Barbara, gaily ignoring Prue’s loftiness; "and as you see, I am taking
excellent care of my captive."
"Dearest Barbara, I know well what an incomparable hostess you are," she
replied dryly, "and now that I have seen for myself that you are safe,
and not too greatly incommoded by your exploit, I will take my leave, as
I am positively sinking with fatigue."
And she made as though to withdraw without deigning a second glance
toward Robin, who had risen, and stood there a veritable statue of
amazement and mortification.
But Barbara caught her by both hands and drew her to the table.
"Nonsense, Prue!" she laughed, "Do you think I am going to let you run
off like that? Sinking with fatigue indeed! I’ll warrant you will
flutter from ball-room to ball-room for the next two hours if I do not
keep you here. Captain de Cliffe and I were about to bore each other to
death over a tête-à-tête supper and you have come like a good fairy to
preserve us from yawning in each other’s face—(Prue smiled
satirically)—at least sup with me, dear Gossip; ’twill rest you more
than going home to bed."
"My chair waits—" Prue began, though not without signs of hesitation.
"What matters that? It shall be dismissed and I will send you home in
mine."
"The temptation of returning in such state as that is well-nigh
irresistible," Prue conceded, feeling that she had been sufficiently
coaxed to do what she particularly wanted to do without sacrificing her
dignity. She began to unfasten the mantle in which she was enveloped,
but when Robin sprang forward to assist her, she allowed it to drop to
the floor and walked away, leaving him to pick it up if he pleased.
"You will stay, then," cried Barbara; "that is delightful. I will order
another cover and a bottle of your favorite Chambertin, and we will have
a little festival to wish your friend _bon voyage_."
And she rustled away; more out of compassion for Robin’s disconcerted
aspect than the mere impulse of hospitality.
Prue seated herself behind a bank of flowering shrubs, as far away as
the little conservatory would allow, and after a momentary hesitation,
Robin followed.
"Have I been so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure, dearest?" he
inquired anxiously.
"My displeasure, sir? Certainly not," she replied. "What can it matter
to _me_ how many ladies’ hands you kiss?"
At this Robin (who, although a novice in love, was no fool,) was
completely relieved. He was even quite elated over the little display
of jealousy which proved that Prue was far from indifferent to him.
"When I am not with you, dear Prue," he said in a tone of gentle
reproach, "my heart is so full of you that it flows over with gratitude
to any one who will but utter your name. If you had heard what Lady
Barbara was saying about you, you would not have been surprised to see
me embrace her feet instead of her hand."
"What did she say?" asked Prue, her curiosity overcoming her petulance.
"She said many things in praise of the dearest of women," said Robin,
taking courage to seat himself beside her, "but, best of all, she
assured me that not one of all your scores of suitors could boast of
half the interest you had shown to-day in the poor outlaw. Do you
wonder that I kissed her hand?"
"Barbara is very indiscreet," said Prue, smiling a little. "Besides,
she has the most beautiful hands in the world!"
"Are they beautiful? I was thinking too much of her kind words to
notice aught else. Yet she warned me that my love for you is hopeless,
and indeed she is right. I must leave England in a few hours, perhaps
for ever—"
"And what right has Barbara to think our love other than hopeless? She
knows nothing about it! I have a good mind," cried Prue, "to tell her
all and see what she says then! But no! she would think me a fool for
throwing myself away upon a man who loves me so little that he can bear
to talk of leaving me for a day, let alone for ever—"
"I love you more than my own life and soul," said Robin, "more than
anything except honor and duty; but their call I dare not disobey. My
life does not belong to myself, but to the cause of my king, and a
felon’s death may end it at any moment. It would be infamous for me to
hold you bound by such a marriage as ours—"
"Do you know me so little as to suppose that I would hold myself bound
by it if I wished for freedom?" she retorted. "I did think you loved
me, but I see it is not so; a man who loved me would fling discretion to
the winds and busy himself with plans for keeping me whether I would or
no. Out on such scruples! I will not be set free. If there is
anything infamous about our marriage, the infamy is mine, and I take the
consequences and glory in them. Leave me now, if honor and duty call
you. We are young and who knows what may happen? The king who calls
you away now, will bring you back in triumph some day, then, perhaps, it
may be Beachcombe’s turn to be hunted and driven from his country."
Then suddenly remembering the cause of Lord Beachcombe’s fierce pursuit,
she brought out the little packet, somewhat crumpled, but otherwise
intact. "I had almost forgotten to return this," she said; "I found it
after you had escaped by the river on Tuesday and methinks ’tis for this
he seeks you."
Robin took the packet and glanced at the superscription. "’Tis indeed
this," he exclaimed. "By a miracle it fell into your hands instead of
his. Prithee keep it, dear one; there is that in this envelope in
exchange for which Beachcombe would give all his earthly possessions,
and mayhap, some day when I am not here to protect you, it may be worth
much to you to hold the secret that compelled him to take me out of
Newgate, and has kept him thirsting for my life ever since."
"I am but a weak woman," said Prue, smiling archly, as she replaced the
precious packet in her bosom. "Can you trust me with such a secret?"
"’Tis the secret of my birth," said Robin gravely, "and belongs as much
to my wife as to me."
"I discovered that secret for myself this afternoon," Prue began, but
Barbara, thinking she had given the lovers ample time to make up their
quarrel, now came back on hospitable thoughts intent, and the trio, in a
very pleasant mood, sat down to supper.
It was long past midnight, when Prue, after several fainthearted
suggestions, at last rose resolutely and announced that she really must
go home, and refusing Barbara’s urgent offer of her new sedan-chair,
declared she would have Robin’s escort and walk the short distance to
Lady Drumloch’s house.
"It will be safer for him to come away now, than to wait until
daylight," she said.
"It would be safest, _I_ think, for him to stay here for a few days,"
Barbara proposed seriously. But the mutinous pout, and glance of arch
defiance with which Prue received her suggestion, provoked her to hearty
laughter, and she received Robin’s thanks for her protection and the
farewells of both her guests with an air of such thorough comprehension,
that Prue felt constrained to whisper in her ear, "I will come to
confession to-morrow, dear Gossip," and blushingly hurried away on
Robin’s arm.
Late as it was, they lingered on the way and managed to eke ten minutes’
walk into forty. Robin had so much to say—so many vows of eternal
fidelity to pledge, and such repeated assurances to give of his swift
return—that it was not until a near-by church-clock struck two, that
Prue quickened her steps a little, and declared with a sigh that the
parting moment had really come.
"You will be careful, dear Robin," she pleaded. "Do not run any risks,
and if we can not meet again safely before you leave for France, write
me by some sure hand, and I will do the same. Remember—I forbid you to
attempt to visit me—but oh! I shall count the hours until I see you
again."
With the prospect of a long and perhaps fatal parting, their farewells
were not soon over; each last kiss was but an excuse for one more, until
the tramp of the approaching night-watch warned them of the danger of
delay, and Prue tore herself from his arms and without trusting herself
to a backward glance, hurried into the house.
*CHAPTER XXV*
*A CONFESSION*
It was Peggie who, after some hours’ anxious watching, opened the door
without waiting for Prue’s knock. She had long ago persuaded the sleepy
and unreluctant James to retire to bed, and settling herself beside the
dim lamp with a book, uncomplainingly resigned herself to a tedious and
solitary vigil.
She had passed an evening not without excitement, for her grandmother’s
searching and persistent inquiries into Prue’s mysterious behavior were
not to be evaded, and some kind of explanation was inevitable. So,
ingeniously substituting Captain de Cliffe, the emissary of King James,
for Captain Freemantle, the highwayman, Peggie admitted that Prue and he
had met "in the North," that after his arrest she had visited him in
Newgate Prison, and that although now an outlaw and fugitive, steeped in
Jacobite plots and charged with state secrets and compromising
documents, he had played an important part in her recovery of the
queen’s necklace. In fact, she had contrived, without desperately
straining the truth, to surround Robin with an aura of heroism and
loyalty that had enlisted the old countess’ sympathy for him, almost to
the extent of preparing her to sanction Prue’s marriage.
Having skilfully wrought her up to this point. Peggie had retired,
leaving her revelations to work upon Lady Drumloch’s long-dormant but
far from extinct passion for the cause which had robbed her of husband,
sons and worldly possessions, and left her nothing for the consolation
of her declining years but unrecognized devotion to the most ungrateful
of dynasties.
Too excited to think of bed, the cousins were still eagerly exchanging
confidences, when Prue stopped abruptly and listened. Peggie was
hurrying on with her story, but Prue checked her with a warning hand.
"Hark, Peggie, did you hear that? Was it not some one knocking at our
door?"
Peggie listened, and the knocking was repeated. She threw open the
window, and thrusting her head out, withdrew it after a brief
investigation, with the announcement that there was a man in the street,
looking up at their lighted window.
"Only one man?" queried Prue. "Can it be Robin?"
"I think not," said Peggie; "it does not seem tall enough—this man
is—there is the knocking again—what shall we do?"
"Something has happened to Robin!" cried Prue, hastily throwing a cloak
about her. "I must go down and see what is the matter."
"I’ll come with you," cried Peggie, impelled partly by curiosity, and
partly by the impulse to protect her cousin. They ran down together,
and at the door paused to take counsel. It was no uncommon thing in
those days for the "Mohawks" to batter thus at quiet citizens’ doors and
mistreat the person who answered their summons, or even, if a woman, to
carry her off, shrieking and struggling.
"Who is there?" Prue demanded through the closed door.
"It is I, Steve Larkyn," a voice replied. "Oh! Mistress Brooke, I
beseech you open the door; they have taken my master!"
Prue flung the door open, and there stood Steve, ghastly pale in the
broad moonlight.
"They have taken your master? Then what are you doing here, alive and
unhurt?" she cried passionately.
"Madam, what could one arm, and without a sword, avail against a dozen
men, fully armed? The captain had but time to say to me, ’Fly—to
Prudence!’—your pardon, but those were his words—when they surrounded
him and made him prisoner without a chance to defend himself."
"Oh! dear God!" murmured Prue, covering her face with her trembling
hands. "It is my fault; if I had left him with Barbara, he would now be
safe. I brought him away to his death for a jealous whim! Where have
they taken him?" she demanded, looking at Steve with widely distended
eyes. "To Newgate? to the Tower? Tell me and I will go to him and
share his prison."
"I don’t know what they mean to do with him," said Steve, "but they were
taking him to Lord Beachcombe’s house—"
"Lord Beachcombe! Oh! I see it all! This is no arrest; it is a plot
to rob and mayhap to murder him. Lord Beachcombe fancies that he has to
deal with a defenseless outlaw and a weak woman. I will show him that
there are stronger weapons than swords and bludgeons. I will go
instantly to Rodney House."
"Oh! Prue, wait until morning!" implored Peggie.
"And give Lord Beachcombe time to spirit Robin away to some secret
dungeon, where I may, perhaps, never find him alive? No! I will go to
him at once, without a moment’s delay."
"Then I will go with you," cried Peggie. "You can not go to Lord
Beachcombe’s house alone."
"Can not I? Besides, I shall not be alone; Steve Larkyn will escort
me." She turned to Robin’s faithful henchman with a wan smile. "One
woman is enough for you to take care of; and you, Peggie, dear, will
watch for me, so that when I return, I can get in without rousing the
house. Believe me, dear," she went on firmly, as Peggie was about to
remonstrate, "what I have to do can be better done by myself alone; and
I am not timid, as you know."
"But, Prue—what on earth can you do for Robin, by going to Lord
Beachcombe in the middle of the night?" Peggie urged, in desperation.
"That remains to be seen," said Prue, with a smile of mystery. "I think
I can make Lord Beachcombe set him free, and be grateful for the chance.
Come, Steve," and wrapping her mantle closely round her, she drew the
hood well over her face, and went out with a resolute step into the
street, already growing gray in the early dawn of the May morning.
The courtyard of Rodney House was all astir when Prudence, clinging to
Steve Larkyn’s arm, stole through the great gateway, and under the deep
shadow of the arcade that flanked the main entrance. That was closed,
but from a low door a few feet away, a flood of light poured upon a
traveling carriage with four horses and a group of mounted men. Without
a moment’s hesitation, Prue darted past them, ran down a few stone steps
and found herself in a large, bare basement hall, where Robin, his dress
in some disorder and his hands tied behind him, stolidly confronted Lord
Beachcombe in a white heat of fury.
At Prue’s sudden apparition a couple of servitors interposed to stop her
and Lord Beachcombe, in a voice hoarse with rage, shouted, "Who are
these people? What the devil do they want? Turn them out—"
Prue’s silvery laugh rang out. "Not so fast!" she cried, flinging back
her hood. "I have business of the utmost importance with Lord
Beachcombe," and she swept him a mockingly ceremonious curtsey. No lady
of the court, not even the great Duchess Sarah herself, was better known
than the beautiful "Widow Brooke." The sight of her familiar face
seemed to paralyze every one present. The lackeys fell back abashed,
Robin gazed at her speechless, and Beachcombe’s sallow face flushed with
a purple that suffused even his eyeballs.
"Viscountess Brooke!" he stammered. "What in the name—"
"You are surprised?" she interrupted. "To be sure, my visit is somewhat
untimely." She came close to him and lowered her voice almost to a
whisper. "Did you find what you expected when you searched Captain de
Cliffe?" she inquired insinuatingly.
"How do you know I searched him?" demanded Beachcombe.
"Why, when one sees a man with his hands tied behind him and his pockets
inside out, it is not unreasonable to suppose that he has been searched.
Yet I’ll venture to say, Lord Beachcombe, that whatever you found, it
was not what you were looking for!"
"How can you know anything about that?" he replied, with dawning
suspicion. "Perhaps you know what it was and where it may be found? If
so, you must be aware that it has no value except to me—"
"And Captain de Cliffe," she interposed.
"_Captain de Cliffe!_" he repeated, with a bitter and disdainful
emphasis.
"What would you have me call him?" she bent forward and in a whisper
suggested, "Robert—Earl Beachcombe?—is that better?"
The blood ebbed from his face, leaving it ghastly with fear and fury.
He cast a hasty glance toward the group of men surrounding Robin, and
although they were quite out of earshot, he fiercely motioned them to a
greater distance. Then he pulled himself together sufficiently to force
a sardonic laugh.
"Was it to play comedy that your ladyship honored me with this nocturnal
visit?" he sneered.
"Not altogether," she replied. "I came to prevent your harming Captain
de Cliffe, and, incidentally, yourself. Now tell me—in confidence—not
having found the documents you sought, what do you propose to do with
your prisoner?"
"I propose," said Beachcombe slowly, "to hand him over to justice. I
believe the—documents—to be lost. At any rate, I am willing to hazard
the risk of their recovery in order that this man may receive his
deserts as a traitor and a malefactor. After he has been hanged, there
will be plenty of time for me to deal with a claim that has no longer a
claimant."
"And you really hate him enough to prefer his death to your own safety?"
Prue could not repress a shudder at the cold ferocity of his tone.
"What if I secure both?" he retorted, gratified by the effect he had
produced. "This man is a traitor and has earned a traitor’s death.
Although I may not have found what I sought, I _have_ found papers that
will send him to the gallows, and give me a claim to the gratitude of
the government. Do not trouble further about him, his fate is sealed."
"And how if another claimant, perhaps far stronger, should spring up in
his place? How if he leaves a widow?" suggested Prue. "One, for
example, able and willing to pursue his claim?"
"I am not uneasy about that," he replied, but his tone was less
confident than his words. "I have the best of reasons for knowing that
he is not married."
"And you think that having no wife and leaving no—heir—to his claim (you
acknowledge that he has a claim) it will cease with his death, because
there is no one to pursue it?"
"My dear Lady Prudence, a lawyer could not have put it more clearly!
That is exactly his position; I think mine is pretty safe, even if those
redoubtable documents should still be in existence. It will then be
merely a matter of money—some one will bleed me more or less
copiously—but that will be the end of the trumped-up claim of
Captain—Freemantle."
"Well, Lord Beachcombe," said Prue, smiling up into his face, "now I ask
you, as a favor to me, to liberate Captain Freemantle, and to molest him
no further. I will answer for it that he will leave the country
immediately and abandon his claim. Surely, you will not refuse a favor
that is so hard to ask and so easy to grant!"
Beachcombe laughed unpleasantly. "Come, dear Viscountess," he said, and
his tone, though bland, was tinged with insolence, "I know of old your
thirst for adventure, but surely it has been slaked by the romantic
episode of the queen’s necklace and the mysterious spiriting-away of
your cavalier—your Knight of the Road—by Barbara Sweeting! The
excitement of the affair has evaporated; its novelty has staled. Waste
no more of your enchanting wiles on so sorry a subject. I have made up
my mind, and even for the sake of the most charming of women, I will not
change it."
"Yet I think I may induce you," said Prue undauntedly, "because to my
certain knowledge Captain de Cliffe has a wife and those precious papers
are in her possession. She knows their value, too, and will only give
them up on her own terms. If you will not grant _me_ this gentleman’s
life as a favor—will you make a bargain with _her_?"
Astonishment and doubt struggled with Lord Beachcombe’s self-command,
but he kept an unmoved face, although an inkling of the truth began to
force itself upon him. Not the whole incredible truth, of course, but
enough to make him suspect that Lady Prudence Brooke was more than
commonly interested in the subject of their discussion.
"And what might be the terms of the bargain?" he demanded, after a brief
hesitation.
"You had better settle them with Captain de Cliffe," she said, "and I
pledge my word that his wife will agree to whatever will satisfy him."
"I will make no terms with him," said Beachcombe sullenly. "If I listen
to any proposition it is entirely for your sake, Lady Prudence, and must
come from you and be carried out by you alone."
She reflected a few moments, while he watched her intently.
"This is my proposal," she said, at last. "That you will liberate your
captive, giving him such time to reach a place of safety as he considers
necessary. And that when you have received the packet you will engage
not to take any steps to prevent his leaving the country. In return I
promise that his wife will consider the whole matter at an end, and
regard the claim as though it had never existed."
"And when I have liberated him and given him every opportunity to elude
justice, what security have I that those papers will be delivered to
me?" he demanded.
"I myself will be hostage for him. Send Steve with him and when he
returns, having left his master in safety, I will hand you the packet.
Does that satisfy you?"
Robin, sitting on the corner of a table, a little apart, could only
guess from a word here and there that rose above the low-voiced
colloquy, that Prue was making terms for him, the conditions of which it
was not difficult to divine. Cruelly as it irked him to see her
pleading with his bitter enemy for his life, he resisted the strong
temptation to interfere, as he certainly would have done, could he have
known that she was offering to remain a hostage to this unscrupulous
man, until his safety had been purchased by her acknowledgment of their
marriage. She was too well aware of that to admit him to the
conference.
Lord Beachcombe, sullenly balancing pros and cons, found it no easy
matter to decide between the gratification of his revenge upon Robin and
the fear of losing what might be his last chance of securing the coveted
documents.
It is impossible to say how long he might have fluctuated between two
desires equally importunate, but it was at last borne in upon the
sluggish current of his intelligence that the certificates were possibly
that moment in the possession of Lady Prudence Brooke, who certainly
would not hesitate to use them for his humiliation if he exasperated
her.
"What will you do if I refuse?" he said at last.
"Then," said Prue, with spirit, "I shall go straight from here to the
Duchess of Marlborough and lay the whole story—including the
_documents_—before her. She has pledged herself to grant me any request
I make of her, and will not consider the life of a highwayman too high a
price to cancel her debt to me."
"The duchess is no longer the power behind the throne," said Beachcombe,
with a scowl. "If you rely upon her influence—"
"I do not rely upon that _alone_," said Prue, retaining her patience
with the greatest difficulty; "I will go to the queen herself and plead
with her—oh! when I show her my heart, she can not resist the appeal of
my prayers and tears—" She forgot for the moment where she was and who
was her listener, and in imagination was already at the feet of her
royal mistress. Beachcombe regarded the sapphire eyes sparkling through
unshed tears and the piteous tumult of the lovely bosom beneath the
laces of her ball-dress, and his pulse quickened dizzily.
"If her Gracious Majesty were a king, I think he would give you whatever
you were pleased to ask," he breathed. "Ah! Prue—"
"And can _you_ refuse me, when with a word you can secure my
gratitude—my friendship—for life?" She stretched out her hands with a
gesture so alluring, and turned upon him a look of such compelling
appeal, as might have melted even a colder heart than his. He could not
altogether resist her, but he still sought to temporize.
"You have those—that packet?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"Have you examined the contents? Surely woman’s curiosity—" The
lightness of his words could not veil the anxiety in his voice.
"The seals are still unbroken," she assured him, "and, if you agree to
my terms, will remain so until you break them yourself."
"But you know somewhat of the contents? No doubt," with intense
bitterness, "Captain Freemantle has given you his version of their
importance?"
"Whatever I know about them, Lord Beachcombe, will be
forgotten—absolutely—from the moment that Captain—Freemantle—is out of
danger."