was, had no intention of going home without one
more attempt to see Barbara, to whose mansion in Park Lane she was
forthwith conveyed. Her friend was at home and the servants, aware of
the intimate relations between the two ladies, did not hesitate to admit
Prue, and inform her that supper was then being served in the Painted
Room, a charming apartment, where Barbara was in the habit of holding
high revelry with her closest intimates, and giving gay supper-parties
at which gambling for high stakes, charades imitated from the
entertainments of the French court, and similar amusements kept gossip
on the _qui vive_.
There was no gathering of wits and beauties to-night, however. The room
(which took its name from the mythological paintings with which the
ceiling and walls were decorated) was brightly lighted, but unoccupied,
and in the small conservatory opening out of it, at a little table set
for two among the banks of blossoming plants and cages of bright-hued
birds, sat Barbara coquetting with Robin Freemantle—highwayman and
outlaw!—who was in the very act of raising her hand to his lips when the
door opened to admit Prue.
"My dearest Prue—here you are at last—I had almost given up expecting
you!" cried Barbara, greeting her with effusion.
"Did you really expect me?" asked Prue, with irrepressible irony.
"Meeting you nowhere, I feared you might be indisposed, but I am vastly
relieved to find that you reached home without mishap."