had more than one experience of Prue’s unbridled caprice, but this one
bewildered him. He could not grasp the only explanation; its
improbability baffled him. She had led so many eligible suitors—himself
one of them—a lively dance to the very altar-rails; was it believable
that this man—outlaw, fugitive, proscribed, penniless—could have won the
wayward beauty, and won her so completely that having actually married
him, she was ready to sacrifice the future she expected to share, for
his present safety?
"How am I to know that his wife, if there be such a person, will keep
the promises you make for her?" he said, with his crafty eyes upon her.
"I will answer for his wife—as for myself," said Prue. "Question me no
further, Lord Beachcombe, but accept my terms—or refuse them if you deem
it more to your advantage."
It is doubtful whether even then he would have taken the decisive step,
but for a sudden recollection that flooded his mind with rapture. If
Prue were married, Sir Geoffrey had lost his bet, and five thousand
pounds, plus a glorious revenge, would fall into the hands of his bitter
foe! Unable to conceal his excitement, he seized Prue’s hand and drew
her reluctantly farther away.
"Tell me," he whispered, "are you his wife? If so, I will make no
further demur. For your sake," he added as an afterthought, "I am
willing not only to free this—gentleman—but to aid his escape, although,
by doing so, I play the traitor to my sovereign."
Prue gazed steadily into his eyes, as though she would read the depths
of his mean soul. Then she replied firmly, "I am his wife."
"He is free! I pledge you my word I will not pursue him. Let him go
where he pleases; your husband is sacred in my eyes." The sinister
light in them was not in accordance with the bland, congratulatory smile
that played over his lips, as he turned to Robin.
"The Lady Prudence has proved irresistible, as usual, Captain
Freemantle. You are free. Take my advice and use your freedom to put
as many leagues as possible between yourself and London. _I_ shall not
pursue you, but there are others who seek your life, on whom the charms
of Lady Prue might be exercised in vain. Untie his hands and set him
free."
When he was obeyed and Robin had returned his pockets to their proper
place, Beachcombe restored their ravished contents, reserving only one
object. With his eyes fastened upon that, Robin pocketed his
well-furnished purse, his handkerchief and other belongings, and then
held out his hand once more.
"Your pardon, Lord Beachcombe, you have forgotten my wallet."
"The contents of that wallet, Sir Highwayman, concern matters of too
great importance for either of us to deal with. It shall be placed in
the hands of those most interested—when you are out of their reach," was
the reply, pompously delivered.
"I can not leave this place without that wallet," said Robin resolutely.
"It is worth more than life to me, and rather than purchase my freedom
at the price of its surrender, I will remain here, and risk the worst."
"Robin!" cried Prue, in a voice of anguish. "Have pity on me if not on
yourself!"
"Would you have me sacrifice a hundred lives to save my own?" said Robin
unflinchingly, though pale to the lips. With drooping head she sank
upon a bench, her courage for the first time failing. Lord Beachcombe
looked from one to the other with a scowl as black as thunder, then with
a sudden impulse snatched up the wallet and almost flung it into Robin’s
hand.
"Go!" he shouted; "go quickly, before I have time to repent my folly,
and remember that other swords will soon be thirsting for your life,"
and he laughed harshly, as he turned abruptly away and walked to the
farther end of the hall.
Then Robin approached Prue and taking her hand, said gently, "A thousand
pardons, dear Heart of my heart. I must seem an ungrateful churl; but
oh! if you could know—I will write—"
"Yes, yes!" she interrupted feverishly; "but now go quickly—every
moment’s delay is fatal to you—and to me—" the last words were murmured
inaudibly. "How soon can you reach some safe concealment?"
"Very soon; in less than an hour," he said. "I leave you in Steve’s
care; he will conduct you home and protect you with his life."
"First you must take him with you and send him back when you are on the
road to safety. I have pledged your precious packet," she said, smiling
bravely up at him, "and when Steve returns to say you are safe, I shall
give it to Lord Beachcombe. It is the price of your ransom."
"But you—"
"Don’t you yet understand," she cried impatiently, "that I am like a
cat? No matter where I am thrown, I always fall on my feet. Do not
fear for me, but begone, and if you love me, do not attempt to see me
again. Farewell."
It was no place for the tender adieux of parting lovers. He pressed her
hand passionately to his lips, threw his cloak round him, and with a
brief salute to Beachcombe—who took no notice of it—strode away,
followed by Steve.
When their footsteps ceased to reverberate under the colonnade,
Beachcombe approached Prue with a friendly smile.
"Permit me, dear Viscountess, to offer my congratulations," he said.
"You have indeed prepared a charming surprise for your friends—and
enemies, if one so adorable could by any possibility have any such."
Her answering laugh had the old ring of sweet, contagious mirth.
"Circumstances have forced me to reveal my secret rather prematurely,"
she said, "but I can trust your lordship’s discretion not to share
it—with my dear friends—and enemies."
"Oh! we will give your husband time to escape before we impart the
joyful news to—Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, for example!"
Prue experienced an unpleasant shock as he pronounced this name, in a
tone of malevolent triumph. This man, who had no cause to love either
herself or Robin, evidently purposed using the secret he had torn from
her in some hateful scheme of retaliation, of which Sir Geoffrey was to
be the victim and executioner.
"Why Sir Geoffrey?" she murmured, half to herself.
"Because I hate Sir Geoffrey," said Beachcombe, with cold bitterness.
"He has insulted me and triumphed over me—who can know how so well as
you? He has worsted me in a duel and boasts that he will tame the
lovely sorceress who has bewitched so many—myself among them—to their
undoing. I hate him, and I shall never be satisfied until I see him reft
of what I also have lost—impoverished—in a debtors’ prison—" he checked
himself at the sight of the indignant horror his words had roused. "I
can wait, however," he went on, less vehemently. "It will satisfy me,
for the present, to feel my power over him, without using it. How can I
accommodate your ladyship while you wait for the captain’s messenger?
You can not wait here; will you honor me by accepting the poor
hospitality of my house?"
"I can perfectly well wait here," she replied, reseating herself on the
bench. "Your countess would be somewhat amazed to receive a visit from
me at five o’clock in the morning—in my ball-dress! Even the Widow
Brooke must draw the line somewhere!"
*CHAPTER XXVI*
*PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY*
Mr. Moses Aarons sat in his private office. His pen hung idle between
thumb and finger, and for perhaps the first time within his memory, his
thoughts were very far from post-obit and mortgage. For once something
more engrossing than money occupied his busy brain, and calculations
more abstruse than compound interest furrowed his brow and contracted
his eyes into a glittering line.
A night’s reflection, so far from softening the bitterness of his anger
against Prue, had intensified it to a pitch that positively shocked him.
While he despised himself for the unaccustomed tumult of emotion into
which he had been plunged, he was amazed to discover that the desire of
possession was vastly augmented by the obstacle which he did not for one
moment dream of surmounting. He was too shrewd to indulge in futile
hopes, but he was weak enough to crave after revenge.
Only a week ago she had visited him, attempting to obtain a loan on the
announcement of her speedy marriage with Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert. Was it
possible that only a week had passed since she stood in that very room,
indignantly championing one lover and that when she was already married
to another? What were women made of, and who could anticipate the
caprices of creatures so irresponsible? And yet, who could look into
her eyes—those limpid sapphires—and not long to look again? Who could
hear the thrilling voice and gushing laughter and not listen ever after
for the echo of that divine music? The vision of that lovely face,
smiling archly at him over the diamonds he had deemed irresistible,
floated before him—sleeping and waking—yet it never occurred to him to
claim them back or demand the payment he had refused. More, far more
than that was necessary to assuage the fury that raged in his breast.
She had made him suffer, had humbled his pride, befooled him and made
him ridiculous in his own eyes. For that _she_ must suffer; _her_ pride
must be dragged in the dust, and she who had made sport of hearts and
reputations must find her own in the pillory of public derision.
The wife of a highwayman—a malefactor who had been sentenced to die for
his crimes, and had narrowly escaped the gallows! Married in Newgate
Prison by a drunken Fleet-parson—"Lady Prudence Freemantle!" It was
incredible! He laughed at the mere idea, a harsh, croaking laugh more
evil than a curse. It would certainly be enough to publish such a mad
freak, to cover the perpetrator with undying shame. But many
considerations restrained him from taking a prominent part in her
exposure. Some one else must be employed, some one whom his money could
buy, and yet who would not be suspected of too base a motive.
Goodridge was too mean a tool. The indomitable Lady Prudence Brooke
would surely find weapons to defend herself triumphantly from so paltry
a foe, even could he be brought to attack her, which was far from
certain. Aarons’ thoughts reverted time and again to Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert. A spendthrift at his last gasp for a guinea, no doubt he
had a price, though it might be a high one. The money-lender was no
miser. Money he worshipped less for itself than for its influence, and
one factor in his successful accumulation of vast wealth, was his
intuitive knowledge of when to spend and how. But this was probably the
first occasion in his life on which he contemplated an outlay, without
counting the cost or discounting the return.
How could he buy Sir Geoffrey, and how could he use him? And in the
first place, how could he reach him without arousing suspicion as to his
own motive?
Aarons threw down his pen, and leaving word that he would be back in
about an hour, went on ’Change, in hopes of diverting his mind by the
exciting scenes of "Bubble" speculation, then at its frenzied height.
But his mind was out of tune to its ordinary interests, and within the
appointed time he returned. At his office door stood a handsome
chariot, and with boundless satisfaction, he recognized Sir Geoffrey’s
liveries.
Within, impatiently pacing the narrow office, he found the man he was so
anxious to see.
During the few minutes he consumed in slowly mounting the stairs, Aarons
had resumed complete mastery over himself. He was again the smooth,
wily, impenetrable man of affairs, equally prepared to baffle the craft
of his clients or profit by their lack of it.
"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert! This is an unexpected honor," he said. "I
trust I have not kept you waiting long?"
"Time is always long when one is waiting for so dear a friend, Mr.
Aarons," replied Sir Geoffrey, in his jauntiest manner.
"Pray be seated," said Aarons, indicating the only easy chair, and
taking his usual place at the desk. "You are well, I can see for
myself. How goes the wooing of the fair viscountess?"
"The _wooing_ speeds gloriously," said Sir Geoffrey, "but the wheels of
Hymen’s chariot do not run fast enough to satisfy an impatient lover.
Truth to tell, they need greasing, and that quickly. Women are
proverbially fickle and I would fain secure my lady while she is in a
yielding mood."
Aarons with difficulty repressed a sneer. This fatuity at the same time
gratified him and excited his contemptuous amusement.
"The Lady Prudence has great temptations," he said suavely. "I
understand that there are several rivals in your honor’s way. With high
titles and vast fortunes at her feet, I do not wonder at your eagerness
to secure the prize before it is snatched from you. Yet without ready
money—" he shook his head regretfully as he met Sir Geoffrey’s clouded
eyes.
"You will not believe in the wealth of old Lady Drumloch without
positive proof, I suppose?" the baronet hinted, "yet I give you my word
of honor that my information is from a source impossible to discredit.
And furthermore, I shall receive five thousand guineas on the day I
marry Lady Prudence—entirely independent of the fortune she will inherit
from her grandmother."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Aarons. "Five thousand guineas on her
wedding-day! I was not aware of this change in her fortunes, and yet,"
an idea struck him suddenly, "to tell you the truth—this is in sacred
confidence between us, Sir Geoffrey—yesterday I returned her ladyship’s
necklace which I have held as security for moneys advanced a long time
ago, and I have reason to know that, although she tried to borrow from
me last week, she now has money to redeem her diamonds, and tossed
hundred-pound notes about like curl-papers!"
Sir Geoffrey’s eyes sparkled. "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed.
"Who but Lady Drumloch can have redeemed her diamonds (I saw them on her
fair neck last night) and paid her debts? The old lady has done it
before, and can do it again. Come, Aarons, open your heart and your
purse-strings, and let me have a few hundreds on my note-of-hand, if you
will not increase the mortgage. I’ll pay you out of the five thousand
guineas—that’s a positive certainty—the day I marry Lady Prue."
"And suppose—I am bound to be cautious—suppose, by any chance, you
should not, after all, marry the viscountess?"
"I will marry her, if I have to carry her off by force!" cried Sir
Geoffrey, suddenly savage. "She shall not jilt me, by Heaven! or if she
does, no other man shall care to take her afterward!"
Secretly delighted at this outburst of ferocity, Aarons assumed a
deprecatory air, and with uplifted hands, entreated his visitor to be
calm.
"We all know," he said insinuatingly, "how dearly the ladies love to
think that they have been won in spite of themselves. The most tricksey
of coquettes may turn out the meekest and most devoted of wives to the
man who has the courage to prove himself master. At least, so I have
heard, but of course I should not presume to advise so experienced a
lady-killer as Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."
"Well, Aarons, if you will furnish the sinews of war, I will undertake
to carry the citadel by storm. A few hundreds for a week or less, and if
I fail you may clap me in the Fleet, an’ you will, and put everything I
possess under the hammer."
Aarons still, for the sake of form, protested, but allowed himself to be
coaxed and reasoned into a compliant mood, and finally accepted Sir
Geoffrey’s note for a substantial sum, on the tacit understanding that,
by fair means or foul, the Lady Prudence Brooke was to be made Lady
Beaudesert without loss of time.
Leaving the money-lender to gloat over the unexpectedly efficient tool
he had found for his vengeance, and to wonder whether Prue would confess
her reckless marriage and take the consequences, or defy Sir Geoffrey
and drive him to extremities, the latter made his way westward with all
speed. Although the hour was still early for social calls, he presented
himself at Lady Drumloch’s and learning that Prue was somewhat
indisposed and had not yet risen, left a message that he would return
later, and having still some hours to spare before his parliamentary
duties claimed his brief and perfunctory attendance, repaired to the
Cocoa-Tree.
With a pocketful of crisp bank-notes, the card-table irresistibly
attracted him, and finding, as he expected, a little coterie of
congenial spirits, he passed a pleasant and profitable hour or two with
the luck steadily on his side. Then, flushed with victory and in
something of a boastful humor, he ran almost into the arms of Lord
Beachcombe, on his way out.
"Your pardon, my Lord!" he cried, retreating a step, and bowing low;
"’tis a pity you were not here sooner. Nat Bedloe and Lord Eustace have
been throwing dice, and the ace came up sixteen times running! ’Gad I
never saw such a thing before."
"I never throw dice—can’t see any sport in it," drawled Beachcombe; "but
that must have been worth seeing. Have you been playing? With your
usual good luck, no doubt?"
Sir Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. "I must make the most of my few
remaining days of bachelor freedom," he said. "I intend to settle down
when I am married, and become a model man of family. But I am still a
gay bachelor, and very much at your service at the club or elsewhere."
"You forget that _I_ am already married—and a father, no less!"
Beachcombe replied, in his friendliest manner. "Still, I have not
entirely given up worldly pleasures. I still book a little wager from
time to time, and as my lady has a passion for Ombre, she can not
grumble if I still take a hand at écarté or whist. Is your wedding-day
fixed? No doubt the marriage of so charming and popular a lady as the
Viscountess Brooke will be a brilliant function. All the court will
wish to do her honor; perhaps even her Gracious Majesty intends to be
present?"
"I fear that the state of her grandmother’s health will prevent Lady
Prue’s indulging her natural desire to shine on this occasion. As the
old lady’s heiress, of course she can not risk offending her; even at
the last minute wills may be changed and fortunes lost for a trifle."
"Ha! is the venerable countess so wealthy as to make her will a matter
of importance? Yet she passes for poor, and when I was—when I had the
privilege of standing in your present enviable relations to Lady Prue,
she assured me—yet these old women are often miserly—no doubt she will
give the world a surprise when her hoards are unearthed. I congratulate
you upon your prospects! A bride so incomparable and a great fortune to
boot! You are indeed the favored of the gods! With such a prize in
your grasp, you will scarcely think it worth while to remember our
little wager."
"Five thousand guineas will come in very handy to start housekeeping!"
cried Sir Geoffrey gaily. His laugh was echoed with a boisterous
merriment that startled him like an explosion. Lord Beachcombe was so
little given to mirth, his laughter was so noiseless and so rarely
responsive to another man’s hilarity, that the jovial shouts and gleeful
contortions with which he received Sir Geoffrey’s retort would have
disturbed less susceptible nerves than his.
The sinister sounds rang in his ears all the afternoon as he sat through
a dreary debate which did not interest the few members present
sufficiently to interrupt the general conversation. What was Lord
Beachcombe laughing at? he asked himself a hundred times, with
ever-increasing irritation. He was not a man to take the loss of a large
sum of money cheerfully. Yet it was impossible for him to have any
suspicion of a serious impediment to the marriage. Still, Sir Geoffrey
decided that delay was perilous and a secret known to five persons has
fifty loop-holes to escape through, so for a vast number of reasons Prue
must be induced, by fair means, if possible—but somehow, anyhow—to marry
him immediately.
To reassure himself, Sir Geoffrey carefully read the record of the wager
and satisfied himself that it merely required him to marry Lady Prudence
Brooke within one month of a certain date. There was no stipulation of
what kind of marriage it should be, and even should it be contested
later. Lord Beachcombe could not repudiate a wager that had been
settled, even if the method of winning it were open to criticism. He
heartily cursed Robin for failing to be hanged according to reliable
calculations, and was even inclined to blame Prue for lack of foresight,
but he pooh-poohed the possibility of danger in ignoring the Newgate
wedding and the idea of Robin as a serious rival brought a contemptuous
sneer to his lips.
At the first opportunity he slipped away and hurried back to Mayfair,
where he found Prue and Peggie in a state of pleasurable excitement, and
the anteroom thronged with milliners and mercers as in the early times
of Lady Prue’s lively widowhood.
Surrounded by obsequious tradesmen, anxious to atone for their late
importunities by reckless offers of unlimited credit to the reinstated
favorite, Prue was in her element. Over her graceful shoulders a
chattering, little Frenchwoman draped a filmy scarf, while gloves and
ribbons, sacks and "heads," silken hose and rainbow stuffs were spread
before her on every side and half-a-dozen voices, raised in laudation of
these and other wares too numerous to mention, filled the air with
confusion.
Barbara Sweeting, as high-priestess of fashion, criticized, selected,
condemned and approved, while Lady Drumloch, installed on her favorite
sofa, half-buried in her choicest cashmeres, voiced an occasional
opinion in her crisp, decisive way, to which Prue gave more than usual
heed.
"A fair day to you, ladies!" cried Sir Geoffrey. "’I faith, I feel like
a stag-beetle among the butterflies." He bent over Prue as though
examining a trinket in her hand. "Are you choosing the nuptial
garments, dearest?" he whispered. "May I have a voice in the selection?"
"What do you think of this?" she replied, indicating a skirt ruffled to
the waist and surmounted by full paniers of brocade stiff with silver
embroidery. "’Tis the latest from France and vastly becoming to a
slender shape. I shall be glad of advice as I have but little time for
selection. The queen’s physicians have hurried her off to Tunbridge and
she is even now on the road. The royal command to attend her there
without loss of time reached me but an hour ago, and to-morrow I must
follow post-haste, so I am just gathering a few necessaries. Barbara,
would you decide on that blue train or do you think the pink stripe will
go better with the silver-gray?"
"What are you going to do with that lace flounce?" interposed Peggie.
"You ought to trim the silver brocade with it; it is too lovely for a
petticoat."
"Lady Drumloch’s lace!" cried Barbara, pouncing on it with cries of
ecstasy. "I protest ’tis the finest I ever beheld! You should keep it
for your wedding-dress, Prue."
Prue glanced at her grandmother, and the slight smile that passed
between them caused Sir Geoffrey an uneasy thrill, though he could not
have explained why.
"I wish Prue to look her best," said the old lady. "It is a great
opportunity for her to be in waiting upon the queen at this particular
time. Her Majesty is to be kept very quiet on account of her gout and
few people will have access to her; Prue may be fortunate enough to
become indispensable, and the queen can be very indulgent to those who
win her favor."
"And after Tunbridge there will be a summer at Windsor, I hope," said
Prue, "and mayhap a few weeks at Bath—and who can tell what may happen
before next winter?"
Barbara, nothing loath, chimed in with various suggestions, by no means
calculated to soothe Sir Geoffrey’s temper, which by this time was
almost out of control. This was what a man might expect who built his
hopes on a shallow coquette without a thought above frills and
furbelows, and entirely devoid of a proper sense of duty to her future
lord! He felt that to subdue her tricksy spirit was a sacred duty, and
that any means would be justified with such a laudable aim in view.
"Do you actually leave for the Wells to-morrow?" he inquired. "Is it
possible for such elaborate preparations to be so quickly achieved?"