.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 47305
   :PG.Title: The Imprudence of Prue
   :PG.Released: 2014-11-06
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Sophie Fisher
   :MARCREL.ill: Herman Pfeifer
   :DC.Title: The Imprudence of Prue
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1911
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRUE
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   .. _`"Permit your slave——"`:

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      :alt: "Permit your slave——" *Page* 220.

      "Permit your slave——" *Page* `220`_.

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      The Imprudence
      of Prue

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      *By* SOPHIE FISHER

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      With Four Illustrations
      By HERMAN PFEIFER

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      A. L. BURT COMPANY
      PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

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      COPYRIGHT 1911
      THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I  `The Price of a Kiss`_
II  `Lady Drumloch`_
III  `Sir Geoffrey's Arrival`_
IV  `The Money-Lender Intervenes`_
V  `A Widow on Monday`_
VI  `A Matter of Title`_
VII  `A Wedding-Ring for a Kiss`_
VIII  `An Order for a Parson`_
IX  `The Wedding`_
X  `The Folly of Yesterday`_
XI  `The Morrow's Wakening`_
XII  `The Price of a Birthright`_
XIII  `The Sealed Packet`_
XIV  `A Pair of Gloves`_
XV  `The Red Domino`_
XVI  `At the Unmasking`_
XVII  `Lady Barbara's News`_
XVIII  `The Den of the Highwayman`_
XIX  `In the Duchess' Apartments`_
XX  `A Threat and a Promise`_
XXI  `An Affair of Family`_
XXII  `In A Chairman's Livery`_
XXIII  `The Parson Sells a Secret`_
XXIV  `A Supper for Three`_
XXV  `A Confession`_
XXVI  `Preparations for a Journey`_
XXVII  `A Different Highwayman`_
XXVIII  `The Dearest Treasure`_

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.. _`THE PRICE OF A KISS`:

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   THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRUE

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE PRICE OF A KISS

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"Stand and deliver!"

The words rang out in the gathering darkness
of the February evening.  The jaded horses,
exhausted with dragging a cumbrous chariot
through the miry lanes and rugged by-roads of the
rough moorland, obeyed the command with promptitude,
disregarding the lash of the postboy and the
valiant oaths of a couple of serving-men in the
rumble.

"Keep still, unless you wish me to blow out what
you are pleased to consider your brains," said the
highwayman.  "My pistols have an awkward habit
of going off of their own accord when I am not
instantly obeyed—so don't provoke them."

The postilion became as still as a statue and the
footmen, under cover of the self-acting pistols,
descended, grumbling but unresisting, yielded up their
rusty blunderbusses with a transparent show of
reluctance and withdrew to a respectful distance,
while the highwayman dismounted, opened the
carriage door and throwing the light of a lantern
within, revealed the shrinking forms of two women
muffled in cloaks and hoods.

One of them uttered a shriek of terror when the
door was opened and incoherently besought the
highwayman to spare two lone, defenseless women.

The highwayman thrust his head in and peered
round eagerly, as though in search of other passengers.
Then, pulling off his slouch-brimmed hat, he
revealed a pair of dark eyes that gleamed fiercely
from behind a mask, and as much of a bronzed and
weather-beaten face as it left uncovered.  Black
hair, loosely gathered in a ribbon and much
disordered by wind and rain, added considerably to the
wildness of his aspect, and the uncertain light of
the lantern flickered upon several weapons besides
the pistols he carried so carelessly.

"I shall not hurt you, Madam," he exclaimed
impatiently.  "Your money and jewels are all I
seek.  I expected to find a very different booty here
and must hasten elsewhere lest I miss it altogether
by this confounded mishap.  So let me advise you
to waste neither my time nor your own breath in
useless lamentations, but hasten to hand out your
purses and diamonds."

"We have neither, Mr. Highwayman," said the
other lady in a clear, musical voice, quite free from
tremor.  "I am a poor widow without a penny in
the world, flying from my creditors to take refuge
with a relative almost as poor as myself.  This is
my companion—alack for her!  The wage I owe
her might make her passing rich if ever 'twere
paid—but it never will be."

"Do poor widows travel in coach and four with
serving-men and maids?" demanded the highwayman
with an incredulous laugh.  "Come, ladies, I
am well used to these excuses.  Do not put me to
the disagreeable necessity of setting you down in
the mud while I search your carriage
and—mayhap—your fair selves."

The lady threw back her hooded cloak, revealing
a face and form of rare beauty, and extended two
white hands and arms, bare to the elbow and
entirely devoid of ornament.  In one hand she held a
little purse through whose silken meshes glittered a
few pieces of money.

"This is all the money I have in the wide world,"
she said, in a voice of pathetic sweetness.  "Take
it, if you will, and search for more if you think it
worth while—and if you find anything, prithee,
share it with me!"

But the highwayman scarcely heard her.  Through
his mask his eyes were fixed upon her beautiful face
with a devouring admiration of which she was quite
unconscious.  Not that such an expression would
have seemed at all extraordinary to her, or
otherwise than the natural tribute of any masculine
creature to the beauty she valued at its full worth.

"Keep your purse, Madam," he said, and his
voice had lost its harshness; "I will take but one
thing from you—something you will not miss, but
that a monarch might prize—a kiss from those
lovely lips."

"A kiss, rascal!  Do you know what you ask?"
she exclaimed, her sweetness vanishing in haughty
anger.  "Something I shall not miss, forsooth!
What can—"

"Oh! kiss him, Prue; kiss him and let us be
gone!" implored her companion.  "We shall miss
the mail-coach at the cross-roads, and then what
will become of us?"

The highwayman leaned against the open
carriage-door and watched the struggling emotions
flickering over the face of the widow.  Anger and
disgust were succeeded by scornful mirth, and at
last, with a gesture of indescribably haughty grace,
she extended her hand, palm downward.

"My hand, Sir Highwayman," she said loftily,
"has been deemed not unworthy of royal kisses!"

"My plebeian lips would not venture where a
king's have feasted," was the mocking retort.
"But whoever in future may kiss your lips must
come after Robin Freemantle, the Highwayman.
So, sweet one, by your leave."  He bent suddenly
over her and kissed her boldly on the scarlet blossom
of her mouth.

She drew back, gasping with anger and amazement.
"How dare you?" she almost screamed.

He stood a moment as if half-dazed by his own
audacity, then closed the carriage-door and replaced
his beaver on his head.

"Good night, Ladies," he cried in a tone of
reckless gaiety.  "A pleasant journey to London and
a merry time at court, and as 'tis ill junketing on
an empty purse, accept mine in exchange for yours."

With which he flung a heavy wallet into the
carriage and snatching the little silken trifle from
Prue's hand, sprang on his horse and was quickly
lost in the gloom of night.

"Insolent varlet!" cried Prue passionately.
"Would I were a man to beat him to death!"  And
she burst into a flood of angry tears.

"Console yourself, sweet cousin," said her
companion coaxingly.  "You have saved our jewels
for the second time to-day—first by outwitting a
sheriff and now by cajoling a highwayman.  After
all, what is a kiss?  You have just as many left for
Sir Geoffrey as you had before you were robbed of
that one."

"That is all very well," cried Prue, half
laughing and half tearful, "but how would you have
liked it if it had happened to you?"

"Faith, I'm not sure I should have made such a
fuss!  After thirty one may well be grateful for
the kisses of a handsome young gallant—for I
could see he was young, and I'll warrant me he
was comely too—even if he is Robin Freemantle,
the highwayman."

"For shame, Cousin Peggie, an' if you love me,
never remind me of this," replied Prue, with a
touch of irritation.  "I would far rather have lost
my few last jewels than have suffered such an
insult."

"So would not I," laughed the incorrigible
cousin.  "What with play and the haberdasher all
I have left in the world is contained in the little
box under my feet, and I should count that cheaply
saved at the price of a kiss."

"You were not asked to pay the price," said
Prue coldly.  Then, thrusting her head out of the
window, she relieved her pent-up feelings by soundly
berating the cowardly serving-men who had yielded
without a blow to a force so inferior and were now
wasting precious time hunting for their useless
weapons instead of hastening to the near-by crossroads
to meet the mail-coach in which the two ladies
proposed traveling from Yorkshire to London.

The two men clambered back into the rumble,
somewhat shamefaced, and each striving by muttered
disclaimers to reject the charge of cowardice
in favor of the other.  The postilion, suddenly
galvanized into activity, roused the horses with strange
oaths and cries and fierce cracklings of the whip.
Prudence closed the window and retired into the
voluminous shelter of her cloak, and the interrupted
journey was resumed.





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.. _`LADY DRUMLOCH`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   LADY DRUMLOCH

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No further adventures overtook the two ladies.
The mail-coach picked them up at the crossroads
and carried them to London in course of
time, where they were soon safely housed with their
grandmother, Lady Drumloch.

My Lady Drumloch was, as all the world knows,
a very great lady, and back in the days of King
Charles the Second had been a beauty and a toast.
The daughter of a duke and the wife of an earl,
she had queened it in two courts, had gone into
exile with King James, intrigued and plotted with
the Jacobites, and finally, having lost husband and
son and fortune in her devotion to a hopeless cause,
had made her peace with Queen Anne and returned
to England to eke out her last years in the
soul-crushing poverty of the great.

But as with her she brought her two granddaughters,
the Honorable Margaret Moffat and
Lady Prudence Wynne, her meager little house on
the outskirts of May fair soon became not only the
Mecca of other Jacobites as aristocratic and as poor
as herself, but of many who were neither Jacobites
nor in reduced circumstances.  Among both classes
the Lady Prudence, though but fifteen, soon found
courtiers to pick and choose from.  The saucy
child with her skin of milk and roses, her tangle
of dark curling locks and her wonderful blue eyes,
was already possessed of that mysterious charm of
femininity by which the world has been swayed
since the days of Eve.

To gratify her grandmother's ambition, and at
the same time emancipate herself from the restrictions
of the school-room, she married the Viscount
Brooke, heir of the Earl of Overbridge.  But the
marriage resulted disastrously.  The viscount had
long before exhausted his private means, and
although his father, hoping that marriage would sober
and settle him, made a sufficiently liberal allowance
to the young couple, a few months of reckless
extravagance and gaiety plunged them in an ocean
of debt, from which the viscount, in a fit of
delirium, extricated himself by means of a bullet in
his brain, leaving Prue a widow at sixteen with
no home but her grandmother's little house in
Mayfair, and not a penny beyond the grudging bounty
of her father-in-law.

Still, it was delightful to be a widow, and,
consequently, free from all authority.  Having
curtailed her mourning within the scantiest limits, she
returned to society with renewed ardor, where her
youth and beauty, enhanced by her widowhood,
secured her a flattering welcome.  She played the
hostess in Lady Drumloch's shabby drawing-rooms,
filling them with laughter, scandal and love-making.
She chaperoned Margaret Moffat, who was ten
years her senior and who loved her with the
infatuation one sometimes, if rarely, observes in a
very plain woman for a very beautiful one.

Poor as she notoriously was, the oft-repeated
rumors of Prue's engagement to one or another of
her wealthy admirers enabled her to run into debt
time and again for such necessaries of existence as
fashionable dresses and costly jewels, for which she
certainly never expected to pay out of her own
pocket.  Nay, even money-lenders, beguiled by her
bright eyes and her unquestionably promising
matrimonial prospects, had furnished the sinews of war
(for which her future husband would have to pay
right royally), and this despite the fact that the
Lady Prudence Brooke, widowed at sixteen, was
still a widow at two-and-twenty.

Lady Drumloch's granddaughters were not
expected at her town-house, and when the hired
cabriolet in which they arrived drew up at her door,
the ancient butler was divided between joy at the
sight of the two bright young faces, and trepidation
as to the welcome they might expect from the higher
powers.  Mrs. Lowton, my lady's waiting-woman,
was troubled by no such complex emotions.  She
made little attempt to conceal her own dissatisfaction
or to disguise the fact that the old countess
was in no humor for gay company.

"My lady has had an awful attack of gout," she
averred, "and the doctors have ordered the strictest
quiet.  The least agitation might be fatal."

"We will be as quiet as mice, Lowton," said
Lady Prudence, ostentatiously tiptoeing across the
narrow hall and up the steep stairs.  "James, pay
the coachman and let me know how much I owe you."

The butler obeyed, though with no great alacrity.
"Her ladyship ain't long getting back to her old
tricks," he muttered with rather a wry smile, as
he hunted through his pockets for the coach-hire.
"I gave the man two shillings—and sixpence for
himself," he said, coming back promptly.  "I
suppose your ladyship has not forgotten that before
you went to Yorkshire—"

"Oh! never mind that, James," she interrupted
hastily.  "Let bygones be bygones, and when I
come into my fortune you will see whether I
forget anything.  Come, Peggie, let us get to bed.  I
am fainting for want of sleep."

"I am fainting, too," retorted Miss Moffat,
"but more with hunger than sleep.  Lowton, for
the love of Heaven, order some breakfast, and that
speedily."

"I'll see what I can do, Miss Margaret," said
Lowton, without enthusiasm, "but her ladyship
keeps us closer than ever, and I doubt if there's
anything for breakfast but milk and bread."

The cousins crept softly up to the little room on
the top floor, where their dismantled beds and the
bare floors gave so much evidence of disuse and so
little promise of hospitality that the most courageous
hearts might have sunk a little.

"We were better off at Bleakmoor, even with
the bailiffs in attendance," said Prue piteously.

"Mayhap—but there we were out of help's
way, and here, if we will—or rather if you
will—there is succor at hand," said the undaunted
Peggie—"and even while I speak of rescue, here comes
my dear old Lowton with food for the starving and
sheets and blankets for the weary.  Come, coz, eat
and sleep, and when you wake you will be ready
for any emergency."

It was evening before the tired travelers rose,
and, ransacking wardrobes and closets for the
wherewithal to replace their soiled and dusty
traveling attire, made themselves presentable for the
inevitable visit of ceremony to their grandmother.

Quiet as they had been, the old lady had become
aware of their arrival long before the faithful
Lowton ventured, in lugubrious whispers, to
communicate the news.

"There is no necessity, my good Lowton, for
you to apologize for my granddaughters," Lady
Drumloch had interrupted, almost before the first
word was uttered.  "No doubt I shall have to
listen to half-a-dozen different stories before I get
at the true cause of this visit, so you may as well
spare yourself the trouble of inventing excuses for
you know not what.  Let me know when the travelers
rise, and I will receive them and hear what
they have to say for themselves."

The venerable countess lay in a huge four-poster
bed, propped high with pillows scarcely whiter than
her waxen face, upon which still lingered some of
the beauty and all of the indomitable hauteur of the
belle of half-a-century ago.  Her scant and snowy
locks were concealed under a cap of priceless lace
and ruffles of the same fell over her small
ivory-white hands.  At the ceremonious announcement
of the Viscountess Brooke and the Honorable Miss
Moffat, she slightly moved her head on the pillow
and turned her bright, dark eyes from one to the
other.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, my
lady Viscountess?" she inquired dryly.

"Partly, dear Grandmother, to our anxiety
about your ladyship's health," said Prudence,
sweeping so deep a curtsey that she seemed to be falling
on her knees, "and partly because a whole long
year in the wilds of Yorkshire hath made us homesick."

"A whole long year in your brother-in-law's
house, gaming, dancing and—unless I am
misinformed—play-acting and fox-hunting, has still
left you with an appetite for the follies of the court.
I doubt not," said Lady Drumloch.  "Does your
ladyship return to Yorkshire to-day? or to-morrow?
I understand that you traveled without escort or
baggage and by the public conveyance!"

"Do not be angry with us, dear Grandmother,"
pleaded Prue, her bright eyes filling with tears
(the minx always had a supply at her command).
"You do not want us to go back to-morrow, do
you?  Are you not a little tired of the excellent
Lowton's conversation, and do you not weary for
your little Prue to read you Mr. Pope's latest poem
and Mr. Steele's new play? and make you die of
laughing over her adventures with the Yorkshire
squires?"

"And not only the squires," put in Peggie, who
had been standing rather in the background, eagerly
awaiting a chance to bring herself into notice.
"Prue has had adventures with gallants more
romantic than Yorkshire squires!"

"Ah! is that Margaret Moffat?" cried the old
lady.  "'Tis sure where Prudence is, her shadow
can not be far away!  And, pray, what have your
adventures been?  Have not even bumpkin squires
fallen to your charms?  Surely Prudence has not
carried off all the honors there as well as here?"

This was a hard thrust, for Peggie was as plain
as her cousin was fair, and had entered her fourth
decade without one serious assault upon her maiden
heart.  Devoted to Prue, she was too loyal to
think that this was partly the fault of the youthful
widow's all-devouring coquetry, but she was very
human, and it wounded her to be forced into
acknowledging the contrast.

"Alack, Peggie made short work of their
hearts," cried Prue, coming to the rescue.  "I
only turned their heads. 'Tis strange how foolish
men will always be about a widow."

"Foolish enough to marry one widow after being
jilted by another," acquiesced the grandmother
dryly.  "I hear thy erstwhile lover, Lord
Beachcombe, has married the Widow Curzon.  The
baker's daughter hath a second chance of wearing
strawberry-leaves."

"She may have them for aught I care—along
with the meanest, ugliest, most disagreeable man
that ever decked his empty head withal," cried
Prudence.  "*I* am going to marry the finest gentleman
in England—the bravest and handsomest—and
the cleverest, too.  When a man of parts is in
Parliament, 'tis his own fault if he be not in the
Cabinet—and once in the Cabinet there are garters and
coronets to be had for the trouble of reaching after
them."

"A politician, too!" sneered the countess.
"Pray, which of our worthy statesmen has had his
head turned by the widow?"

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert," replied Prue, and
having got so far she stopped, and the blood rushed
in a torrent to her face, crimsoning even her
forehead and neck.

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!" the old lady repeated
slowly, while her dark, brilliant eyes seemed
to burn down into Prue's inmost soul.  "The
same that fought the duel with Colonel O'Keefe?"

"Surely," murmured Prue, "I could do no
better than give myself to the man who killed my
traducer.  If Colonel O'Keefe misunderstood or
misinterpreted a piece of girlish bravado—was I
to blame?  And if he dared to comment disparagingly
upon what he did not understand, and make
a public jest of a woman who had only played a
harmless joke upon him—you, dear Grandmother,
would be the last to reproach the gentleman who
drew sword in her vindication."

"Thereby leading every one to suppose that there
was something to vindicate," retorted Lady Drumloch.
"If the marriage really takes place, it will
put a complete quietus upon ill-natured tongues, but
bethink you how they will wag if this should prove
another of your *affaires manquées*!"

"I am glad that you approve, Madam," said
Prue, with an air of the deepest respect, as she
again sank gracefully down in a most profound
curtsey.

"I said nothing about approval," replied her
grandmother sternly.  "I know your Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert—a Whig—a renegade, whose father
was a good Catholic and a 'King's man.'  The son
would have made a fitting husband for your father's
daughter if he had been loyal to his father's
king—but you know well that I would rather see you
the wife of the least of Jacobites than the greatest
of Whigs.  Go your own wilful way and do not
pretend to ask my approval."

"I am not married to him yet," said Prue, who
had not been unprepared for a vigorous protest
from her ancestress, and for obvious reasons
desired to placate her.  "Nor would I contemplate
such a step until my dear grandmother's recovery
set me free from anxiety.  And now, if your
ladyship will permit us to kiss your hand, we will
withdraw, as we grieve to hear that your physician has
forbidden you all excitement."

During the whole interview the two girls had
remained standing—not being invited to seat
themselves, nor venturing to do so without permission.
As they withdrew after saluting the tapering, ivory
fingers of the invalid, she called after them, with
more graciousness than she had yet shown, "You
may return in the evening and read me Mr. Pope's
poem.  I have had it these three weeks and could
not bring myself to let Lowton stumble through it.
'Twill give me something to think of besides an old
woman's gout and gruel."





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.. _`SIR GEOFFREY'S ARRIVAL`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   SIR GEOFFREY'S ARRIVAL

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Lady Drumloch was not really half so ill
as she fancied herself, and no better medicine
could have been prescribed to hasten her
convalescence than the gaiety and cheerfulness that her
two granddaughters infused into the atmosphere of
the little house in Mayfair, as soon as they had
recovered from the fatigues of their journey.

Instead of lying in bed grumbling at the length
of the lonely days and pain-weary nights, her
ladyship allowed herself to be cajoled into rising and
reclining on a couch, which was then wheeled into
the adjoining room by James and the faithful
Lowton.  At first this was only for an hour or two
a day, and the invalid, refusing to admit that she
could be, in any way, benefited by the lively gossip
of her granddaughters, had insisted that the reading
of sermons and other pious works suited better with
her age and infirmities than plays and poetry.  But
by the end of the week she had abandoned Atterbury
and Taylor for the *Tatler* and the latest works of
Pope and Prior, and was thirsting for yet more
exciting entertainment, which she knew to be
tantalizingly near at hand.

As soon as the return of the cousins became
known, their numerous friends, who had contented
themselves with polite inquiries after the invalid,
while Lowton was the sole dispenser of news,
displayed a touching solicitude about her condition.
Every afternoon Lady Prue held quite a little
levee—at which the sickness of the old countess
up-stairs did not interfere greatly with the gaiety
below.  Day by day these cheerful sounds grew
more and more exasperating to Lady Drumloch,
whose passion for scandal was only whetted by the
comments of the two girls, and who chafed
rebelliously under the restrictions of the doctor, and led
the devoted Lowton the life of a dog.

"Did I hear voices and laughter this afternoon?"
she demanded, one evening, when her granddaughters
came to bid her a dutiful good night.

"'Twas but Mary Warburton and Lady Limerick,
who came to inquire after the health of their
beloved cousin," said Prue demurely.

"No one else?  It seemed to me that a dozen
times, at least, the door was thundered at as though
a queen's messenger demanded entrance."

"In very truth, your ladyship's penetration is
marvelous!" cried Prue eagerly.  "Her Majesty
most graciously bade Lady Limerick inquire the
latest news of 'the dear countess' gout'—and
also, if my duties at your bedside left me leisure to
attend the court."

"And, pray, what answer did you make?" Lady
Drumloch inquired suspiciously.

"In good faith, I was put to it for excuses, since
I had admitted the favorable change in your
symptoms, and received the congratulations of many
anxious friends," returned Prue pathetically.  "'Tis
true I have no heart for frivolous pleasures while
my dear grandmother is ill—but the court is
another thing, and people begin to wonder at my
absence."

"Well, what is the matter?  Why make excuses
at all?  I am not aware that I have imposed any
restrictions upon you," said the old lady crisply.
"Lowton has taken very good care of me for a
year, and you may still venture to trust me to her
for a few hours.  'Tis news to me that you should
be so averse to 'frivolous pleasures' that you need
make *me* an excuse for giving them up."

"Indeed, dear Grandmother, it was no vain
excuse—'twas the truth," Prue protested.  "Yet not
the whole truth, for my baggage is still at
Bleakmoor, whence we fled in such a hurry that we
brought naught away with us but what we traveled in!"

"Well?  Are there no milliners and mantua-makers
in London?" inquired the countess, with
an air of surprise.

"Several hundred, I should think—and every
one of them threatening me with the law's worst
penalties for debt!  The wretches! they were eager
enough to fling their wares under my feet, when
they believed me rich—or likely to be.  But
now—never a mercer or tailor will trust me for a gown!"

"What! not with the prospect of a husband in
Parliament?" cried her grandmother, laughing
maliciously.

"Indeed no, Grannie," sighed Prue piteously;
"not unless I pay, at least, for what I order now."

"They have learned wisdom at last," retorted
Lady Drumloch coldly, "and that is more than can
be said of you, who during four or five years of
widowhood have jilted half the peerage, made
yourself the byword of the court, and now go in fear
of the debtors' prison!"

"There was no talk of a debtors' prison for me
when I was Queen Anne's favorite lady-in-waiting,"
said Prue, with a touch of arrogance, "but
now they only remember that I was banished from
court—"

"And that the rich lovers you jilted have
married other women, while you are still 'the Widow
Brooke,'" Lady Drumloch interrupted.

"But they will change their tone when they find
that the queen has forgiven me," said Prue,
ignoring her grandmother's last thrust, "and now she
has sent me such a gracious message by Lady
Limerick—but, alack the day!—what am I saying?
How can I present myself before Her Majesty
without a decent gown to my back?  Oh,
Grandmother—"  She fell on her knees, and would have
clasped the pale, slender hand that lay on the
coverlet.  But Lady Drumloch drew back out of her
reach and regarded her with resentful eyes.

"Well?" she queried in her driest voice.
"What do you propose to do?  You have a plan,
no doubt, to accomplish what you have set your
heart upon."

"No—I have no plan," cried Prudence despairingly,
"but surely you, dear Grandmother, will not
let your little Prue lose her last chance of
winning back the queen's favor, for lack of a few
guineas to buy a gown!" and once more she tried
to get possession of the reluctant hand.

But Lady Drumloch pushed her away with such
force, in her anger, that she almost overturned her
on the floor.  "I thought I should soon come at
the cause of all your pretty speeches, you false
jade!" she shrieked.  "Is it not enough that I give
you shelter in the home you have disgraced with
your reckless follies, that I have to admit your
wanton companions—only Mary Warburton and
Lady Limerick, forsooth!  Do you think I am so
deaf as not to have heard the voices of half a
dozen men, and your dear friend, Barbara Sweeting,
sharer and inspirer of half the mad frolics that
have made you notorious?—but I must pay your
debts and give you money, when I'm so poor I can
only afford one woman to wait on me, and can
not go out for an airing because a carriage is too
great a luxury for me—even a hired one!  *C'est
honteux—c'est infame*"—and the angry old
woman, who seldom lapsed into French, except in
moments of great agitation, burst into hysteric cries
and weeping, at which Lowton hurried in, and the
girls, with scared faces, fled.

"She is much worse than she used to be,"
whispered Peggie.  "Formerly, when you asked for
money, she used to tell you to go to the devil, and
scold you roundly—but she gave it after all.  And
now—I do not think she will."

"If she waits until I ask her, she certainly never
will," said Prudence proudly.  "To-morrow I will
go to old Aarons—though I vowed the last time
should be the very last."

The girls were still lingering upon the staircase,
listening to the soothing murmurs of Mrs. Lowton
and the outcries of the invalid, gradually sinking
into whimpers, when a loud knocking announced
the arrival of a visitor of importance, and James
presently came up with a petition from Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert for a few words with the Lady Prudence,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour.

"The lateness of the hour!  Why, 'tis barely
nine o'clock," cried Prue, blushing and sparkling
with delight.  "Go, James, and tell Sir Geoffrey I
will be with him immediately.  Come, Peggie."

And away she flew to reassure herself, by a
glance at her mirror, that her scene with Lady
Drumloch had not dishevelled her luxuriant curls,
and to disguise the shabbiness of her gown with a
lace kerchief and a knot of ribbon.

"A plague on all milliners and tailors," she
pouted; "to think that I should have to receive my
betrothed after three weeks' separation, looking
more like my lady's scullery-maid than her
granddaughter."

"Sir Geoffrey will never know what you wear,
if you sit away from the lamp, where he can just
see your eyes by the firelight," counseled Margaret.
"No man cares to look at your gown, who can see
your face."

"Flatterer!" cried Prue; but she kissed her
cousin on both cheeks, and certainly gave no sign of
doubting her veracity.

Sir Geoffrey was impatiently waiting in the dim
drawing-room, where James had reluctantly lighted
a pair of candles in an ancient silver sconce that
Benvenuto Cellini himself may have chiseled.  The
two ladies swept the most ceremonious of curtseys,
but at the sight of Prue's radiant loveliness, her
visitor dropped on one knee, and taking both her
little hands in his, kissed first one and then the other
with unaffected ardor.

"How have I lived all these centuries?" he
cried—"they can not have been merely
weeks—without my Goddess, my Star—" and so on, after
the highflown fashion of the days of Pope and
Dryden.  To which Prue was well accustomed, and
did not find any too fantastic for her highly
cultivated vanity.

"Rise, Sir Geoffrey," she said very graciously,
and when he obeyed, offered him her glowing cheek,
upon which, one may be sure, he made haste to
imprint more than one or two impassioned kisses.
Then Margaret, who at first kept discreetly in the
background, came forward and presented her hand,
contenting herself with a salute of a more
perfunctory nature.

"When did you return to town, Sir Geoffrey?"
Prue inquired.

"Can you ask?" he said reproachfully.  "You
may be sure I have only waited to shake off the
dust of travel, before hastening to throw myself at
your feet."

"And how did you leave Bleakmoor?" she went
on, "and have you seen our host and his friends
since we left them?"

"Bleakmoor, deprived of the sunshine," said Sir
Geoffrey, including the two girls in a low bow,
"has by now been given over to the bats and owls.
Brooke hath betaken himself to Malvern, and his
friends are scattered to their own homes.  The
hunting is better since the thaw, but I have lost all
taste for the field when Prue no longer leads the hunt."

"We scarcely expected that you would follow us
so soon," remarked Peggie.

"Was I in too great haste?" he demanded.
"Had I been warned of your sudden journey, I
might, perhaps, have offended by offering my
escort."

"You would have had a chance of playing the
knight-errant," said Prue, "and coming to the
rescue of two forlorn damsels set upon by footpads
and forced to resort to all kinds of feminine wiles
to protect their jewels."

The baronet rapped out an oath.  "The fellows
attacked you and I was not there to make mincemeat
of them!" he exclaimed.  "By Jove, these rascals
become more and more audacious every day.  A
band of them attacked Will Battersea and myself
on the North Road, where we had the good fortune
to capture the ringleader and hand him over to
the officers of justice."

"Bravo!" cried Margaret, clapping her hands.
"Tell us all about it, Sir Geoffrey."

"Oh! 'twas the usual thing," he began.  "We
were on a lonely road, not far from Willesden—Will
and I riding in front, with our fellows close
behind—when several masked horsemen appeared
from behind a clump of bushes, and covering us
with their firearms, demanded our money or our
lives—"

("Stand and deliver—" murmured Peggie, with
a covert glance at her cousin.)—"We proceeded to
argue the matter," Sir Geoffrey continued, "and
either by accident or to intimidate us, one of the
rascals let fly and hit my man Brown in the
shoulder.  Instantly, there was a mêlée, in the midst of
which approaching shouts were heard and the
highwaymen, at the word of command, dashed off,
pursued by Will Battersea and myself.  A parting shot,
fired at random, brought down the horse of one of
the highwaymen, who threw his rider into a ditch
and rolled over him.  There we found him with a
broken collarbone, and handed him over to the
mounted constabulary, who had arrived so opportunely."

"I shudder to think what might have happened,"
said Prue gravely, "had their arrival been less well-timed."

"Spare your tremors, my dearest," replied Sir
Geoffrey, rather nettled by her tone.  "You surely
do not think that Will and I were in any peril from
half-a-dozen highwaymen?  To say nothing of our
men, who were both sturdy rustics and had served
in the West-Riding Yeomanry.  I vow I was
disappointed at the interruption, and would rather have
taken Robin Freemantle with my pistol at his ear,
than pulled him out of a ditch with the help of a
constable."

"Robin Freemantle!" the two ladies exclaimed
simultaneously.  Then the blood rushed so tumultuously
to Prue's face, that she was thankful for the
dim light that hid her confusion.

"What! was it he that assailed you on
Bleakmoor?  The fellow is ubiquitous!" cried Sir
Geoffrey.  "I will not forget to add this to his
other crimes, when I am witness on his trial.  The
man who has dared to attack the fairest lady in
England—the protégée of her Grace of
Marlborough—should be drawn and quartered; hanging
is too good for him."

"Sir Geoffrey!  I forbid you to mention my
name!" she exclaimed, in a great flutter.  "It may
not be the same man—besides, he took nothing
from us, did he, Peggie?  Nothing, that is to say
of any—any—"

"My dear Prudence—the mere fact of his
attacking you would rouse the country," cried her
lover, rather pompously.  "It would have more
effect upon the jury than a dozen ordinary highway
robberies—"

"I do not wish to rouse the country," interrupted
Prue.  "What! am I to be discussed by
lawyers and jurymen, and lampooned, forsooth, in
the Flying Post!  My grandmother would never
forgive it—"

"Dearest Prue, pardon me for suggesting anything
that could for one moment distress you; it
was but my eagerness to punish the scoundrel for
his crimes.  Let us relegate him to oblivion.  Such
subjects are not for the lips and ears of Beauty.
Tell me, sweet Prue, when may I hope to see Lady
Drumloch and implore her sanction to my suit?"

"I have already broken the matter to her,"
replied Prue, "but, as we anticipated, without any
great success, at present.  She is, as you know, an
ardent Jacobite and can not be expected to approve
your politics, which are considerably more
important to her than my happiness.  Mayhap, when she
becomes acquainted with you she may blame me less.
You must exercise your eloquence on her as you
did on me," she added, with a coquettish smile,
"and then I think I can safely leave our cause in
your hands.  My prayers shall accompany you, and
if necessary we will kneel side by side and implore
the ancestral benediction."





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.. _`THE MONEY-LENDER INTERVENES`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   THE MONEY-LENDER INTERVENES

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Either her hysterics or her gout kept my
Lady Drumloch in her chamber long enough
to try the brief patience of Prudence Brooke.  Sir
Geoffrey, secure of his bride, was less impatient, for
after all, the grandmother's consent was a mere
matter of form, although he had reasons—upon
which he did not care to dilate—for wishing to
propitiate the old lady, and secure her good graces.

He came to Mayfair as frequently as his
parliamentary duties permitted, and never without
sending up to the sick-room the most sympathetic
messages, accompanied by bouquets of rare flowers,
baskets of hothouse fruit and dainty porcelain or
enameled boxes of French bonbons, and his gifts
to Lowton were as lavish, though of a different
character.

Finding no abatement in her grandmother's
austerity, about a week after Sir Geoffrey's arrival,
Lady Prudence ordered a chair, and concealing as
many of her charms as could be hidden by a cloak
and hood, made a pilgrimage to the city.

Almost under the shadow of Aldgate Church, at
the entrance of a narrow court, of quiet appearance
but sinister reputation, lived a certain Mr. Moses
Aarons, reputed fabulously wealthy.  Few were the
gay inheritors of paternal acres to whom the little
office in Aldgate was unfamiliar, and in the safes
and deed-boxes that encumbered the upper floors
of the dingy house many a bond and mortgage told
a history of vast estates held by a hair, and noble
fortunes of which little remained but the name.

Mr. Aarons was a man of unpretending appearance,
with very little about him to suggest the Jew
money-lender.  Immaculately dressed, in a suit of
fine plum-colored cloth, with silk stockings of the
same hue, and wearing his own iron-gray hair
slightly powdered, and gathered in a black ribbon,
he might have passed for a respectable lawyer or
merchant, had not some suggestion of power in his
smooth voice and heavy-lidded eye, belied the
modesty of his appearance.

The chair of a fine lady was no unaccustomed
object at his door—nor, indeed, was the
Viscountess Brooke a stranger.  When his clerk bowed
the lady into Mr. Aarons' sanctum, he rose to greet
her, and returned her sweeping curtsey with a bow
as ceremonious.

"My Lady Brooke!  This is, indeed, a condescension,"
he said.  "My poor place is not adapted
for the entertainment of such fashion and beauty."

"Most excellent Aarons," cried Prue, a little
haughtily, "a truce to your compliments, which are
only meant in ridicule, I fear."  She threw back
her hood, however, not disdaining to try the full
effect of her charms upon this Jew, from whom
she had come to cajole a few hundred pounds, if
possible, without security.

"Your ladyship's long absence from London hath
surely been to some magic spring," said the usurer,
with an exaggerated deference that bordered on
insolence.  "We heard you were breaking squires'
hearts in Yorkshire, but sure 'twas some southern
sun that has been ripening the peaches on your
cheeks."

Prue burst out laughing.  "Are you turning
poet, Mr. Aarons?" she inquired flippantly.  "Take
my advice, and keep to your own trade; no one
will ever read the verse of Shakespeare or Milton
with half as much interest as the magic prose that
can turn a scrap of dirty paper into golden guineas."

"Your ladyship is tired of poetry, and wishes for
a little prose by way of change, no doubt," suggested
the money-lender.

"Change, forsooth!  That is just what I am
perishing for," cried Prue.  "Fate has been dealing
me the scurviest tricks, and now the chance of
my life has come, and I tremble lest I lose it for
want of a few pounds.  The queen has bidden me
to court, and I hope the best from Her Majesty's
condescension.  But, alas!  I can not make a fitting
appearance at court, for I am—as usual—penniless.
You must help me out of my troubles, good
Mr. Aarons, and this time I shall pay you principal
and interest, and recover the diamond necklace that
has been so long in your care."

"If the security you offer is no better than last
time, my lady Viscountess—" the money-lender
began.

"Alack! this time I have nothing at all to offer
as security," she interrupted.  "You know where
most of my jewels are, and on my way from Yorkshire,
I was set upon by Robin Freemantle, the highwayman,
and robbed of everything he could lay his
hands on!"

"The outrageous villain!  Did your ladyship lose
much?" asked the Jew, with ill-concealed sarcasm.

"I scarce remember how much, but he left me
with nothing but a few worthless trinkets I had
concealed in my cousin's jewel-casket, which
fortunately escaped.  So I arrived in London destitute.
My grandmother is too ill to think of aught but
prayers and potions, and I am most anxious to return
to the court, where, doubtless, her Grace of
Marlborough will do something for me—she loves me
like a daughter—but I can not wait on her grace
without a gown and a carriage."

"The milliner will, no doubt, be enchanted to
provide the one, and the liveryman the other," said
Aarons suavely.

"True, but every one knows I was banished from
court, and nothing will satisfy them that I am in
favor again but to see my name in the *Court News'*
account of the queen's levee.  I can not get there
without money, and for that I look to you, who
have stood my friend before.  Now listen," she
went on quickly, laying her little dimpled hand
on his arm, in her eagerness to interrupt the
impending expostulation.  "I am going to be married—oh,
yes, I know what you would say—'tis not the
first time by several, and I am still the Widow
Brooke!  This time, however, you may consider it
final; within a month, I wed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."

The money-lender started.  "Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!"
he exclaimed.  "Your creditors, my lady
Viscountess, will scarce be pleased at this hearing,
and may find cause to remind you that there are
lodgings for ladies in the Fleet and Queen's Bench.
Sir Geoffrey is a member of Parliament, and can not
be arrested for his own debts, let alone his wife's."

"Arrested!  Do you mean to suggest that Sir
Geoffrey can not, or will not, pay my debts?" she
cried angrily.

"He may be willing; indeed, who could doubt that
any man would esteem it an honor to pay the debts
of Lady Prudence Brooke?  But that he is able,
is quite another matter, and you may take my word
for it, that Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert couldn't pay his
own debts, if every acre he owned was free, instead
of mortgaged, lock, stock and barrel."

"You are maligning a gentleman, sir!" she
exclaimed, losing all control of her temper.  "I will
tell him how you have lied to me, and he will have
his servants beat you within an inch of your life!
Sir Geoffrey a bankrupt!—his estates mortgaged!—was
ever such a slander?  He is a man of substance,
I tell you.  I have visited him in his ancestral
domain, where he entertained me royally.  He
is lord of the manor, and has the retinue of a
duke—no man in Yorkshire is more highly
respected—he is M.F.H. and might be Sheriff of
his Riding an' he chose!"  She began to subside a
little, though still angry, and looking, it must be
owned, transcendently lovely in her excitement, with
cheeks like damask roses, and flashing sapphire
eyes.  "Good Mr. Aarons, why did you give me
such a scare?" she went on, with a ring of almost
entreaty in her tone.  "Tell me you were joking.
What can you know about Sir Geoffrey's estate?
He hath borrowed of you, mayhap; who has not?
But since he has come into his patrimony—"

"His patrimony, Lady Prudence?  His father
was one of King James' most devoted followers, and
one of the most lavish while a guinea could be raised
to prove his loyalty.  Sir Geoffrey can not cut a tree
in his 'ancestral domain,' and you may be sure there
was a bailiff or two wearing his livery among the
ducal retinue that dazzled your ladyship."

"Mr. Aarons, you must be mistaken," she
persisted stubbornly.  "If his fortunes are so low,
why does he seek to join them to those of a portionless
widow?  Sure, there are heiresses a-plenty who
would gladly buy his title with their dowries!"

"Oh! your ladyship has but to look in your mirror
to answer that question," cried the usurer, with
a low bow and a look of open admiration.  "There
are also men of wealth and substance who would
gladly pay the debts of Lady Prudence Brooke, and
settle such a fortune upon her as would keep her
busy in the spending."

"No doubt, no doubt," said Lady Prudence hastily,
"but I am betrothed to Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert,
and these benevolent persons do not greatly interest
me.  Let us quit the subject of the fortunes Sir
Geoffrey and I are throwing away, and return to
business."

"Yet believe me, Lady Prudence," he insisted,
"you will never wed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."

She rose with great haughtiness.  "I decline to
dispute the subject with you, Mr. Aarons—" she
began.

"You will not marry Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert,"
he repeated.  "If you do not refuse the match, he
will find some way to release himself; 'tis his
misfortune more than his fault.  Mark me, Lady
Prudence, and do not let him place you in a false
position.  You want to be a rich woman as well as a
great lady.  You can marry a man who will give
you the finest house in town, the most splendid
establishment, the choice of a dozen country seats, and
more money to spend than you have ever dreamed
of, and who asks nothing in return but to see you
queen it at his expense."

She smiled a little, and met his glance with a
most deceptive air of innocent curiosity.

"And who is the *gentleman*, Mr. Aarons?" she
inquired, in her sweetest tone, with but the hint
of an emphasis.

"Can you not guess?" he replied more boldly.

"Faith, I came hither seeking a money-broker,
and was not prepared to find a marriage-broker
instead!" she said, shrugging her pretty shoulders.
"Do not keep me in suspense, good Aarons; I am
dying to know the name of the admirable creature
who desires to rescue me from poverty—and Sir
Geoffrey—and confer so many benefits upon my
unworthiness."

He placed his hand upon his breast, and bowed
deeply.

"You see him here, fair Lady Prudence," he said.
"The humblest of slaves, the most ardent of
admirers and, if you will, the most devoted and
indulgent of husbands."

She burst into a peal of laughter, but the faint
note of bitterness that permeated the charming
music was not lost upon the money-lender's sharp ear.

"Truly, Mr. Aarons, your jest is subtle and
well-conceived, and a fitting rebuke to my silly vanity,"
she began.  But he interrupted her, "In truth,
Madam, 'tis no jest, but a serious offer.  I have
always admired your ladyship, and a year ago,
endeavored to give fitting expression—"

A knock on the door interrupted his flow of
eloquence, and the clerk, from without, announced that
Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert's chariot had just driven
to the door, and that "his Ludship" was in the act
of alighting.

"Great Heaven!" cried Prue, turning scarlet
and then pale.  "How shall I escape?  I would not
be found here by him for a thousand pounds!  Do
not admit him, good Mr. Aarons, I beseech you—"

"Take Sir Geoffrey up-stairs, Jacob, and tell him
I am engaged, but will wait on him anon," said the
Jew.  Then turning to his fair client with an
insinuating smile, he added, "Now, if your ladyship
chooses, you may have an opportunity of judging
between my statement of this gentleman's finances
and his own—"

He indicated, by a gesture, a door in an obscure
corner of the room.

"What! play the spy upon my betrothed
husband?  Never, never!" exclaimed Prue
indignantly.  Yet she did not go away, and her pliant
form seemed to sway toward the little dark door,
as though a stronger will than her own controlled
her muscles.

"'Tis no harm," said the Jew, in his silkiest
tones, as he opened the door leading into a room
scarcely bigger than a closet, but light, and furnished
with a single chair, and a table littered with papers
and thick with dust.

Half-involuntarily, Prue yielded, and the door
closed upon her.  "I need not listen," she said,
half-apologizing to herself for an action she disdained.
But the room was small, and that, perhaps, was why
she did not think it worth while to move away from
the door.

The blood rushed to her head when she heard
Sir Geoffrey's voice, and for some moments she was
conscious of nothing but a confused murmur, out
of which, at last, her own name rang sharp and
clear.

"The Lady Prudence Brooke has honored me by
accepting my hand," she heard Sir Geoffrey say, in
a tone that was evidently intended to discourage
adverse comment.

"I congratulate your Honor," said Aarons politely.
"The lady's charms do credit to your choice.
But such luxuries are costly, and I am not surprised
that you need money.  It is unfortunate that times
are so hard and money so scarce.  I have just
suffered a terrible loss.  The death of Lord
Boscommon, whose father survives him, has turned ten
thousand pounds' worth of post-obits into waste
paper, and the failure of Johnson and—but this
does not interest your Honor.  Beset as I am, I
shall be able to accommodate an old and valued
client like yourself, no doubt, if the security is
satisfactory.  You have good security to offer, of
course?"

"Oh! it is no use beating about the bush with
you, Aarons.  I have no fresh security, but you can
surely let me have a couple of thousand more on
the Yorkshire estate."

"Not a stiver," said the money-lender firmly.
"Even the entailed property is encumbered beyond
its utmost value.  Had you come to announce your
marriage with Miss Cheeseman, the Alderman's
daughter, or Mrs. Goldthwaite, the banker's widow,
I do not say I would have refused the necessary
funds for the courtship and wedding on your
note-of-hand.  But the Viscountess Brooke is
dowerless—over head and ears in debt, and without a
penny of expectations."

"Miserable little Jew," muttered the fair dame
he so pitilessly anatomized; "Geoffrey will kill him."

"Dowerless, yes; over head and ears in debt,
possibly; but not without expectations," said Sir
Geoffrey, displaying none of the anticipated fury.
"You overlook the fact that she is the favorite
granddaughter of Lady Drumloch, who, for all
her miserly ways, I am credibly informed, is
enormously wealthy."

"Oho!" cried the Jew, maliciously enjoying this
display of a motive not altogether flattering to the
unsuspected listener.  "Your Honor is not quite so
simple as I began to fear."

"Did you really think I was fool enough
to leap before looking?" retorted Sir Geoffrey, with
a fatuous laugh that set Prue's ears tingling.
"To be sure, the wealth of Golconda could not add
to the Lady Prue's charms, but in this wicked
world one can not live on love, and as I have little
else to offer, I rejoice, for her sake as well as my
own, that she has a rich grandmother, who can not,
it is to be hoped—I should say, lamented—live
long to enjoy her hoards.  They will, I am
convinced, be put to excellent use by Lady Prudence
Beaudesert."

"But how, if I could prove to you, Sir Geoffrey,
that Lady Drumloch, instead of being a rich miser,
is a very poor old woman, whose kinsman loans her
a house to live in, and whose sole income is an
annuity, from which she has—perhaps—saved
enough to bury her?  I know not who may have
told you of this fabled wealth, but I am pretty sure
it is not either of her granddaughters."

"Indeed, no," said Sir Geoffrey reflectively.
"No such sordid subject has ever been broached
between us.  Yet I had it from a reliable source."

"Well, I advise you to make very sure of it, Sir
Geoffrey; it will be no kindness, either to yourself
or the Lady Prudence, to marry her without either
of you having anything you can call your own—except
your debts."

"'Tis true," muttered the baronet.  "If I can
not raise a thousand pounds—are Lady Prudence's
debts so very great?"

"I do not betray the secrets of one client to
another," said Aarons, with a sinister smile.  "Even
now I have acted against my own interests in my
desire to befriend two headstrong young people.
Nay, I would gladly go further, and find a rich
wife for your Honor and a rich husband for the
viscountess, if you would both listen to reason."

"Thanks, good Aarons," said Sir Geoffrey,
moving toward the door; "I appreciate your good will
at its full value.  A rich wife—of your providing—to
pay my debts, and a rich husband, on the same
terms, for Lady Prudence, would make four fools
for the benefit of one wise man."

"Your Honor flatters me!" said Aarons obsequiously.
They passed out of the room together, and
as he closed the door behind him, the money-lender
remarked, in the most casual manner, "I had a
visit from the lady but an hour agone, praying me
for a loan of a few hundred pounds, at any interest,
on the strength of her approaching marriage with
your Honor."

Sir Geoffrey started, and a curious light came into
his cold, handsome eyes.

"'Sdeath!" he ejaculated, "the lady doth me too
much honor!"

"I was most reluctantly compelled to refuse the
loan, for the same reason that she gave for requesting
it," said the usurer, as he respectfully bowed
his visitor out.  "But in the meantime, if I can
serve you in any other direction, pray command me."

When he returned alone, he found Lady Prudence
arranging her hood with a weary air.

"Prithee, Mr. Aarons, is my chair at the door?"
she demanded, cutting short his apologies for
detaining her.  "You and your client have well-nigh
sent me to sleep with your long conference.  Sure,
you have kept me shut up in the cupboard, while
you transacted the business of a dozen petitioners."

"Your ladyship was probably unable to overhear
our conversation?" he retorted, with a shrewd
smile.  "'Tis a pity, for it would have interested
you vastly."

"Did you, indeed, think I would condescend to
listen at the keyhole?" cried Prue, with a superb
air of disdain.  "Believe me, I do not take quite
so much interest in the clients of Mr. Aarons!  Is
my chair at the door?  Then let me begone.  My
grandmother will marvel at my absence, and ask
more questions than I shall be able to invent
answers to."

The Jew accompanied her out to her chair, bare-headed,
and as he handed her in, said, in his voice of
curiously blended humility and power, "I shall hear
from your ladyship again, when you and Sir
Geoffrey have had time for reflection."





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.. _`A WIDOW ON MONDAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   A WIDOW ON MONDAY

.. vspace:: 2

That day was destined to be one of accumulated
trials to Prue's patience.  Her ruffled
temper had scarcely calmed down by the time
she reached home, and found that, during her
absence, communications had been received from the
attorneys of various tradespeople, warning her that
Mr. Aarons' view of her position was by no means
exaggerated.

Although she had rigidly refrained from
announcing her projected marriage, in deference to
Lady Drumloch's opposition, the news had crept
out in the mysterious way such things have of
proclaiming themselves, and had led to a general
investigation of Sir Geoffrey's solvency, by those
whose only hope of payment depended upon her
future husband's wealth.  The immediate result of
these researches displayed itself in the unanimous
determination of her creditors to be paid before she
could shelter herself under the coverture of a
husband whose parliamentary privileges placed him
out of their reach.

This blow was the more crushing because it came
from those who had encouraged her extravagance
and played upon her vanity while she was the favorite
of the all-powerful Duchess of Marlborough, and
lady-in-waiting to the queen.  Then, every
temptation was thrown in her way, and the day of
reckoning was never mentioned, unless in sly allusion to
the dazzling, ever-changing panorama of her
matrimonial prospects.

But, now, circumstances were different.  To tell
the truth, the fair viscountess had left London a
year ago under the cloud of royal displeasure.  Her
extravagance at the card-table and elsewhere, her
mad-cap frolics and countless flirtations—culminating
in a fatal duel and a brilliant engagement
broken off almost at the church-door—had
brought upon her a sharp rebuke from the queen,
coupled with a command to seek time for reflection
and penitence in some retreat far enough removed
from the court to relieve her of its temptations.

Under this ban, she had thrown herself upon the
hospitality of her brother-in-law, himself somewhat
out of favor, in consequence of his Jacobite
tendencies, and living in comparative seclusion upon
his heavily mortgaged estate in Yorkshire.  There,
Prue had held a little court of fox-hunting squires
and provincial notables, until, wearying for a more
congenial atmosphere, she gladly seized upon the
illness of her grandmother as an excuse for a hasty
and unheralded visit to London, where her bosom
friend, Lady Barbara Sweeting, having paved the
way for her, met her with the delightful news that
her escapades were forgotten and her absence
bewailed, and being on the spot, her unauthorized
return would meet with no severe reprimand, but
rather with a joyous welcome.

Prue knew the advantage of striking while the
iron is hot.  She was well aware of the fickleness of
the great, and the importance of catching the smile
of royalty before it has had time to cool off into
a frown.  So, being assured that the hand of
welcome was graciously beckoning her, it did seem the
irony of fate that she must needs hang back because
her wardrobe was in Yorkshire, and her chance of
redeeming or replacing it even more distant.

At this exasperating crisis, it was only natural
that her mind should revert persistently to the one
spot of light in the gloom.  Was it a beacon of hope
or an illusory will-o'-the-wisp?  Had Sir Geoffrey
been misled, or was he trying to mislead Mr. Aarons?

"Can grannie really be a miser?" she had asked
both herself and Peggie a dozen times in the course
of the day.  She longed to question Sir Geoffrey
as to the source of his information, yet dared not
reveal the little she knew, for fear he might wonder
how she had come by that little.

Peggie laughed heartily at the suggestion of Lady
Drumloch's wealth, and vowed it must be a myth.
"Could she have kept such a secret from us for all
these years?" she asked.  "Never once giving us
a hint of it, and never once relaxing the austerity of
her life, even now she is old and sick?  Besides,
how would it help us now, if she had a cellar full
of gold, since she will not give us a guinea or a
gown?  You have so many friends, Prue; will none
of them help you out?"

"The women will not help me; they are only
too glad to keep me out in the cold," said Prue
pettishly, "and I am neither old enough nor ugly
enough, to ask favors of a man, even a money-lender,"
she added, contemptuously reminiscent of
Mr. Aarons' advances.  "Pray, open the window,
coz.  These distracting cares make me so faint,
I feel as though I should die for lack of air."

Peggie obeyed, and Prue, seating herself near
the window, gradually ceased her lamentations and
fell silent.  The outside noises floated up
confusedly—the roll of a passing carriage, the
quarrelsome shouts of waiting chairmen, and clear above
all, the voice of the newsman, calling the details of
yesterday's cock-fight and the latest scandal.

"Rumor of a great battle in the Netherlands—Arrival
of a queen's courier with sealed despatches
from the seat of war—Exciting scene in the
House of Commons—Threatened resignation of
Lord Godolphin from the Cabinet—Trial and
sentence of Robin Freemantle, the highwayman.
Story of his Life and confessions—How he fell
from virtue and respectability to end his days on
Tyburn Tree next Monday."

"Dost thou hear that, Peggie?" cried Prue;
"the bold highwayman who kissed me on
Bleakmoor is condemned to die for other crimes,
perchance less heinous!"

"'Tis a natural death for such as he," quoth
Peggie philosophically.

"And yet, he was a gallant man; young, I'll be
sworn, and handsome, belike.  It seems strange to
think that such hot blood will be cold in the veins
of a corpse in less than a week—"

"Art going to wear weeds for him, coz, because
he snatched a kiss from you?" teased Peggie.

"Not I! but mayhap some poor wretch is breaking
her heart because she'll be a widow o' Monday,"
said Prue pensively.

"All her debts will be paid along with the debt
of nature," said Peggie flippantly.  "Don't you
think you could easily console yourself in her case?"

"Forsooth, yes!" cried Prue, quickly recovering
her vivacity.  "I would I were like to be the
widow of somebody—somebody I don't care for,
of course—within a week.  Then I could laugh at
that old villain Aarons, and the rest of the
pettifoggers, with their threats of the debtors' prison!
Sure, there must be a special hell for Jews and lawyers!"

Peggie gave her hearty acquiescence and returned
to her book, and for some time no sound was heard
except an occasional smothered laugh, when
Mr. Pope's highly-spiced rhymes tickled her fancy more
than usual.  Prue fell into a somber reverie, and
with the tip of her taper finger between her teeth,
became so buried in thought, that a sharp little line
began to trace itself distinctly between her drawn
brows.  Outside, the newsman's voice, gradually
fading in the distance, still repeated, "Buy the life
and confessions of Robin Freemantle, the notorious
highwayman—only sixpence."

Prue sprang to her feet, at last.  "Margaret!"
she exclaimed, and her voice had a curiously
unfamiliar ring.

Her cousin started.  Prue had not called her by
her full name in many a day.

"Margaret, if this highwayman has no wife—people
of that sort don't marry, usually—what is
to prevent his marrying me, and leaving me a
widow on Monday, with all my debts buried in his
coffin?"

Peggie had been so often participator and prime
minister of Prue's exploits, that she was not easily
astonished by her.  But this proposition was so
entirely outside the bounds of reason, that she could
only shake her head vigorously, without even a
word of protest.

"'Tis not so reckless as it seems, Peggie," said
Prue, sitting down beside her and passing a
coaxing arm round her shoulders.  "Listen, dear Peg.
The man must die; God's pity on him!  What can
it matter to me to be his wife for a few hours;
what can it matter to him to ease me of my debts?
They will not trouble him in the next world; neither
will I."

"You'll be none the richer for such a mad freak,"
Peggie remonstrated.

"I'll be out of danger of the Fleet, though!"
cried Prue, renewing her caresses.  "Fancy your
poor little cousin in a debtors' prison, Peggie, with
all sorts of wretches who can not pay their butchers
and bakers—and miserable cheats and swindlers,
so mean and low that they have not a soul to help
them—and fancy me just as ill-off and forlorn as
they!"  Peggie began to melt.  "You saw that
letter from Madame Taffetine's lawyer, 'Unless
we receive the payment, so frequently promised,
within forty-eight hours, the law will be enforced
without any further delay.'  The other man is even
more explicit; he threatens me with imprisonment
in so many words!  Oh!  Peggie, I am the most
miserable girl in the world!"

"Sir Geoffrey will marry you, and you will both
be safe and happy," counseled Peggie.

"Sir Geoffrey!  I'm not so sure I wouldn't
rather marry the highwayman!" cried Prue.  "At
any rate, I can not offer myself to him, and I
doubt if he be in the mood to hurry me.  Besides,
there's like to be a dissolution of Parliament, and
then he'll be in a worse plight than I am now.  'Tis
true," she laughed, but not quite merrily, "there
is Mr. Aarons, who was kind enough to place his
hand and his money-bags at my feet, but the doors
that are open to the poor Viscountess Brooke, might
be slammed in the face of the rich Lady Prudence
Aarons!"

"Robin Freemantle would be better than Mr. Aarons,"
Peggie conceded.

"Robin Freemantle, at this moment, will do
better than any one else," said Prue.  "I tell you,
Peggie, my mind is made up.  You may as well
help me, for if you don't, I'll do it all alone—but
you won't desert me, will you, Peggie, dearest?"  So,
with tears and kisses and wiles most varied, but
all through with a stubborn self-will that had often
before subdued Peggie's feeble scruples, Prue
won her at last, not merely as a confidante, but as
an accomplice.

As soon as the whimsical creature found that
there was nothing to fear from her cousin's opposition,
her spirits rose at the prospect of an adventure
even more reckless and madcap than usual.  She
ran on with a thousand absurd suggestions, until
Peggie, infected by her mood, offered to visit the
prison at Newgate, and lay Prue's proposal
before the highwayman.

"You know, you told him I was your maid," she
said, "and 'tis one of a maid's chief duties to carry
messages for her mistress; messages of doubtful
discretion especially.  I can remind him of the
meeting on Bleakmoor, and introduce myself as
having witnessed the kiss which ignited a flame in
your heart, that can only be quenched by a marriage
*in extremis*."

"Make use of what arguments you please, Peg,
and for credential, take with you the purse he
bestowed in charity on the poor widow, who now
implores a still greater favor from him.  Alack! the
purse is well-nigh empty, but there's enough left
in it to bribe the jailers to admit a lady of high
degree, who comes to find out if the condemned
man can put her in the way to recover the jewelry
she was robbed of on the Queen's Highway."

"To-day is Thursday, Prue," said Peggie,
proceeding to prepare for her errand without delay.
"Thou'lt not wed o' Friday?  'Tis unlucky!"

"Unlucky!  Dost think there's any luck, good or
ill, about such a marriage?" cried Prue, dropping
suddenly into a shuddering despondency.  "Friday
is as good a day as any for one's undoing, and
Saturday's too long; 'twould give me time to change
my mind."

"There's time enough for that now," quoth Peggie
philosophically.  "The banns are not yet asked,
nor even the wooing sped.  'Twere wiser, perhaps,
to repent to-day than regret to-morrow."

"Do you think so, Peggie?  So do not I.  If I
do have to repent, it shall not be for an opportunity
missed for a coward scruple.  Here, let me tie this
long, black veil over your hood, Peg; it will make
you look like a mourner, and with your handkerchief
to your face, you might defy even the sharp
eyes of Lowton herself."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A MATTER OF TITLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   A MATTER OF TITLE

.. vspace:: 2

As Peggie, veiled and muffled up, with the
curtains of her sedan-chair drawn—but not
closely enough to interfere with her outlook—was
borne toward the city, she passed a handsome
chariot, driven rapidly in the opposite direction.

The glimpse she caught of the occupants caused
her great amusement.  Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert
was seated beside a young man, richly dressed and
handsome, but sallow and hollow-cheeked.  This
was Lord Beachcombe, whose marriage with Lady
Prudence Brooke had been abruptly broken off about
a year ago, in consequence of a scandal raised by a
certain Captain O'Keefe, who considered himself
ill-used by the lady, and whose insulting strictures
upon her conduct led to a fatal duel with Sir
Geoffrey, and resulted in the promise of her hand
to the champion of her honor.  The sight of Prue's
former and present lovers together, struck Peggie
as particularly funny, in connection with her own
queer errand.  If she could have overheard their
conversation, it would have given additional zest
to the situation.

"Faith," Lord Beachcombe was saying, "if you
are really bent on marrying the lovely widow, I
wish you better luck than I had."

"I *am* bent on it, with my whole heart and soul,"
Sir Geoffrey replied, doggedly rather than
enthusiastically.  "*I* am not a man to be turned from my
purpose by an idle word."

The other laughed carelessly.  "No man in your
condition takes warning by other men's misfortunes,"
he remarked.  "But there's still hope for
you; you are not her husband yet."

"No, but I swear I will be, and soon, too!"
exclaimed Sir Geoffrey.  "I won her at the sword's
point, and by the God above us, I'll wear her!"

"Will you bet?" demanded the other, with a
sneer.  Gambling was the most fashionable vice of
that day, and few subjects were too great or too
small to hang a wager upon.

"Aye, Lord Beachcombe, if you want to lose
money, I'll not deny you the opportunity," laughed
Sir Geoffrey, recovering his good humor.  "What
do you want to wager?  Fifty guineas? a hundred?"

"Fifty or a hundred guineas is all too small a
wager for so important a matter," said Lord
Beachcombe slowly, as though considering the exact sum
demanded by the occasion.  "Let us say a
thousand—or five thousand."

Sir Geoffrey was staggered by the amount, but
he was as ardent a gambler as his companion, and
reputed a much luckier one.  "As your lordship
pleases," he replied, with well-assumed indifference.
"But I warn you that the higher the stake, the more
certain I shall be to win it, even if I have to carry
the lady off by force."

"Oh! if you have to resort to force—"

"If I have to resort to force, the stake should be
doubled!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey, "but I have no
fear of that.  Did your lordship say a thousand? or
was it five?"

"Let it be five thousand," returned Beachcombe.
"I'll wager five thousand guineas that you do not
marry the Viscountess Brooke within—shall we
say a month?"

Sir Geoffrey signified his satisfaction; each
gentleman made a memorandum of the bet, and as the
carriage had already been standing some minutes at
Prue's door, her betrothed alighted, thanked his
friend for his courtesy in giving him a lift, and
hastened in to press his suit with renewed ardor.

As the carriage was driven off Lord Beachcombe
pulled the check-string and ordered the coachman to
drive with all speed to Newgate Prison.

.. vspace:: 2

Newgate Prison, in the reign of Queen Anne, was
a festering sink of iniquity and horror.  Almost
every crime under the sun was punishable by
death—from stealing a penny loaf to robbing a
church, and from snaring a pheasant to slaughtering
a family.  In fact the laws in relation to property
were far more strictly enforced than those for
the protection of human life, unless the value of
the life was enhanced by the rights of property.
There, in noisome pens, criminals of every degree
herded together—men, women and children—all
brought to an equality under the shadow of the
gallows.  But money was just as powerful there as
anywhere else, and the prisoner who could pay
might have privacy, company, the best of food and
wine—everything except cleanliness—that no
power could bring into Newgate Prison, and it
needed the cleansing fires of destruction to purge
it off the face of the earth.

Robin Freemantle, the condemned highwayman,
had money enough to secure him a cell to himself.
One of the poorer prisoners, for a consideration,
had swept it out, and he had hired a table and chair
from the jailer at about twice the price for which
they had been bought ten years ago.

At his table he sat writing, with a bottle of wine
at his elbow, and the debris of a substantial meal on
a tray.  Through a barred window above his head
enough light slunk reluctantly in to show the fine
athletic form and bronzed, manly face, on which
the pallor of imprisonment was already toning down
the ruddy glow of health.  On the page before him
he had inscribed but four words, at which he sat
gazing irresolutely while he nibbled the feather of
his pen.  The key turned in the lock and a hoarse
voice outside announced, "A visitor for you, Robin
Highwayman."

Lord Beachcombe walked in, and the door closed
behind him.

Robin rose.  "Welcome, my Lord," he said, with
an unmistakable ring of relief in his tone.  "Your
promptitude will do us both a good turn."

"I received your letter, fellow," said the other
haughtily, "and I confess I was curious to learn
how a man of education had fallen to your
condition."  His eye glanced upon Robin's left arm,
which he wore in a sling, as though he marveled why
it had been thought worth while to mend a collar-bone
upon which the neck was set so insecurely.

"Take this chair, my Lord.  I have but one in
my spacious apartment.  I'll sit here."  He moved
to the cot and his visitor sat down, not without
some show of reluctance.

"And now, be brief," said Lord Beachcombe,
watching him narrowly, "and let me know the
service *you* wish to render *me*"—with a sneer—"and
the price you expect for it.  I do not remember
ever having been waylaid by you, so you can
not have stolen jewels to restore."

"Yet your lordship has some idea of what I have
to offer—not to restore, for you never possessed
it—and if I die on Monday, will never know the full
worth of it until too late.  Your lordship has a
lawsuit pending involving your title and estate—"

"Every one knows that," said Beachcombe irritably.
"Some mysterious person has claimed to
be my elder brother.  The thing is manifestly
impossible, but he appears to have interested a lawyer
of sorts."

"The thing is not impossible, Lord Beachcombe.
It is true.  It is also true that this claimant can
deprive you not only of your title and estates, but of
your very name."

"You are mad!  If such a thing were possible,
what is it to you, and how can you know anything
about it?"

"Because all the papers are in my possession.
Oh! not here—in perfectly safe keeping; where
they will remain until I die, or claim them back."

"How came they in your possession?"
demanded Beachcombe.  "In robbing a coach, I
suppose you took them for something valuable."

"They came into my possession by the action of
Providence, to afford your lordship the chance of
giving me my life and keeping your own honorable
name."

"Your life, my good fellow!  You overrate my
power and your own value.  If your papers are
worth anything, I'll give you all the money you
ask for your own spending, and the provision of
those you leave behind—"

"We'll come to that presently," said Robin.
"First, I'll tell you what I have to offer.  Some
thirty years ago—while His Majesty King Charles
was on the throne—a certain lieutenant of the
Guards, younger son of a great earl's younger
brother, fell in love with a poor schoolmaster's pretty
daughter.  Passing himself off as a stage-player,
under the name of Gregory Vincent, he won the
young woman's affection, though not, apparently,
her complete confidence; for she went to the pains
of investigating the gentleman's private life, and
discovered his real name.  Then she consented to a
secret marriage, at which she substituted a real
priest and legal papers for the sham ones with
which her honorable lover had intended to cozen her."

"This story has already been communicated to
my attorneys," interrupted Lord Beachcombe
impatiently.  "How are you acquainted with it, and
why do you expect it to interest me in you?"

"I know it because a vast number of letters,
written by this gentleman, first to his sweetheart
and afterward to his wife, have fallen into my
hands.  They tell the whole history, with many
entertaining details, and would prove racy reading
in the *News* sheet for your lordship's friends and
foes, especially the latter."

The visitor winced.  "No man likes his family
affairs held up to ridicule," he said.  "I would
willingly buy the letters, if genuine."

"Oh! they are genuine; also the marriage certificate,
whereof one of the witnesses is still living,
and the certificates of the birth and baptism of the
son, now twenty-eight years old.  I believe your
lordship is twenty-six?"

"And why has this matter been allowed to sleep
for thirty years?"

"Because Mrs. Vincent—as she temporarily
allowed herself to be called—although clever enough
to find out that her stage-player lover was really
a lieutenant of the King's Guards, masquerading
under a false name, was unable to trace him when
he disappeared, a year after their marriage, and
never knew that in consequence of several deaths,
he had become Lord Beachcombe, of whom she
probably never heard, and certainly never
connected with Lieutenant Gregory de Cliffe.  The
last of this series of documents is the certificate
of the death of the deserted wife, when her son
was about five years old, to whom she bequeathed
only her wedding-ring and a casket, which was to
be opened when he came to man's estate."

Lord Beachcombe's sallow face crimsoned with
such a rush of blood, that his eyes were suffused,
and he seemed in danger of suffocating.

"Five years," he gasped.  "Scoundrel, do you
know what you are saying?"

Robin bent his head, without speaking.

"Where are these forgeries?  These—these—"
Beachcombe stopped, apparently unable to utter
another word.

"As I told you before, they are quite safe," said
Robin quietly.  "But an hour after my death, they
will be in the hands of the person whom they most
concern."

"And do you—does this impostor imagine that
he can oust a peer of the realm with a few old
letters and musty documents, forsooth?" cried the
earl, recovering himself a little.  "We nobles hang
together, Sir Highwayman, and are chary of
disturbing one of our order for a trifle."

"I do not know whether he can oust you, Lord
Beachcombe," said Robin, looking him steadily in
the eye, "but he can prove you a bastard."

Beachcombe sprang to his feet, with hand on
sword, as though he would have drawn it on the
defenseless prisoner, and stood, breathing heavily,
unable to utter a word.

"We are alone, my Lord, and not one word that
passes between us need ever be repeated outside
this cell," said Robin; "that is, if you agree to my
terms.  Otherwise, I may feel compelled to make
terms with your cousin, who would be the inheritor
if you were—illegitimate, and your *elder brother*
were—could be induced to waive his claim."

Lord Beachcombe bent a furtive but piercing
regard upon the prisoner.  "And how can you
answer for him?" he asked, slowly weighing his
words.  "If I buy you off, I may have to fight
him in the law courts afterward.  Oh! 'tis
intolerable—it's a conspiracy—it must be a lie—my
father a bigamist!—my mother—!  Villain, you
shall hang for calling me bastard, if for nothing
else."

"I think not," said Robin.  "Your unborn child
may be a son, whose fate hangs upon your word.
The rightful heir values my life so highly, that he
himself has instigated this offer.  He is willing to
give all his documents in exchange for my life and
liberty.  Furthermore, for a sum of money sufficient
to carry him abroad and start him in life, he
will sign a deed, if you will have one drawn up,
resigning all claims on the title or estates of
Beachcombe.  Is that explicit enough?"

During this speech, Lord Beachcombe had
quieted down, and was now seated opposite the
prisoner, whom he regarded with fixed attention.

"What does your claimant call himself?  Under
what name is he known?" he demanded abruptly.

"You can not know it without perusing the documents,"
said Robin, "and you can not do that until
I am free to bring them to you myself."

"I tell you," exclaimed the earl pettishly, "that
you overestimate my influence.  How can I obtain
the pardon of a highwayman who attacked the Lord
Archbishop?"

"I took nothing from his grace but his wig!"
cried Robin, with a boisterous laugh, "and so that
he might not catch cold in his venerable head, I
gave him in exchange a comfortable cotton
nightcap, that had once been the property of the Mayor
of York!  'Twas a fair exchange, and methinks
the archbishop would scarcely wish me hanged for
a joke, when I might have stripped him of a
coachful of treasure."

Lord Beachcombe rose.  "There are yet three
days," he said grudgingly.  "I'll see what can be
done."

"Three days for *me*, my Lord, but not for you,"
said Robin significantly.  "I must know by this
time to-morrow what my chances are with you, for
the letter I was inditing to your cousin Francis can
not be delayed longer than that."

"Francis!" sneered Lord Beachcombe.  "What
do you imagine he can do for you?  A man whose
name is hardly known at court!  An indolent
recluse; a mere bumpkin!"

"For me?  Probably nothing," Robin replied, in
a stern, threatening tone.  "But what can he do
for you, with those papers in his possession?  I
may be dead before they reach him, but my revenge
will be sure, in his hands."

"Do you suppose he will put himself out for
you—*your claimant*?  You evidently don't know
Francis."

"I do not know him, but I know human nature,"
retorted Robin.  "What heir does not live in hopes
of some day inheriting?  I shall make no conditions
with him, but place the proof of your father's
first marriage in his hands.  Can you doubt that he
will use that weapon to put himself in your place?
Oh! don't flatter yourself that my death will clear
the worst danger out of your path.  Alive, you
have a dozen ways of silencing me; dead, I have
one way to ruin you—utterly."

The two men regarded each other for a few
seconds intently.  Robin's face expressed cold,
implacable determination, the other, deadly hostility.
Lord Beachcombe turned suddenly and rapped
sharply on the door.  It was instantly opened by
the jailer, and he strode out without another word
or glance.

Robin flung himself into the chair, and gave way
to a deep and gloomy reverie.  From time to time,
broken sentences escaped him.  "What is the use,
after all?"—"It makes little difference whether I
die now, or live to be hanged some other time"—and
other remarks of a pessimistic and dismal
nature.  Then he fell to writing, but after a while,
tore the paper into shreds, and sat moodily watching
the sallow reflection of daylight fading slowly
behind the bars.





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.. _`A WEDDING-RING FOR A KISS`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A WEDDING-RING FOR A KISS

.. vspace:: 2

Robin had been alone half-an-hour or so, when
the door was again opened, and another
visitor announced.

"Here, Highwayman," cried the jailer, "a lady
wants to see you now.  You Knights of the Road
are always in favor with the women."

"I know no women," said Robin roughly.  "Certainly
none that would come here to see me."

"Well, shall this one come in?" demanded the
jailer.  "I'll warrant she's young and pretty, and
a real lady, too!  She came in a chair!"

"Oh! let her in, let her in.  Pray don't keep a
real lady waiting in the passage," said Robin, who
foresaw some begging petition, or, perhaps, the
request of some frolicsome damsel for a lock of his
hair for her album, or a bequest of the rope that
hanged him, for luck!  "Be seated, Madam," he
added, as a slender figure, wrapped in a heavy
cloak and closely veiled, glided timidly into the cell.
"What service can I render you?"

"Can I have a few words alone with you?"
murmured the visitor.  The jailer, who had been
hanging round, curious to see and hear, withdrew,
with a laugh and a coarse jest, and locked the door
after him.

The lady threw off her veil, revealing the homely
features and sparkling eyes of Margaret Moffat.

"You know me not," she said.  "Yet we have
met before, Robin Freemantle."

"I can not believe," replied Robin gallantly,
"that, once seen, you could ever be forgotten by me."

"Well, possibly you did not see me; one far
more attractive engrossed all your attention, and
'tis from her I come, to ask as favor from you,
that which many of the highest in the land have
offered in vain."

"You puzzle me greatly," said Robin.  "What
favor can any lady desire of a man as good as dead?"

"Why—that's just where it is—an' you were
not condemned to die, you could do nothing for
my lady."

"My lady!  And who is your lady, may I ask?"

"I'll tell that presently; but first, before I reveal
her name, tell me one thing truly.  Are you
married?"

"Married?  No, the Saints be praised! but how
can that concern your lady?  Does she wish to
marry me, perchance?" cried Robin ironically.

"That is just what she does wish," said Margaret,
as demurely as though she had really been
the waiting-maid she feigned to be.  "And for a
token, she sends you this."  And she threw down
before him the wallet he had flung into Prue's
lap on Bleakmoor.

He took it up, recognizing it with a whirling
brain.  The whole scene sprang up before him as
under a sudden illumination—the gathering
darkness and the falling rain—the old chariot, with
its steaming horses and frightened servants—and
by the light of his lantern, the lovely face of a girl,
with her hood thrown back and a tangle of dark
curls against the milky whiteness of her neck.  He
saw the round, bare arms and tapering hands
extended, to show that she had no jewels about her,
the roguish smile disclosing the little even teeth
and sparkling in the depths of the starry eyes, and
for a moment his lips once more brushed her scarlet
mouth, and the perfume of her breath again clouded
his brain.

Margaret watched him with amusement, as his
face disclosed something of the varying emotions,
over which amazement predominated.

"Does that surprise you?" she inquired mockingly.
"Sure, 'tis no uncommon thing for a man
to pay for a kiss with a wedding-ring!"

"There must be some other reason," he said,
more to himself than in reply to her.  "That kiss
meant nothing to *her*."

"Did it mean anything to you?" asked Margaret,
beginning to feel interested.

"To me?"  His face was suddenly irradiated.
"You, who bask in the light of that incomparable
loveliness all the time, can never understand what
it means to the man who sees it for the first
time—and not only sees, but touches!—touches with his
unworthy lips that cheek of down—those lips!
Ah! how many times since have I felt the thrill of
that kiss, and wondered if she could recall it
without horror."

"Well, horror can scarcely be the sentiment you
inspired, since she wishes to marry you," simpered
Peggie.

The mist of passion suddenly cleared from his
eyes, and he bent on her so steady and penetrating
a glance, that her eyes fell, and she waited
nervously for his next words to give the cue to his
thoughts.

"Ha! she wishes to marry me?" he said slowly.
"Is it an honest wish of her own, or is it a trap
set by some one else?"

"Oh! indeed, it is entirely her own idea!" cried
Margaret eagerly; "not a soul has any suspicion
of it but herself and me, and if you refuse, you
will not even know her name, and the secret will
be buried in your grave."

"Then give me a reason," he said, apparently
relieved by her unmistakable honesty.  "Give me
the real reason, for I see this is something more
than a mere fine lady's caprice."

Margaret felt a little natural embarrassment—the
man was so different from what she had expected,
that the little plans she had devised on her
way to the prison, did not fit into the circumstances.

"In truth Prue—I mean the Lady Prudence—is
deeply in debt and much harassed by her creditors,
who threaten her with the Fleet, and I know
not what beside," she blurted out.  "Now, if she
were your wife, her debts would be your debts, and
as you, alack, must die on Monday, no one can
make your widow pay your debts!"

"So 'tis my *widow* the Lady Prudence desires to
be; not my wife!" said Robin, with a bitter smile.

.. _`"So 'tis my widow she desires to be!"`:

.. figure:: images/img-064.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "So 'tis my widow she desires to be!"

   "So 'tis my widow she desires to be!"

"What difference does that make?" cried Margaret,
greatly relieved at having got over the worst
of her mission.  "An' if you think so much of a
kiss, I'll warrant my lady will not refuse one to
her *husband*."

"Aye, such a kiss as I snatched from her on
Bleakmoor, with lips denied and cheek averted.
Or such a kiss as she might leave on the face of
a dead stranger; as cold as the corpse itself."

"'Twill be your own fault if you get nothing
better than that," cried Peggie, with a glance that
had something of challenge in it.  "On Bleakmoor,
Lady Prudence had not seen your face; how could
she tell you were not some blackavised desperado?
There is not a handsome young gallant behind every
robber's mask."

Robin burst out laughing.  "Thanks, sweetheart!"
he cried.  "I trust my bride-elect has as
kind a disposition as her messenger.  Yet what
does it matter to me?

   |  "'Be she meeker, kinder than
   |  Turtle-dove or pelican;
   |  If she be not so to me,
   |  What care I how kind she be?'"

His rich voice filled the squalid cell with burst of
rollicking melody.  "If she be a very Xantippe,
I shall not suffer from her temper," he went on.
"And, by the way, I do not yet know the name of
the lady who has honored me by the offer of her
hand—in widowhood."

"That I can not tell you, until I know your
intentions," said Margaret.  "First, will you marry
her?"

"Will I marry her?  Surely, she is not accustomed
to sue in vain for men's hearts and hands!
They must fall under her feet—as I do—when
she but glances at them.  Aye, I will marry her,
though death himself ties the nuptial knot."

"That is settled, then—" Peggie was beginning
philosophically.

"Settled, perhaps, as far as I am concerned; but
what about your lady?  Will her caprice last out
until you return, think you, or will she be likely to
stay in the same mind until to-morrow?  'Tis
nothing to her, mayhap, to set a poor prisoner's brain
afire, and bid him welcome death because it brings
him five minutes of her company.  I may dream
myself her husband for a few hours, and forget
everything else in the delicious hope of seeing her
again; but what of her?  By the time you go back
to her, she may have changed her mind, or found
some less objectionable way of paying her debts!"

"'Tis like enough," she replied coolly.  "You
would not be the first she has served in that fashion.
You must take your chance of that."

"I'll take my chance," the prisoner acquiesced.

"Very well.  Now, will you swear not to reveal
the marriage to any one?—unless it be your
father-confessor, if you have one."

"That I will willingly swear.  If she can keep
the secret herself, it will be safe enough in my
grave."

"Now, I have only one more thing to ask.  You
must not be offended, but—is Robin Freemantie
your true name?  I know you 'Knights of the
Road' do, sometimes, masquerade in name as well
as in person, so perhaps you may have another
name—not quite so—celebrated?"

"Aha! my lady wants a respectable grave to bury
her debts in!" cried Robin, laughing sarcastically.
"I am fortunate in being able to satisfy her even
in this.  I *have* another name, and a friend who
will claim my body after I am hanged, and bury
me where my disconsolate widow may, if she wish,
raise a monument to commemorate my virtues and
her woes."  He wrote the name on a sheet of paper
and handed it to her.

"And have *you* no condition to make?" asked
Peggie, rising.

"What condition should I make?" demanded
Robin, somewhat sternly.  "Will she try to save
my life, who only seeks to profit by my death?
No! it will be reward enough to hold her hand
for five minutes, while the priest makes her my
wife; for just so long as I can coax her to keep
her carriage waiting!  No conditions for me.  Yet,
stay; I'll make one that will not hurt her pride or
wound her vanity.  Tell her I demand that she
comes to me, looking her prettiest, as becomes a
bride.  I'll feast my eyes upon her loveliness, and
if she'll but kiss me once, I'd thank them if they
would take me out and hang me before the kiss
had time to grow cold on my lips.  Fare-thee-well,
sweetheart, since you must go, and thanks for your
company.  Take my lady back my wallet, and let
me first fill it with gold pieces for yourself."

"No, no!" cried Peggie, not quite able to act up
to the character of waiting-woman to the extent
of accepting a fee for her mediation.  "My lady
would be vexed with me, if I took aught from you
but your consent to marry her."

"And this," he cried, gaily kissing her.  "I'll
warrant you know the old saw, 'Kiss and never tell.'"

"For shame!" she remonstrated, without any
great show of indignation, however.  "Help me
with my cloak and call the jailer, if you please.
Alack, my reputation would suffer sadly, if ever
this long visit should be heard of outside the walls
of Newgate."

He adjusted her cloak, not forgetting to steal
another kiss before she tied the thick veil over her
hood.  "To-morrow," she said, as she hurried out
after the jailer, "some time in the forenoon."

As she took her seat in the chair, she laughed
softly to herself.  "I must be a good actress," she
murmured, "or, maybe, there is not enough
difference between an earl's granddaughter and a
waiting-maid to be perceptible to a robber!  Odd's
life! he doesn't know the bride's name, even now!  'Tis
a queer marriage, indeed!"





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.. _`AN ORDER FOR A PARSON`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN ORDER FOR A PARSON

.. vspace:: 2

Scarcely had Margaret Moffat alighted from
her chair, when Prue darted out into the little
hall and greeted her with embraces.

"Oh!  Peggie, Peggie, I have been counting the
minutes for your return," she cried, literally
dancing round her.  "Since you went away, all sorts
of delightful things have happened.  Our boxes
have come from Yorkshire; think of it, all our
finery—packed anyhow, to be sure, but a hot iron
will repair the damage—and we can go to court
and to church and to the play, and to the Duchess
of Marlborough's masquerade!  Oh!  Peggie, I am
crazy with joy!" and she kissed her cousin again,
with an ardor that must have been rather
exasperating to Sir Geoffrey, who was looking on.

By this time, Peggie had thrown off her wraps,
and forgetting all about Robin, had become as
joyously excited as Prue.

"Oh! the masquerade—shall we be invited?
I was breaking my heart to think of missing it!"

"We are invited!  Scarcely had the trunks
arrived, when there came a messenger from the
duchess with the invitations for the masquerade, and a
note bidding me to dinner with her grace, to-morrow,
at noon.  Think how overjoyed I was to be
able to accept both invitations.  I flew up to
grandmother to give her the good news—never thinking,
I vow, that she would do aught but scold—and
found her in a most gracious mood.  She gave me
a lovely lace flounce.  Oh! Peggie, you know her
rose-point? there's some for you, too; and what
do you think?  She offered to lend me her pearls,
and promised to give us fifty guineas to help make
us presentable at the queen's next drawing-room.
Isn't that good news?  And now, Peggie, you must
help me prepare for to-morrow; that is even more
important than the mask, for if the duchess
should be in great good-humor with her little Prue,
she might take her to Kensington Palace to make
her peace with the queen!"

"To-morrow morning you have already one very
particular engagement," cried Peggie, laughing.
"I see, however, that poor Robin was right in
thinking you might change your mind before I got
back!"

"Robin—!"  Prue glanced at Sir Geoffrey,
and turned scarlet.  Then her eyes danced with
mischief.  "Tell us all about it, Peggie; Sir Geoffrey
may as well enjoy the joke."

Margaret hesitated, and would have changed the
subject, but Prue, wilful as usual, would not be
denied.

"'Tis too good to keep," she laughed.  "You
must know, Sir Geoffrey, that I am desperately in
debt; 'tis no secret, though no one but Peggie
knows how I have been driven and harried by my
creditors.  Well, in utter despair, I hit upon a most
original way of paying my debts.  I decided to be
the widow of Robin Freemantle, who is condemned
to be hanged next Monday."

"The widow of Robin Freemantle!" he exclaimed,
with evident mystification.  "Pray, how
can you be a widow without first being a wife?"

"That was the only difficulty," cried Prue, with
a mock-serious air, "so I persuaded Peggie to go
to Newgate and ask Robin to marry me.  Did he
consent, Peggie?  Did he make terms and demand
a bribe, or am I forestalled by some fair Molly of
the Minories, and must I pine in the Fleet, or marry
good Mr. Aarons?"

Sir Geoffrey, who was, perhaps, a little deficient
in sense of humor, could not dissemble his
perplexity.  He had passed the afternoon at the feet of
his capricious mistress, or rather under the high
heels of her dainty slippers, for she had laughed at
his vows and persisted in turning his poetic
rhapsodies into coldest prose.  Even her joy over the
arrival of her trunks and the duchess' invitations,
had not improved matters, for she took little pains
to conceal that the prospect of returning to the field
of her former triumphs had reawakened a thirst for
further conquest, which might prove disastrous,
both to his matrimonial views and his rash wager.

It was certainly disconcerting to hear his
betrothed calmly discussing her possible marriage with
this one and that one, while he was racking his
brain to devise some means of marrying her
without burdening himself with the debts she must needs
bring in her little hand.  And Sir Geoffrey had
already discovered that Prudence was never so likely
to be serious, as when she appeared most frivolous.

"Miss Moffat has been to Newgate?" he exclaimed,
grasping that one fact out of a bewildering
array of vague possibilities.  "What an extraordinary
adventure!  And did you really see the miscreant?"

"I saw him," replied Peggie, "and for a
miscreant, he was really quite inoffensive, and even
agreeable;" she smiled furtively, as she thought of
the two kisses he had stolen, "and if Prue will
choose that way out of her troubles, she may; for
he's ready to marry her to-morrow, if she will
provide the priest and the ring."

Prue glanced at her suitor, and observing his
downcast eyes and the thoughtful frown upon his
brow, thought the joke had been carried far enough,
even for her perverse humor.

"Nay, dear Peggie, 'tis enough folly for once,"
she said.  "Let the poor fellow die in peace.
What good would it do me to be the widow of a
malefactor publicly hanged?  I could never claim
the rights of such a widowhood!"

"It need not be known, coz," Peggie eagerly
suggested.  "He has another name—one quite
familiar to you—and though he will die as Robin
Freemantle, he will be married and buried under
his own name—or what he claims as his
own—Robert Gregory de Cliffe."

Both her hearers repeated the name in tones of
astonishment, "De Cliffe!"

"Of course, it is an assumed name, but 'twill
serve, none the less," said Sir Geoffrey, with a
constrained smile.

"De Cliffe," repeated Prue; "'twould be strange,
indeed, if that name became mine by such a means.
Lord Beachcombe would be greatly edified, if he
knew I had a second opportunity of bearing his
family-name."  She laughed merrily, "If such a
thing could be taken seriously, this would almost
tempt me."

"And why not?" cried Peggie.  "I protest I
see no reason for throwing away such a chance.
You marry the man to-morrow, and on Monday
you will be a widow.  His body will be claimed by
a friend and buried under the name of De Cliffe,
and if your creditors harass you, all you have to
do is to produce your marriage-lines and they may
go hunt for their money in Robin's grave."

Prue looked irresolutely at Sir Geoffrey.  Her
caprice for this marriage was almost played out,
but she wanted to be coaxed out of it, and to make
a great favor of yielding up her own wilful way
to the remonstrances and entreaties of her lover.
Sir Geoffrey, on the other hand, had rapidly turned
the matter over in his own mind, and arrived at
the conclusion that however this escapade might
affect Prue, it would have two points in his favor.
First, the riddance of those debts which he was so
unwilling to shoulder, and second, the advantage
that the possession of such a secret would give him
in pressing his suit to a speedy marriage, and in
maintaining his marital authority later on.  Sir
Geoffrey adored Prue, but with the experience
he had gained of her wiles and guiles, he had no
objection to the handling of a weapon that would
keep them in due subjection.

He remained silent, so after a pause that began
to be ominous, Prue said softly, "And you, Sir
Geoffrey; how does this project strike you?
Peggie has given me a girl's advice; I should like
a man's opinion."

He hemmed a little, and glanced from one
expectant face to the other.  "Woman's wit," he
began at last, "is often more to the point than
man's—"

"Wisdom," suggested Peggie, filling in a slight
hesitancy.

He laughed deprecatingly.  "Oh! my dear Miss
Margaret, I was not thinking of laying claim to
wisdom—merely to logic, with which we poor
dull-brained men try to compensate for our lack of
feminine intuition.  You, who are wise as well as
witty, can well afford to be merciful—"

"Still," persisted Prue, "you are only complimenting
Peggie's wit; you are not telling us what
you think of her scheme."

"Peggie's scheme!—oh—" murmured Margaret, *sotto voce*.

"My dearest Prudence, surely I do not need to
say that the idea of any man having even such a
ghost of a claim upon the woman I adore, is
abhorrent to me," Sir Geoffrey began, rather
pompously.  "'Tis absurd to think that a few words to
a stranger could free you from so much anxiety,
while I, the most faithful of your slaves, am forced
by cruel Fate to stand aside, for fear of aggravating
your woes."  Having got thus far, however, it
occurred to him that this was too serious a view of
the matter, so he went on with a careless laugh,
"To be sure you would only see him once—the
fellow's audacity would be rightly punished by such
a torment of Tantalus—and your creditors—the
wretches have threatened you with the Fleet, did
you say?  By Saint George, 'tis no more than they
deserve to be balked of their prey—it seems
almost worth while—"

"I see," interrupted Prue, without the least
appearance of annoyance, "that you agree with
Peggie.  We will consider it settled.  I'm so glad
we have told you about it," she went on, in her
most vivacious manner.  "I really don't see how
Peggie and I could have managed without you;
and to think that I was foolish enough to be afraid
you would be shocked!—"

"Oh!  I *am* shocked—distracted, at the idea of
any man—" he began, but she interrupted him,
playfully shaking her forefinger at him.

"Now, now! don't let us try to be sentimental
about it.  The plan is a very good plan; very
sensible and ingenious.  I am proud of having
originated it.  Peggie, I know, is proud of having
successfully carried out the negotiations, and you
will have a right, my dear Sir Geoffrey, to be proud
of the part you are going to play in bringing it to
a triumphant end."

"I am entirely at your disposal, my dear Prudence,"
said Sir Geoffrey, rather taken aback at thus
finding himself assigned an acting part in the comedy,
"but I hardly know what I can do—indeed, the
fewer persons concerned the better, I think—the
less likely to attract attention—comment might be
caused by any—a—unusual action on the part of
a member of Parliament—the newsmongers are
always on the look-out for—"

"Ta-ta-ta! don't you suppose that I should
make a spicier mouthful for the newsmongers than
even a member of Parliament?" cried Prue
impatiently.  "Who is to procure the marriage license
and the priest, Sir Geoffrey, unless you do it?
Don't you think I should attract more attention in
Doctors' Commons than Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert,
M.P.?  And surely, you can more easily find some
accommodating parson who will keep the secret and
be sure to tie the knot so securely, that when the
time comes to reap the reward, there may be no
slip 'twixt cup and lip.  Then, to-morrow morning,
you can conduct me to Newgate, on my way to dine
with the duchess, and take care that Peggie and I
do not get clapped into a dungeon by mistake."

"If it can be done so soon," Sir Geoffrey began
reluctantly, yet scarcely venturing to make any
further excuse.

"If it can not be done then," cried Prue
imperiously, "it will not be done at all.  You may be
sure, once I get back to court, I shall have no time
for marrying malefactors, or members of Parliament
either, mayhap."

Sir Geoffrey made no further protest, but considering
that the benefit to himself was so undeniable,
gave in gracefully, and pledged himself to his
lady's service with many courtly vows.  Indeed, the
tempting prospect of Prue, divested of her debts,
and free in three days to bestow herself upon him,
rose before him in such glowing colors, that even
Lord Beachcombe's wager was cast into the shade,
and only served to add luster to the vision of his
fickle and inconsequent mistress, reduced to sweet
reasonableness and proper wifely submission by the
judicious use of her discreditable secret.

He, therefore, took his leave, having to content
himself for the nonce with the tips of Prue's
fingers to kiss, and leaving the cousins to the
delightful occupation of turning over their recovered
wardrobes, and devising the means of making a
resplendent appearance at court with their present
possessions and the thrifty outlay of Lady
Drumloch's fifty guineas.





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.. _`THE WEDDING`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WEDDING

.. vspace:: 2

"My mind misgives me," said Margaret,
when the two girls were at their toilet the
next morning.  "'Tis not too late, Prue, for
reflection, and if ill betide thee, dear, I shall feel as
if I had brought it on thee."

Prue turned from her mirror with a petulant
gesture.  "Tell me, Peggie, truly," she said, with
an air of deep concern, "do you not think the
hairdresser has trussed my hair too high on top?
Would not a curl or two more on the neck be an
improvement?  Prithee, unpin this lock and let it
fall negligently behind my ear.  Ah! that's
better."  She turned back to the mirror, and regarded her
reflection critically.  "Am I too pale, Peggie?
Do you think a touch of rouge—the least
touch—would be becoming?"

"For the wedding, do you mean?  Faith, I always
thought a pale, pensive bride more interesting.
Not that you are either.  A shade more color would
spoil you.  I think you are even a little flushed."

"*You* are pale, Peggie," said Prue, looking
fixedly at her.  "What's the matter?"

"Oh!  I dreamed all night of troubled water,
Prue.  You know that's ill-luck!  'Tis not too
late to give up this foolish marriage—"

"Foolish marriage!  Why, Peggie, 'tis the first
wise one I have ever contemplated.  And as for
a dream, why I dreamed three times running of a
black cat, and if anything bodes good luck that does."

"But suppose after all the object of the marriage
should fail," urged Margaret.

"Fail!  How can it fail?" cried Prue pettishly.
"Besides, you know the motto of the Wynnes:
'*Cowards fayle.  I winne*.'  Well, I have failed
often enough, yet not from cowardice, God wot!
And still I am always hoping to win, I scarce know
what."

"Your new motto will suit you just as well,"
said Peggie, "'*Nil timeo*.'"

"Ha, ha! the motto of the De Cliffes.  Was ever
such audacity as this Robin's?  I've a mind to ask
him, when the deed is done, if he has any directions
to give about his hatchment, or if I shall refer
the matter to the head of the house."

"Oh!  Prue, are you utterly heartless?  I
declare, since I have seen the poor young man I am
sorry for him and I wish I had not helped to turn
his execution into a jest."

"Would you have me weep?" said Prue,
almost sternly.  "There is always time enough for
that when there is nothing else to be done.  Ah!
I hear Sir Geoffrey's voice.  You are dressed,
Peggie, prithee go down to him and bring me word
whether he has done his part, and is ready—and
willing—to give away the bride."

She turned for a last look in the mirror as
Peggie hurried away, and the half-scornful smile with
which she surveyed her own charming reflection
had none of the levity with which she had so easily
deceived her cousin.  Yet it certainly was not a
picture to provoke disdain.  Never had the wilful
beauty looked to greater advantage.  The restless
brilliancy of her sparkling eyes, the changeful color
that flushed and paled her cheek with each
quick-drawn breath, the nameless but irresistible charm
that animated every feature, might have excused a
more complacent glance.  But Prue, though by no
means prone to deal severely with herself, was
a good deal more ashamed of her scheme than she
would have cared to own, even to herself, and
perhaps secretly longed for some insurmountable
obstacle to stop her in spite of herself.

She was determined, however, that she would not
be the one to raise a difficulty.  She was so
unspeakably mortified by the new light yesterday's
events had thrown on Sir Geoffrey's wooing that
the idea of placing a barrier between herself and
him, gave her keen satisfaction.  That the
possibility of her inheriting a fortune from her
grandmother should have influenced his pursuit of her
ever so slightly, wounded her vanity, that
nerve-center of her being; and that he should have lent
his countenance and help to a scheme that would
give her, even nominally, to another man, no matter
how brief or indefinite the tenure, dealt it an almost
mortal blow.

"He has yet a chance," she murmured.  "He
may have found on reflection that he can not bring
himself to sacrifice me for the sake of a couple of
thousand pounds' worth of debts, and he may
implore me to refrain for his sake.  I might not be
persuaded—one can never answer for oneself—but
he would come out of it without dishonor."  She
mechanically smoothed a ribbon here and
adjusted a flounce there and, half turning, tried to
obtain a full view of her back in a glass two feet
square.  "'Tis provoking to be obliged to dress by
guess-work," she commented.  "If I were to marry
old Aarons I could have three or four tire-women,
and a dressing-room with the walls all covered with
mirrors, so that I could see every side of myself
at once.  Pah! what is coming over me that I could
even think of such a creature?  What with
marrying criminals and receiving offers from usurers
the Viscountess Brooke must be coming to a pretty pass."

With which she made a deep curtsey to as much
as she could see of the Viscountess Brooke in the
little looking-glass, and running out of the room
met Miss Moffat coming up-stairs.

"Hasten, Prue," she whispered breathlessly.
"All is arranged.  Sir Geoffrey has the ring and
license in his pocket and a parson in the carriage.
If the bride is ready—"  She had entirely recovered
from her brief spasm of reluctance and was as
merry as a child and as reckless of consequences.

"The bride is quite ready," cried Prue.  "Nothing
is lacking except—"

"Except what?" inquired Peggie, as she broke
off abruptly.

"Oh! a trifle or two; nothing worth mentioning,"
laughed Prue, snatching up her cloak and hood
and running lightly down-stairs, where Sir Geoffrey
awaited them, not altogether at ease about his own
part in the affair, and palpably relieved that Prue
was in the best of spirits and inclined to treat the
whole adventure as a frolic.

"'Tis all your own fault—and Peggie's," she
laughed in her sauciest way.  "If I were not the
most good-natured person in the world I should
scold you both soundly and refuse to make a fool
of myself for your amusement."

"Will you change places with me and let me take
your chance?" cried Peggie.  "It can not make
much difference to Robin."

"What, when I am all dressed up in ribbons
and laces for the wedding?  No difference,
forsooth!  What do you say to that, Sir Geoffrey?"

"I was just going to suggest that you were altogether
too fine a bride for the occasion," said Sir
Geoffrey, rather glumly.  "A less resplendent
toilet would be less likely to attract attention."

"Eclipse me then under this big cloak," she
replied, giving it to him.  "Do you think, you foolish
man, that I am dressed up like this to wed a
footpad?  I am on my way to Marlborough House to
dine with the duchess, and must hasten or I shall
be late and may chance to get a box o' the ear for
my first course."

.. vspace:: 2

Robin Freemantle sat at the rough table in his
cell, writing busily.  Several closely written sheets
were spread out before him, and when he finished
the last and signed his name to it he threw the pen
down and sat drumming on the table with his
fingers.  It was an idle action but by no means idly
performed, for the frown on his forehead and the
movements of his long, sinewy hands were full of
purpose, and angry purpose, too.

Presently the frown died away and a look of
wistful sadness replaced it.  He took up the written
sheets and turned them in his fingers as though
half-disposed to tear them up, smiling bitterly as he
glanced from page to page.

"What good will it do me," he muttered, "when
my bones are rotting in an unmarked grave, to
bequeath a feud to perhaps unborn generations?
Shall I fling down my mother's reputation for the
lawyers to fight over, like dogs over a bone, when
I am not there to protect it, and when the outcome
of the struggle will interest me as little as it will
her?"

A dim vision, more imagination than memory,
rose before him of the fair, young mother who had
faded from his life twenty-three years ago, and
beside it another face radiant with life and laughter,
a pair of blue eyes sparkling through curled lashes,
a pair of round, white arms gleaming in the
darkness, a scarlet mouth—every nerve tingled at the
thought that his own had touched it, and might
again.  But no! she had been merely playing with
him.  How could he have been fooled by the ruse
of a spoiled beauty to feed her own vanity and
punish his audacity?  *She* want to marry *him*!  It was
fantastic, absurd, and what could be more improbable
than the reason for such a folly?  She had a
wager on it, perhaps, or merely wished to amuse
herself at the expense of the daring highwayman
who had robbed her of a kiss.  Well, she had had
her way.  He had shown that she had but to
beckon and he was ready to follow, and that had
doubtless ended her whim.

"She will not come!" he said, aloud, in a tone
of poignant disappointment, that plainly showed
how he clung to the promise he feigned to discredit.

The jailer opened the door noisily.

"Visitors for the highwayman," he announced.
"More fine ladies and gentlemen."

Robin sprang to his feet, looking eagerly from
one to another.  Whatever his expectations were,
the first glance disappointed them.  A pimply-faced,
watery-eyed little man, in rusty black, entered first,
conducting Margaret Moffat by the hand in a
ceremonious fashion, that had something in it
reminiscent of the time when he did not need filling up
with gin to make him remember that he was a
student and a Doctor of Divinity.  And close behind
him, followed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—tall,
handsome, dressed with the sober elegance that
became the budding statesman, supporting on his arm
a lady, enveloped from head to foot in a hooded
cloak, that completely concealed her.

"May I inquire—" Robin began.  Then his
glance fell upon Margaret, whose air of coquettish
simplicity would not have misbecome my lady's
confidential maid, and recognizing her, his hopes rose
again, and he burst into a hearty laugh.  "Ha,
my fair friend; have you come to enliven my
solitude once more?  What!  Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert?
I can not say I anticipated the honor of a
visit from you.  I fancied you had already seen
more of me than you approved."

Sir Geoffrey flushed.  "My good fellow," he
said haughtily, "I have no personal enmity toward
you; I merely did my duty as a citizen in
appearing as a witness against you."

"Oh!  I had forgotten that," said Robin negligently.
"I was thinking of the time when I and
my friends were chasing you and yours, and the
constables shot my horse—poor Firebrand, I
wonder what became of him—and turned the tide of
battle."

"'Sdeath, fellow!" Sir Geoffrey began furiously,
but Prue checked him with a light touch on the arm.

"Pray, gentlemen, do not waste time quarreling;
what does it matter now who fled and who pursued?"

At the sound of her voice, at once gentle and
imperious, the two men dropped their warlike air,
and Robin, who was astounded to recognize Prue
in Sir Geoffrey's companion, seemed petrified into
a statue of expectancy.

"If we can have a few minutes' privacy—?"
she suggested.

Sir Geoffrey beckoned to the jailer, and after a
murmured conference, enlivened by the clinking of
coin, the latter consented to see that they were
uninterrupted for as long as they wished.

While that was being arranged, Prue approached
Robin with a timid air.  "Master Robert de
Cliffe—or Robin Freemantle"—she said, "I thank you
for consenting to my wild scheme, and I pray you,
forgive me if it seems heartless."

"Madam, I deem myself fortunate, if my death
be of any use to you," he replied, with a ring of
bitter sadness in his tone.

Prue, greatly surprised by the voice, which had
none of the roughness of the robber's greeting on
Bleakmoor, looked more closely at Robin, and
discovered that he was young, handsome, and by no
means ferocious-looking.

"I would not have you feel harshly toward me,"
she said, in a low, thrilling voice.  "It is not too
late, even now, for me to withdraw, if you deem
me overbold."

A spasm of apprehension shivered through him.
Had she brought his dream so near realization only
to snatch it from him?  Could a woman be so
cruel to a dying man?  He met her questioning
look with one of agonized supplication.
"Withdraw—now?" he muttered, unable to voice the
prayer of his eyes.  "Then why come at all—to
mock me?"

But Prue was quick to read men's hearts, and
what she saw in Robin's, translated his few abrupt
words into a language that stirred hers to pity.
Therefore, to console him (the jailer having by this
time retired), she now threw off her wraps, and
revealed such a vision of loveliness as fairly
illuminated the dingy prison cell.  His look of
delighted surprise satisfied her.

"I recognize you now, but you are far, far more
beautiful than even my dreams of you!  And have
you really made yourself so fine to gladden a poor
prisoner's eyes?" said Robin, gazing with rapture
upon the graceful figure in its dainty garb of
brocade and lace, the lovely face, from which eyes of
the most dazzling brightness smiled alluringly upon
him; the little hand, so tapering and dimpled,
stretched out to him with a gesture, half-entreaty
and half-command.  As he took it in his, she
blushed a little, remembering how he had behaved
the other time she offered it.  But this time, he bent
his head and laid a courtly and reverential salute
upon it.

"We have nothing to wait for now," said Sir
Geoffrey, impatiently observing this little episode.
"Parson Goodridge, have you shown the papers to
this gentleman, to make sure they are correct?"

Robin mechanically took up the papers the
parson had laid on the table, and read out the names
from the marriage license.  "Robert Gregory de
Cliffe," he nodded approval and glanced further
down.  "Prue, widow of James Stuart Brooke
and daughter of Reginald Wynne and Anne Drumloch,
his wife."  All the titles had been eliminated,
and there was nothing to show that the bride was
not of plebeian origin.  Robin smiled slightly.
Was it worth while to be mysterious with a man
virtually dead?  He recalled that Peggie had made
him promise to keep his marriage with "my lady"
a secret, but it was apparent that he was not to be
trusted with more of the secret than was absolutely
necessary.

"It is quite correct," he said, laying the paper
down.

"Then let us proceed to business.  Master Goodridge,
pray do your office quickly.  Let us have no
homilies on the duties and pleasures of matrimony"—Sir
Geoffrey laughed maliciously—"but make
the ceremony brief and binding.  We will not
intrude on your privacy," he added, turning to Robin,
"any longer than is necessary."

"I am ready," said Robin curtly.

The ceremony was quickly performed.  Robert
Gregory and Prudence duly accepted each other as
man and wife for all the vicissitudes of their mortal
life, severally vowed love, honor and all the rest of
it, pledged themselves by the giving and receiving
of a ring, to share each other's worldly goods, and
finally received the blessing of the church, borne on
the gin-flavored breath of Parson Goodridge.

A short ten minutes having sufficed to make the
Viscount Brooke's widow the highwayman, Robin
Freemantle's, wife, the parson pocketed his
dog-eared book, also a generous fee from the
bridegroom, and took his departure.

"Do not forget to keep your own counsel," Sir
Geoffrey warned him.  "This has been a good
morning's work for you, Master Goodridge, and
there is better to come when your testimony is
wanted, if the secret be well kept."

"I shall keep it, never fear; I shall keep it,"
mumbled the degraded creature, already drunk in
anticipation of the glorious possibilities of a pocket
so unusually well lined.  "A secret is the only
thing I have ever learned to keep."

And he disappeared, chuckling at his own wit.

"Now," said Sir Geoffrey, turning to Prudence
with a smile, "all that remains is the pleasant
ceremony of congratulating the bridegroom and
saluting the bride, and then we had better be going."

Prue was standing a little apart, with down-cast
eyes and a certain trouble in her pensive face,
that almost foretokened tears.  She drew back a
step at Sir Geoffrey's words, and put up her hand,
palm-outward.

"Let us have no more mockery," she said coldly.
"We have made ourselves quite contemptible
enough, without further buffoonery.  So far from
congratulating the bridegroom, we should do
better to apologize to him."  She stamped her foot
slightly but positively, as he seemed disposed to
persist.  "As to the bride, sir, for once she is in
no humor for folly.  Be kind enough to take my
cousin out and find a chair for her; then you can
return and see me to my carriage."

"And leave you here?" he exclaimed.

"Where else would you leave me?" she retorted,
in a jeering tone.  "Are you afraid to leave me
with my *husband*?"

Sir Geoffrey would still have lingered to
remonstrate, but Peggie, whose ready sympathy divined
her cousin's motive, placed her hand within his arm,
and drawing her veil closely over her face,
announced herself ready for departure.

"The gentleman is not *my* husband," she
remarked demurely.  "It would scarcely be proper
to leave *me* alone with him, and you can not escort
us both at once."

But when they were alone, the words of
extenuation Prue intended to speak, seemed hard of
utterance.  There was a little lump in her throat,
and she could think of no commonplace form of
excuse that seemed to fit the occasion.  Robin
gazed at her as though he wished to fill his whole
soul with her image.  Yet, although they were
scarcely twenty inches apart, he made no attempt to
touch her.

"*Morituri te salutant*," he said, with a curious
mingling of irony and tenderness in his voice.
"Accept the blessing of a dying man."

"Oh! poor soul—must thou really die?" sighed
Prue, at last raising her eyes, filled with tears.

At the sight of those sweet, dewy eyes, the newly
made husband thrilled in every nerve.  "If those
tears are for me, sweet Prudence," he said, "death is
not so hard to bear."

"'Tis sad; indeed, I would I could do aught to
comfort thee!" she murmured, half turned away,
yet lingering.

A dark flush swept his cheek.  "I could tell you,
if I dared, how to make me forget everything
but—yourself," he said.

"If you dared!"  She flashed an arch glance at
him.  "On Bleakmoor, you were not so—so
ceremonious, Sir Highwayman.  Ask me for what you
please.  My powers are limited, but I will gladly
do what I can to console you."

"An' thou wouldst really comfort me, kiss me
once, as though I were thy real husband and thou
lovedst me."  He held out his arms to her, with
such prayer and such insistence in his eyes, that
Prue, startled, hung back an instant, and then,
half involuntarily, drooped toward him, and
permitted herself to be clasped in his passionate
embrace.

When she drew herself away, her cheeks were
rosy-red and her eyes cast down.  But Robin,
transferring his lips to her hand, fell on his knees
before her.

"Oh!" he softly uttered, "I can bear to die
now.  Death itself can not rob me of your kiss."

"Then you forgive me for—marrying you?"
she said.

"Forgive you!  Oh! if you had killed me, I
could have blessed you, but would not have
presumed to think of pardon," he passionately breathed,
"and now—"  Words failed, and his lips finished
the invocation on her hand.

She placed her other hand gently on his bowed
head, and pressing it back, stooped and kissed him
on the forehead.  It was as pure and tender a
caress as a mother could have bestowed on her
sleeping babe, but it touched both hearts as the most
passionate embrace of love could not have done.
It was a farewell benediction.

Not another word was spoken, and when Sir
Geoffrey returned, Prue allowed him to wrap
her in her cloak and hood and lead her away,
without even a backward glance at Robin, who, as soon
as the door had closed behind them, threw himself
on the floor where she had stood, and gave way to
an ecstasy of recollection, none the less delicious
because there was no future to discount its bliss.

When at last he rose to his feet, he gathered up
the manuscript at which he had worked since
daylight, and tore it into fragments.

"Since my death will benefit her, I will not
attempt to live," he exclaimed.  "She has paid for
my life in full and with interest, and I'll not cheat
her of her bargain."

He sat down, and on his last remaining sheet of
paper, wrote a short letter.

.. vspace:: 2

"FRIEND STEVE:

"As soon as I am dead and according to your
promise (in which I have all confidence), buried, as
we agreed together, you will take the iron box you
wot of and convey it to Mistress Prudence Brooke,
to whom I bequeath it, to do whatever she will with
the contents.  I do not know where this lady lives,
but you can easily discover her, as she is of the
court and a lady of title, being besides of a beauty
so incomparable, that by it alone you can trace her.

"Do not grieve after me.  We must all die, and
I have ridden so often with Death on the pillion,
that we are old comrades.  Besides, I have reasons
that you wot not of for welcoming him as a
benefactor to others besides

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Your friend,
      "ROBIN FREEMANTLE."

.. vspace:: 2

He was sealing this missive, when the cell-door
opened, and a man of grave and imposing
appearance was ushered in.

"I am Lord Beachcombe's attorney," he
announced himself, "and at his command, I come to
confer with you about the strange statement you
made to him yesterday.  He has given me his full
confidence, and empowered me to make terms with
you, if I find it advisable."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FOLLY OF YESTERDAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FOLLY OF YESTERDAY

.. vspace:: 2

Prue came home late that afternoon, in the
wildest of spirits.  Her return to society had
been a genuine triumph, and even her enemies
and detractors, who had been successful in ousting
her from royal favor and keeping her in disgrace
for a year or more, had been compelled to join in
the chorus of welcome and feign, if they did not
feel, a decent pleasure in her reinstatement.

Lady Drumloch, who was still unable to leave
her room, as soon as she heard Prue's voice,
despatched Lowton with a message, commanding her
granddaughter to repair instantly to her and give
a full account of the day's adventures.

"Can you picture the effect, if we obeyed her
to the letter?" whispered Peggie.  "I wonder
how she would take the announcement of your—"  Prue
clapped her hand quickly over her mouth,
at which Peggie indulged in a convulsion of silent
laughter, indicating by signs and gestures the
triumphant sense of power conferred on her, by the
knowledge of her cousin's tremendous secret.

Checking her exuberance by an imperious glance,
Prue followed Lowton into the sick-room, where
the old lady reclined on a couch, near a bright fire.
A look of real delight sparkled in the old lady's eyes
when they fell upon Prue's graceful figure and
animated face.

"Come hither, child," she cried; "kiss me and
let me bless thee.  Truly, Prudence, thou dost often
vex my pride with thy follies, but thou dost always
charm my eyes.  What said the duchess to you?
Did she chide?"

"No such thing, dear Grandmother.  I have
heard no word to-day but dear Prue this; sweet
Lady Prue that.  Her grace kissed me on the
cheek and cried out how pleasant it was, for once,
to be able to kiss a face fresh from nature, without
having to pick out a spot where the paint and
powder were not thick enough to poison one.  And
I'm not surprised, for half the women there were
plastered so thick, 'twas like a frescoed wall, and
one looked to see it crack when they smiled.  The
duchess was not much better herself; but she was
all smiles and affability, and all my intimate
enemies took the cue and overwhelmed me with
flatteries, and Lord Ripworth lisped out, 'Gad,
Viscountess, nothing happier than your return has
occurred in three months.  We have been so dull,
that we have taken to religion as a diversion; now
your ladyship has come back to court, we shall, at
least, have something to talk about."

"The varlet!  His mother was a chambermaid,
and if people did not talk about her, it was because
anything that could be said was too gross for
utterance.  I trust you set him down thoroughly."

"Oh! no; I was bent on showing how amiable
I had grown in the country.  I only remarked that
whatever he might talk about, I had never heard
him accused of saying anything of consequence.
There was a large party to dinner, and I heard all
the gossip.  First, Lady Beachcombe has presented
her spouse with a son and heir."

"'Tis your own fault, Prudence, that such an
event is naught but gossip to you," said Lady
Drumloch severely.

"Oh! la, la! no one can accuse me of an
envious disposition," laughed Prue.  "Lady Beachcombe
is welcome to all the honors of her position.
I would not have changed places with her this
afternoon for a dukedom, to say nothing of the
privilege of nursing Lord Beachcombe's heir."

"Perhaps 'tis all for the best," the old lady
conceded.  "The present earl is a turn-coat, like his
father, who came of a loyal stock, and was so
devoted to the throne that he offered his allegiance
to every successive usurper of it.  I would rather
see you married to an honorable Jacobite, who
could use your influence at court for the cause of
King James the Third."

"The De Cliffes are all *mauvais sujets*, are they
not?" queried Margaret innocently.

"No, child, there have been De Cliffes as loyal
as the Drumlochs and Wynnes; De Cliffes who were
worthy to aspire to the hand of a woman whose
forefathers laid down their lives for Charles the
Martyr.  Unfortunately, of late generations, the
scum has risen to the top in more families than the
Beachcombes."

"Well, dear Grannie, as you think so ill of Lord
Beachcombe, 'tis as well, perhaps, that
circumstances prevented my marrying him, and left me
free for at least one more season to enjoy life,"
said Prue; "and truly, never had I better reason
to value my freedom than to-day."

"You have not told us yet what you did this
afternoon," cried Peggie, to whom her cousin's
triumphs always gave intense and unselfish enjoyment.

"After dinner, the duchess dismissed her guests,
and accompanied by Lady Limerick and myself,
drove to Kensington Palace, where we had
audience of the queen.  Her Majesty was extremely
gracious, and appeared to have forgotten all my
peccadilloes.  She inquired if I still played the
guitar, and when I sang one or two ballads composed
by Herr Haendel—whose music is now quite the
rage—was pleased to observe that I must come to
Windsor in the summer, and sing to her in the
twilight.  After that we played basset.  'Twas a
dull finish to the day, for the queen fell asleep and
nobody dared waken her, so the game was not very
lively."

"If you go to Windsor, 'twill be as lady-in-waiting,
surely," said Peggie.

"The duchess will do her utmost for me, but
she is less powerful than formerly.  Mrs. Masham,
whom she placed about the queen's person to
further her interests, has completely secured the
queen's confidence, and means to use it to her own
profit.  I think the duchess would like to use me to
check Mrs. Masham."

"Sarah Churchill would scarcely be so gracious
to any one she did not expect to serve her in some
fashion," said Lady Drumloch.  "Well, my dear,
I wish thee good fortune.  Be wise this time, and
do not let thy wild spirits wrong thee."

Prue became suddenly pale as death.  "'Tis
late in the day for me to become wise," she said,
in a low, wild voice.  "Oh!  Grannie, Grannie, I'm
afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble, and
the worst of me is yet to come!"

The old lady raised herself on her arm, and gazed
with a look of terror into Prue's disturbed face.
"What have you done, child?  Let me hear the
worst at once!"

"'Tis nothing," interposed Peggie, putting her
arm round her cousin, and drawing her gently but
forcibly away.  "She is excited and overwrought,
and methinks she has quarreled with Sir Geoffrey—"

"Is that all?" ejaculated Lady Drumloch, sinking
back with a laugh that ended in a groan of pain.
"I'll forgive that easily enough; he is no choice of
mine, and now Prudence is back at court, 'tis odd
if she can not do better than marry a bankrupt
baronet."

"Better or worse," cried Prue passionately,
"I'll never marry him; I'd rather marry a—a
highwayman."

Peggie gave her arm a vicious pinch, but the
comparison was so monstrously improbable, that
Lady Drumloch did not deign to take any notice
of it.

"You were very much in love with Sir Geoffrey
a week ago," she remarked austerely, "but your
fickleness appears to have no limit."

"Dear Grandmother!" exclaimed Prue, recovering
her self-control, "'tis not fickleness, but
simply the result of sound reasoning.  I love certain
qualities, and while I believed Sir Geoffrey
possessed them, I loved him for their sake.  I am still
faithful to the thing I love; but, unfortunately, Sir
Geoffrey has it not, at least, not enough of it for
me.  But let us not despair; the Duchess of
Marlborough is determined to marry me off, and has
been graciously pleased to select a husband for me."

"Indeed, and who may he be?"

"I know not; his name is still a secret.  I have,
indeed, a suspicion that it may be Lord Beachcombe's
new-born heir, for she remarked that by
the time her choice was ready for presentation to
me, I might perhaps be settled down, and sobered
sufficiently to make a tolerable wife-of-sorts!"

Peggie, watching her cousin closely, came to the
conclusion that she was talking nonsense to keep
herself from thinking, and at the first opportunity,
coaxed her out of the room and away from the
danger of betraying herself to Lady Drumloch,
whose keen wits and close observation were the
more to be dreaded, the less she displayed them.

As a result of the report of Prue's return to
court, and her flattering welcome there, the shabby
little drawing-rooms of her grandmother's house
were crowded that evening and all next day, by
those who hastened to offer congratulations and
make excuses for neglect that she was too thorough
a woman of the world to resent.  The throng of
courtiers found her, indeed, most accessible.  She
had a jest and a compliment and a friendly word
for every one.  Arch glances and enchanting smiles
fell alike on friend and foe; perhaps more especially
on the latter, as Prue, for once, attempted to follow
her grandmother's instructions, and be wise!

Long after midnight, the tired girls performed
the last sweeping curtseys to their parting guests,
and leaving the yawning James to extinguish the
lights, crawled wearily up the long, narrow stairway
to their attic bedrooms.  Peggie, bursting with
long-suppressed curiosity, offered her services to
unlace her cousin from the stiff prison of
whalebone and buckram in which her slender form had
been encased for so many hours, and unpin the
luxuriant curls and puffs from the cushion upon
which the hair-dresser had disposed them early in
the morning.  Prue sighed with relief as Peggie,
regardless of her own fatigue, removed the
monstrously high-heeled shoes and filmy silken hose,
and rubbed her cramped feet until they ceased to
tingle and smart with the restored circulation, but
vowed she was too tired to talk, and, moreover,
had nothing to tell but what Peggie already knew.

"What said Robin, when we left you alone?"
Peggie whispered.  "Did I keep Sir Geoffrey long
enough finding me a chair?  I sent three away
before I could be satisfied that the chair was clean
and the chairman sober."

"Long enough for all we had to say," said Prue
pettishly.  "Do you suppose we were exchanging
vows of eternal fidelity, or arranging for our next
meeting?"  Then, pathetically, "If you were as
tired as I am, Peggie, you would rather be in bed
than gossiping, and to-morrow we are going to
Lady Limerick's drum, and the play afterward,
and want to look our prettiest; so kiss me, dear coz,
and get thee to bed."

Nor was she more communicative the next day.
From early morning, the house was besieged by a
procession of apologetic tradesfolk, eager to explain
away their threatening letters and dunning
messages, and placing themselves and their wares at
the disposal of the reinstated favorite.  No talk
now of the Fleet and the sponging-house—no
more writs and suits—nothing but dapper tailors
and coquettish milliners' assistants, suave jewelers
and mysterious, ill-shaven foreigners with dirty
parcels from which they extracted, under vows of
secrecy, laces from France or Flanders, or
embroideries from the distant Indies, such as might
have tempted the most austere of Eve's daughters
to break at least one of the ten commandments.

And in the midst of all this excitement, Lady
Prue flitted, bubbling over with mirth and
triumph.  Her bright presence lighted up the
sick-room, and under its influence, Lady Drumloch
declared she would be carried down-stairs on Sunday
to receive callers, and that before a week was over,
she would be strong enough to drive to Kensington
Palace and pay her respects at the queen's next
drawing-room.  She bade Peggie fetch her
jewel-casket and try the effect of her antiquated diadems
and brooches upon herself and Prue, and spent
an hour or two deciding which of them the emeralds
would best become, and which one ought to have
the amethysts.  Finally, however, the matter was
left undecided, and except that she bestowed the
promised pearls upon Prue and a filagree bracelet
upon Margaret, the casket was relentlessly restored
intact to its hiding-place.

All day long, Peggie watched her cousin,
without being able to detect the faintest sign of
compunction, or even recollection of the folly of
yesterday and the tragedy that would crown it in a few
hours.  At Lady Limerick's drum, she led the
scandal and laughter, as of old, and at the play, sat
in her modest little box with Margaret beside her,
and an ever-changing crowd of beaux behind her
chair.  Sir Geoffrey came late, and had scarcely
time to greet her, when a message called her to
the Duchess of Marlborough, in whose box she
spent the rest of the evening.

He did not venture to follow there, uninvited, so
it was not until the play was over that he found an
opportunity to address her.  He was waiting at the
carriage door to hand her in, and without giving
her time to object, followed and took his seat beside
her.

"Do you not see my cousin sitting with her back
to the horses?" inquired Prue, in the most freezing
tone, as she drew herself as far as possible from him.

"Pardon my inadvertence, Miss Moffat!" he
exclaimed, in a tone less gracious than his words,
and bouncing over to the other seat in a great
hurry.

"Never mind me," said Peggie, stifling a laugh.
"I prefer the front seat."

"So much the better for me," remarked Prue,
coolly spreading out her voluminous skirts.  "Did
you see the *Spectator* to-day, Sir Geoffrey?  No?
You must read it; the article about Lady Beachcombe
and the new heir will make you die of laughing.
You were too late, I think, to see the beginning
of Mr. Congreve's new play; how do you like
the end?  Very sentimental, isn't it?"

"I can not say I noticed it," said Sir Geoffrey
sulkily; "I was thinking of other things."

"Then why come to the play to think of other
things?" she inquired innocently.  "'Tis an ill
compliment to Mr. Congreve."

"When Lady Prudence Brooke is present, Mr. Congreve
can not expect to attract much attention,"
said Sir Geoffrey, with an effort to recover his
customary gallant bearing.  "Do not blame me too
severely if I am unable to keep my thoughts from
you, even at the play, dearest Prue."

As they arrived in Mayfair at this moment, Prue
was spared the effort of a retort.  Peggie, alighting
first, ran into the house, leaving Sir Geoffrey to
escort her cousin, but at the door of the drawing-room
Prue stopped.

"I am very tired, Sir Geoffrey," she said,
attempting to withdraw her hand from his clasp,
"and must beg you to excuse me this evening.
My cousin Margaret will entertain you."

"She will do nothing of the sort," said a laughing
voice from above; "Cousin Margaret is on her
way to bed!"

"Then I will ask you to excuse me, Sir Geoffrey,
if I follow Peggie's example.  I have lost the habits
of gay London life, and two days of it have made
me almost sick with fatigue."

"Give me but five minutes," he entreated, "and
I swear I'll detain you no longer."  He opened the
door as he spoke and led her into the room, in
which a single lamp, turned low, emphasized the
darkness.

She stood facing him without a word.  Suddenly
he tried to take her in his arms, but she
repulsed him with a gesture almost of horror.  "You
forget, Sir Geoffrey," she said, "that I am the wife
of another man."

He laughed ironically.  "Is it possible that you
are taking this farce seriously?  I feared I had had
the misfortune to offend you, and am relieved to
find that nothing worse has come between us than
Robin Freemantle."

"That is enough for the present," she said.
"While one man can call me wife, all other men
must keep their distance."

"Even your betrothed lover, Prudence?" he
pleaded reproachfully.

"You more than any one," she replied resolutely.
"Without you, I could not have married this
unfortunate man, and you should, at least, respect
the wife you helped him to."

"Heaven give me patience!" he cried, exasperated.
"Do you really look upon yourself as the
wife of this gallows-bird?  Pray, do you propose
to don widow's weeds on Monday?"

A shudder quivered through her.  "I don't
know what I shall do on Monday," she said, in a
low, strained voice, and ran out of the room and
up-stairs without another thought of Sir Geoffrey.

He waited for a few minutes, in hopes of her
return, and then went down and let himself out
into the moonlit street.





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.. _`THE MORROW'S WAKENING`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   THE MORROW'S WAKENING

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Before Sunday evening, Peggie really lost
patience with Prue.  She was so saucy and
coquettish, so bubbling over with merry stories and
foolish jests, that even in church she could not keep
still, but fluttered her fan and whispered behind it
to Peggie, until that lively damsel was quite
ashamed of her levity.  Not one word could she be
induced to say about Robin.  Astonished at her
indifference, Peggie tried in a variety of ways to
entrap her into some expression of feeling about him,
but she became impatient under questions, and
received any suggestions of sympathy with cold
flippancy or even more provoking silence.

All the afternoon, a stream of visitors poured
through the little house in Mayfair.  Superb
equipages and sumptuous sedan-chairs blocked the
thoroughfare, while their occupants, in gorgeous
array, offered their congratulations to the Lady
Prudence, and sipped weak tea and chocolate out of
her grandmother's egg-shell "chaney" cups.  Lady
Drumloch did not venture into such a crowd, but,
decked in her priceless cashmeres and laces,
received a favored few in her dressing-room, and
listened with a flush of pride on her pale face to
the praises of Prue's beauty and the prognostications
of a future even more brilliant and eventful
than her past.

"You must persuade her to marry well and settle
down, dear cousin," Lady Limerick advised.
"Twenty-two is quite old enough, even for a
widow, to give up frivolous flirtations and choose
a husband.  The men are all wild about her, I
know; but if she jilts a few more of them, the rest
will get frightened and leave her in the lurch, and
she will have to be satisfied with a crooked stick,
like many another spoilt beauty."

"She must please herself," Lady Drumloch replied.
"The harder she finds it to choose before
marriage, the less likely she will be to repent
afterward."

For all that the old lady took occasion to read
her granddaughter a sharp lecture upon the
necessity of mending her ways before too late.  To
which, Prue listened reverentially, and promised
speedy amendment.  Five minutes afterward, in
the privacy of their own room, she was making
Peggie die of laughter at her caricature of herself
as a reformed character, with all her fascinating
caprices exchanged for the cares of the nursery and
still-room, obedience to a tyrannical spouse
replacing her sway over a score of suitors, while she
wielded Mrs. Grundy's birch instead of defying it.
Not one solemn or repentant thought clouded the
laughter of her blue eyes, and when her cousin
kissed her good night and bade her sleep well, she
cried out:

"Why, I'm two-thirds asleep already," and
turned upon her pillow with a sigh of voluptuous
drowsiness.

But in the night, Peggie, who always slept with
the communicating door open between the two
rooms, was awakened by a sound so strange and
unaccustomed, that her heart stood still for a
moment, with awe.  From the little white bed,
wherein Prue usually slept as calmly as a child,
came sounds of grievous weeping, sighs and sobs
and broken words of self-reproach, and prayers
for pardon for herself and pity for one in extremity.

Peggie started from her bed and crept stealthily
to the door, where she was not long discovering
the cause of this unexpected outbreak.

"Oh! if I could only once ask him to forgive
me," Prue sobbed.  "Oh!  Robin, Robin, I did
not want you to love me; I did not mean to be
cruel.  My God! he will die without
knowing—oh! me, oh! me—"

"Poor little Prue, how unjust I have been,"
thought Peggy remorsefully.  "I was past all
patience with her heartless indifference, and here
she is breaking her heart over a frolic marriage
with a highwayman!"

She crept in quietly, and lying down beside Prue,
put her arms round the little quivering form and
drew the tear-damp face upon her kindly bosom.

"What is the matter, Prue?  Don't cry so
dreadfully," she said, soothing and petting her.
"There, there, be comforted, darling.  You are not
to blame.  We persuaded you, and after all Robin
is none the worse for knowing he leaves some one
behind to weep for him."

"But he doesn't know it.  How can he?"
sobbed Prue.  "He thinks me a heartless, mercenary
coquette—just as Sir Geoffrey does, and
you, too.  You know you thought so, Peggie—"

Margaret was conscience-stricken, but could not
deny it.  "I know you are a dear little thing, Prue,
and though I thought yesterday you did not care,
I know better now.  I'm so sorry for you, dear.
Your poor head is so hot and your hands are so
cold.  You'll be sick to-morrow, and after all, it
isn't your fault."

Prudence threw her arms round her and buried
her face on her shoulder in a fresh burst of tears.

"Oh!  Peggie, I am a very wicked woman, I
fear," she sobbed.  "Can anything be worse than
to make a solemn vow before God to love and
honor a man I do not mean ever to see again—to
swear to keep him in sickness and poverty, when all
I wish for is that he may die a violent death to
save me from my just debts?  Oh! no, no.  I do
not wish it, Peggie.  The man loves me!  If ever
I saw love in a man's eyes, it was when Robin held
me in his arms and prayed me give him one kiss
and then forget him!  Alas, Peggie, I can never
forget him!  He will haunt me with those eyes
that can look death in the face without blenching,
and yet will be closed for ever in a few hours.  Oh!
Peggie, Peggie, he must not die for me."

"He does not die for you, dear Prue.  He dies
for his crimes.  Faith, I'm sorry for it, though he
isn't my husband.  But think what a plight you
would be in if he were to live!" Peggie remonstrated.

Prue looked at her like a child suddenly roused
from sleep and finding its way back gradually from
dreamland.

"'Tis true," she gasped.  "What would become of me?"

"You are his wife," Peggie went on, "and as
long as he lives you can not marry any one else.  As
to your debts—if he were not to die, he would
have to pay them or go to prison."

"Oh, Peggie, stop!  Every word you say makes
me hate myself worse and worse.  I must have been
mad to marry a robber—a man who forced a kiss
from me at the point of a pistol, as it were, and yet
now he is my husband I can not, dare not, wish him
dead."

"If you wished it ever so much, dear, you could
neither help nor hinder it," Peggie began consolingly.

"I'm not so sure of that," cried Prue, raising
herself on her elbow and speaking excitedly.  "Do
you know last night when I was in the duchess'
box I had more than half a mind to fall on my
knees before her and own everything and implore
her to save Robin's life—"

"Great Heaven!" gasped Peggie.  "What on
earth do you suppose she would have done to you?"

"I do not know, and I am not sure that I care
much," sighed Prue, sinking back on her pillow.
"But I'm a wretched coward at heart, and a lump
came up in my throat and stifled the words, and all
I could say when she saw the tears running down
my face was some foolishness about the play being
so affecting, when every one round me was
laughing and I didn't even know what the actors were
talking about."

"What did the duchess say?" asked Peggie,
eager for all the information she could obtain while
her cousin was in the mood to tell it.

"That I was a little fool.  And Lord Ripworth
said, 'Not at all, that I wanted them to see how
lovely I looked in tears.'  And they all joked me
until I would rather have been hanged myself than
hinted at anything tragic in my life."

Peggie assured her that it was much better as it
was and that nothing would have come of such a
self-betrayal but scandal and disgrace that would
have broken their grandmother's heart and banished
them for ever from society.  Then she kissed and
petted her until she fell asleep, much as a grieved
and frightened child might do, with long-drawn
sighs and broken sobs gradually softening into the
tranquil respiration of dreamless repose.

But there was the morrow's waking to come, and
it came to Prue with a sudden sweep of
consciousness and recollection that scorched her brain
and stopped the beating of her heart.  The clock
on the mantel chimed the half-hour, and starting
up in a panic she saw that the hands pointed to
half-past seven.

And Robin Freemantle was to die at eight o'clock.
Even now he was on the way to Tyburn, shackled
to other malefactors in the dreadful cart which he
would never leave alive.  Even now the mob was
jeering him and his wretched companions and gloating
over the prospect of the "last dying speeches
and confessions" which were expected to play so
important a part in the morning's entertainment.
Four of them were to be hanged that morning—two
coiners, a house-breaker and—*Prue's Husband*!
The hideousness of the thought struck her
again with an agony of shame that tingled in every
nerve and for the moment dried the tears upon her
burning face.

She heard Peggie moving in the next room and
sprang out of bed, dashing cold water over her face
and head in feverish haste to wash off the tears and
cool down the turgid blood that throbbed in her
temples and crimsoned her cheeks.

Just then the clock struck eight.  A neighboring
church-clock took up the chime, and then another
at a little distance.  It was Robin's death-knell.
Prue groped blindly a few steps and then, with
a low, wailing cry, fell on the floor in a deathly
swoon.

Peggie ran in and by main force lifted her up
and laid her on the bed.  The application of such
simple remedies as cold water and hartshorn soon
brought back consciousness, and with it floods of
tears and such heart-broken lamentations that
Peggie began to ask herself whether there could be any
magic in the marriage service to make a widow
mourn so bitterly for a husband she had only seen
on two occasions, and masked on one of those!
She wisely refrained from investigating the source
of Prue's emotion however, rightly judging that
the more completely she gave way to it the quicker
it would wear itself out.

In fact, after an hour or so the violence of her
grief subsided, leaving her pale and languid and
much disposed to pity herself as in some mysterious
way very cruelly used by fate and altogether a most
interesting victim.

In this frame of mind she insisted upon
rummaging out a black dress and arranging her curly
locks in as subdued a fashion as their luxuriance
and natural wilfulness would submit to.  Then she
permitted Peggie to lead her down-stairs.

Behind the dining-room there was a dingy,
sunless little library looking out upon a few feet of
neglected back-yard and the blank wall of a
neighboring mansion.  To this penitential apartment
Prue retired, delegating to Peggie the task of
receiving her callers and making what excuses she
pleased for her absence.

"Say I am ill; say I am dead; say whatever
you think will get rid of them quickest, Peggie,
but don't let them imagine that I am unhappy, for
that is the deadliest breach of good-manners and
would make me an object of ridicule."

"Well, promise me you will not fret any more,"
besought Peggie, caressing her.  "Your sweet eyes
are all puffed up and you won't be fit for the
masquerade ball if you cry any more."

Prue promised to control herself, and by way
of keeping her word threw herself on the floor
before the door closed upon her cousin, and flinging
her arms out upon the seat of a chair, laid her face
upon them and gave way to quieter and more subdued,
but not less bitter weeping.

She had not long been thus when the door opened
and some one looked in.  Thinking that she was
being sought for and sure that where she lay she
was safely hidden, she kept very still.

"Will you wait in here, sir, until I inquire if
her ladyship can see you?" said James, the butler.
"What name shall I say?"

"It would be useless to give my name," replied
a deep voice; "or stay, you can say I bring
tidings from Bleak-moor."

As the door closed, Prue rose to her feet with
distended eyes and bristling hair, and faced Robin
Freemantle.

He wore a long riding-coat of wine-colored cloth
and carried a broad beaver caught up on one side
with a plain silver buckle.  A small quantity of fine
linen ruffle protruded from his vest and the sleeves
of his coat, and his left hand rested in a broad
black ribbon sling.  With his neat leather gaiters
and spurred heels, and the plain sword in its black
scabbard peeping from beneath the full skirt of his
coat, he looked the traveling country-gentleman to
the life.

For a minute or more the husband and wife stood
gazing upon each other in silence.  Gradually the
look of terror faded from Prue's face and was
replaced by an expression in which fear and anger
contended with relief.

"It is really you?" she gasped—"alive—and
free?"  Then the recollection of her futile tears
and her hours of anguish rushed over her and she
stamped her little foot in unmistakable irritation.

"You are angry with me—because I am alive?"
he said, recoiling as though she had struck him.

"I have no right to be angry," she said coldly.
"On the contrary, I congratulate you."

"*You* congratulate *me*!" he repeated slowly.
"But how about yourself?  I am afraid
my—resurrection—has put you in an awkward position."

She made no reply.

"Am I to blame for that—?" he began, but she
turned upon him swiftly.

"You mean that it is my own fault that you are
my husband?" she interrupted, her blue eyes
flashing like steel.  "If you choose to blame me for
that, I have not a word to say in my own defense."

"If I dared, I would bless you for it," he said,
in a low voice, "although you, perhaps, were
waiting impatiently for news of my death, when I
interrupted you?"

Remembering how she had been employed,
Prue had no answer ready.  She was silent a
minute, and then abruptly blurted out, "How did
you escape, and why did you come here?  Good
Heaven, if they should follow you and find you
here!  Oh, how could you betray me?  Sure, I am
the most unfortunate woman in the world—!"

"Listen to me; there is nothing for you to be
alarmed about," he cried, hurriedly coming to her
and seizing her hand.  "I am free—reprieved—pardoned.
No one will follow me here; no one—"  He
stopped suddenly, and looked fixedly at her.
"What has happened?" he asked, in a tone of deep
concern.  "You are so pale—your eyes are red
and swollen—you have been weeping?"

"I thought you were dead!" she said half-resentfully.

"And you wept because you thought I was
dead?" he said incredulously—"You were sorry
for *me*?"  He stood gazing at her, lost in an
amazement so profound that it seemed like a reproach.

She drew away her hand.

"I should be sorry for any poor soul condemned
to die," she said, with an effort at indifference.

"When last I saw her," he said doubtfully, as
if reasoning out a strange problem against which
his reason contended, "she was fresh and smiling,
and prinked out like a princess for her marriage
with a highwayman.  To-day she is pale and sad,"
his eye ran over her somber figure, "and all in
black—for my sake—"

"You run on too fast!" Prue interrupted
petulantly.  "Can I not wear a black dress without
putting on mourning for your sake?  Methinks
I'll have to wear it for my own!  Never, surely,
was a woman so caught in her own trap!"  She
cast her eyes round, as though for visible means of
escape.  Suddenly a thought of horror glanced into
her mind.

"Did you come here to claim me?" she gasped,
sinking into a chair, pallid with fear.

"You need not fear me, I have no such design
upon you," he said, regarding her with pitying
tenderness.  He was sorely wounded, though more for
her sake than his own.  "Can you not understand
that I would rather perish by the most cruel tortures
than give you one moment's pain?  Oh! rather
than see that look of fear and hatred upon your
face, I would I were now hanging upon the
gallows!  At least, you would pity me there, and if
not, I should be none the worse off for your scorn.
I am free, it is true, but an exile, and unless I leave
these shores within eight days, an outlaw.  In a
week, then, should I be still alive, I shall be dead
in law and you will be free from me for ever."

She listened attentively while he was speaking,
and her face lost its tense look of terror.  Once
or twice she glanced furtively at him, noting the
power and grace of his tall form, his easy,
self-confident bearing and the manly frankness of his
strong, swarthy face—more attractive than mere
beauty to a woman so essentially feminine as
Prudence.  She was not afraid of him now, but she was
extremely angry with fate, and at the moment he
represented fate in its most inexorable form, so
she wanted to be very angry with him.  Yet she
could not reproach him, for the harder she struck
at him, the more she would wound her own pride.

"It is all so terrible," she said, sighing wearily.
Then the door was flung open, and Peggie darted
in with the *News* sheet in her hand.

"Prue, Prue," she cried, flinging her arms round
her cousin without observing that she was not alone.
"He is not dead—he has been pardoned and is out
of prison.  Oh! my poor, dear Prue, to think you
were all night breaking your heart for nothing—"

"Hush, hush, Peggie!"  Prue was scarlet to the
roots of her hair, and with both her hands over
Peggie's mouth, tried to stifle her voice.

"Mercy!" shrieked Peggie, suddenly discovering
Robin.  "How did you get here?  What did
you come for?"

"For no evil purpose, my good Mistress Peggie,"
he replied good-humoredly.  "I came as any other
visitor and requested a few words in private with
Lady Prudence Brooke.  By good fortune, I found
her here alone, and will now proceed to disclose
the object of my visit, which is simply to ask her
to take charge of this small packet for me, until
I send a messenger for it."

The packet was a compact one, about the size
of an ordinary letter, and scarcely thicker, carefully
stitched in a piece of white silk, and secured
by a seal without any device.

Robin held it out to Prue, but she made no
movement to take it.

"Oh! don't be afraid that I would ask you to
do anything dangerous," he went on earnestly.
"If it concerned myself, I would not dare to trouble
you, but this is a sacred trust, which I hold far
above my life, and if I were rearrested, which is
quite possible, I might not be able to rid myself of
it in time to prevent a great disaster.  It was for
this reason that I took the unwarrantable liberty of
calling upon the Viscountess Brooke.  This packet
concerns the life and fortune of many friends of
hers, but no one would think of looking for it in
the keeping of the Duchess of Marlborough's
favorite."

"Friends of mine?" she exclaimed incredulously.
"Then who are you?"

"A poor soldier of fortune," he replied, bowing
low as though introducing himself, "who has for
a moment crossed your path, and in a few days will
return to his natural obscurity and trouble you no
more.  All he asks is forgiveness for having so
signally failed in keeping his part of the marriage
contract."

"It is not that," she interrupted, thoroughly
abashed, though not less angry than before.  "*I*
should, perhaps, be the one to ask pardon for
forcing a marriage upon you which must be very
irksome now; for, sure, you must be even more
embarrassed to find yourself saddled with a wife
than I with a husband.  Yet, believe me, I am not so
bad as I seem.  Peggie knows I did not wish you
harm, but oh!  I wish I had never seen you.  Why
did you attack us on Bleakmoor, and why, oh! why
did you let yourself be caught and put in prison—by
Sir Geoffrey, of all men!  Even the devil could
not have put such an idea in my head, about a
highwayman I had never seen or heard of—"

Poor Robin turned so pale while Prue poured
out these lamentations, that Peggie took compassion
on him.  "Out upon you, Cousin, for a railing
shrew!  If you must needs blame somebody, let
it be me, for if I had not persuaded you to run
away from Yorkshire, Captain Freemantle would
not have kissed—I mean waylaid you—and if I
had refused to carry your message to Newgate, he
would have been spared a scolding wife, and God
he knows, his state would have been the more
gracious—if I had not meddled in things I had better
have left alone."

"Well, Peggie, I forgive you; and you too, Sir
Highwayman.  The only person I can not pardon
is Prudence Brooke, who never looks the length of
her nose before she jumps over a precipice," said
Prue.  "Give me your packet," she held out her
hand, without raising her eyes, "and tell me how
I can serve you; but do not trust me too far; you
can see for yourself what an empty-headed little
fool I am."

"If you knew how you hurt me by blaming yourself,
you would refrain," said Robin, in a low voice.
"Believe me, death would be welcome, if it would
make you as kind to me again as you were when
I was condemned to die.  But a higher law than
man's law forbids us to take our own life or even
throw it away recklessly; yet do not despair, the
outlaw walks blindfold through a worldful of executioners."

"You wrong me in speaking as though—as
though I were one of them," she replied, with a
touch of disdain.  "What do you wish me to do
with your packet?"

"To keep it safely until my messenger calls for
it, and to be alone when you give it to him.  He
will carry no credentials," Robin added, "and will
merely inquire if you have anything for The
Captain.  You can surrender your charge to him
without fear.  Accept my profoundest thanks for this
favor, and my humblest apologies for having
intruded so long.  Farewell, ladies."

Once more he bowed ceremoniously and was gone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PRICE OF A BIRTHRIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PRICE OF A BIRTHRIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

Robin set out at a rapid pace in the direction
of the city, but as he was passing through a
crowded street, a crippled beggar with a patch over
one eye stopped him, and with a piteous whine,
implored his charity.

Tossing him a coin, Robin went on his way, but
the beggar, quite agile for so dilapidated a creature,
kept close behind him, pouring out a stream of
petitions and lamentations.

"What's sixpence to a noble lord like your
honor?  Make it a shilling, brave Captain, to help
me out of the country.  There's a warrant out for
me, and divil take me if I know what's the charge,
but its something political—hanging and
quartering at the very least.  Thank your honor kindly,
and may your enemies always get the worst of it.
Ah! but Lunnon's a bad town, and Linc'n's Inn's the
very place to ambush a man and take him after the
lawyers have got everything out of him.  Divil
take me if ever I'd give a thing to a lawyer that
I might want myself; they'd take your life for
six-and-eightpence, and make a bargain with Ould
Scratch for your soul—-"

"That will do, my good fellow," said Robin,
flashing a quick glance at him.  "You need not
follow me any farther, you are only wasting what is
doubtless valuable time."

The beggar mumbled an excuse, and turned to
beg from the nearest passer-by.  And Robin
pursued his way in a very thoughtful mood.

"Another warrant out," he murmured.  "I
ought to have thought of that when they appointed
this morning to finish the business instead of
settling it all yesterday.  Steve was right.  These
hounds never meant to give me a chance."

By this time he was in the Strand, and turning
up a paved court behind St. Martin's Church,
knocked at a door, on which the name of Matthew
Double, Attorney-at-Law, appeared on a brass
plate.

The door was quickly opened and two men came
out, who had been waiting for him.  One of these,
though scarcely older than Robin, had the strained
look of hard work and high living that distinguished
the professional man of that day.  This
was Mr. Matthew Double, and the other, in shabby
black, carrying a mighty blue-bag, could never have
been intended by nature for anything but a lawyer's
clerk.

"Aha! here's our man, punctual to the minute,"
cried Double.  "Few men would be so prompt to
throw away a great inheritance, Captain."

"My word is passed," said Robin.  "Did you
doubt that I would keep it?"

"Not I; have I not just given you abundant
proof of confidence?  Still, I hate to see the
chances of such a splendid law-suit thrown away;
literally flung to the dogs.  Dogs, too, who, if I
am not mistaken, will turn and rend you when they
have drawn your teeth and cut your claws."

"*When* they have," replied Robin.  "By the
way, can you lend me a cloak; a long and ample one?"

"This is somewhat the worse for wear," said
Double, indicating one that hung in the hall, "but
if you want it for a disguise it is rather conspicuous."

"All the better for both reasons," replied Robin,
throwing over his shoulders a military-looking
cloak of dark green cloth, a good deal frayed, and
lined with stained and faded red.  With it, he
assumed a swaggering step, and with his beaver
cocked at a defiant angle, made a striking contrast
to the smugly clad lawyer and his weazened satellite.

"I'm ready now," he cried, and the trio started,
keeping to the least frequented side of a street
parallel with the Strand.

"My good Captain," Mr. Double remonstrated,
after going a very short distance, "moderate your
stride, I pray, to that of a man a foot shorter than
yourself; or, better still, let me call a coach."

"I'd rather walk, if it is all the same to you,"
Robin replied.  "A man who has taken all his
exercise for two or three weeks in the courtyard of
Newgate, feels the need of stretching his legs when
he gets outside."

"True, but *I* haven't been in Newgate for three
weeks, and am, besides, of too portly a figure to
enjoy violent exercise.  Samuel, stop the first
empty coach we meet.  Truly, Captain, thou'rt a
queer fellow; there are not many of your profession
I'd venture to let out of my sight for twelve hours
when I was under bonds to surrender him at a
certain time, and he had so many good reasons for
leaving me in the lurch."

Robin laughed.  "Why, it would ill suit me to
leave London with my affairs but half-settled," he
said; "after to-day your responsibility will be at
an end, and whether I decide to stay here and
challenge the hangman, or accept my fate and leave the
country, depends on matters you wot not of, and
will concern no one but myself."

"'Tis a thousand pities," observed Double
regretfully, "that you did not unravel the mystery
of your birth until there was a price upon your
head.  There's enough in your claim to have made
a pretty case.  A ve-ry pret-ty case.  Even now—"

"Even now," interrupted Robin, "I have bought
my life at the price of my birthright, and I'll pay
the price if I get what I bargained for.  But not
unless.  Oh!  I'm no sheep to give my wool first,
and then go quietly to the shambles."

"They will scarcely attempt to do anything while
you are in England—but if you are going to—say
America—I would advise you to give your
address in—let us say Paris."

A peculiar smile curved Robin's mouth, but not
mirthfully.

"Truly, I had thought of the colonies," he said
reflectively.  "Perchance, the government will give
me a grant of land in some swamp or wilderness,
where I can work off my superfluous energies
fighting the Indians or the Spaniards."

"There is a coach, Master Double," interposed
the meek voice of the clerk; "would you wish me
to hire it?"

"What, within a stone's throw of Lincoln's Inn?
Your conversation has beguiled me, Captain, but
it has also made me thirsty.  We have a few minutes
to spare, and I would gladly crack a bottle to
the successful ending of our business."

They turned into a quiet coffee-house, and Robin
ordered a bottle of Burgundy.  While it was
being fetched from the cellar, he obtained a sheet of
paper from Samuel's blue-bag and wrote a brief
letter, in which he inclosed two small documents,
sealed the packet with great care, and carefully
addressed it

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "To Mistress Larkyn,
       "In care of Mine Hostess of
           "The Fox and Grapes."

.. vspace:: 2

Mine Hostess, a plump but not uncomely dame,
with a merry eye, sat in her cosy bar, surrounded
by quaint flagons and other emblems of her
hospitable calling.  She returned a cheerful answer to
Robin's greeting, and inquired his pleasure.

"You have a kindly face, and I'll be sworn a
heart to match, fair Goddess of the Grape," said
Robin.  "Will you help two hapless lovers,
separated by cruel fate?"

"That depends on what I am to help them to," she
retorted.  "Mine's a respectable house, and I'd
rather have dealings with lawyers than lovers."

"I want but a trifling service from you, though
'tis a vast favor to me," said Robin.  "Will you
take charge of this letter, and by and by give it to
the serving-man of Mistress Larkyn, whose name
is writ upon it?"

"Oh! if that's all," she said, extending a hand
that was plump and shapely, if not over-clean.
Robin seized the hand and touched it gallantly with
his lips, before surrendering the letter to its clasp.
After that, although she called him an "impudent
varlet," and made as though to box his ears, he
might have asked a much greater favor without
danger of rebuff.

When they went out again, Robin cast the green
cloak about him, and strode along with an air that
made more than one peaceable citizen give him the
footway all to himself.  As they entered Lincoln's
Inn Square, this became still more marked, and in
front of one of the finest houses, he stopped and
looked round with an insolent swagger that greatly
impressed a group of men loitering under a tree
near by.

Double could not quite conceal his dissatisfaction,
and pulling his client by the sleeve, whispered that
the men looked like constables in plain clothes, and
that they could hardly fail to recognize him when
he came out, if, as seemed probable, they were
waiting there for him.

"Let them stare their fill," said Robin.  "I wish
them to become thoroughly acquainted with Robin
Freemantle's appearance."  And he walked slowly
up the steps into the house.

In an up-stairs room, Lord Beachcombe and his
lawyer awaited them.  Robin left his swashbuckling
manners in the anteroom, where Samuel was
relieved of his bag and left to the congenial society
of two or three clerks.

Lord Beachcombe returned Robin's courteous
greeting with a haughty movement that was scarcely
a salute, the two lawyers met with friendly
formality, tape-tied papers were produced, and the
conference began.

"I understood," said the earl, addressing his
attorney, "that the person who calls himself Robert
Gregory de Cliffe would be present to-day."

"Have patience, my Lord, he will be here in
good time," interposed Mr. Double.  "Have you
examined the attested copies, Mr. Perry?"

"I have, and to avoid waste of time, I am
prepared to admit that they appear to contain
interesting family matters, highly interesting.  Not
that they would be of much legal value if you
brought the case before the courts, but enough to
cause some annoyance to my client.  We have shown
that we consider it worth examining into the affair,
by obtaining the pardon of this"—he glanced at
Robin—"this gentleman."

"And also by taking the precaution of having a
warrant ready for my arrest on another charge,"
said Robin, quietly but incisively.

Mr. Perry glanced at Lord Beachcombe, and their
eyes met with the same inquiry, "How can he know?"

"Had you kept faith with me," said Robin, bending
his stern gaze upon Beachcombe, "this matter
could have been settled in a few minutes.  As it is,
I have decided not to put the two most important
documents in your hands until I am in a place of
safety."

"Traitor!" exclaimed Beachcombe, striking the
table with his clenched fist.  "I knew he would
devise some means to balk me!"

"If you talk of traitors, did you not purpose
to get everything you wanted from me, and then
put my head back in the noose?" demanded Robin.
"Such a cat-and-mouse game is not so easy to
play with a man who has carried his life in his
hand through every kind of danger—even to the
gallows'-foot—even through treachery, though
that is less common among gentlemen of the road
than some other kinds of gentlemen.  In exchange
for my life, I will give you, as I promised, the
original letters that passed between your father and
his first wife, the original documents proving the
identity of both parties, and the *copies* of the
marriage certificate and the death certificate that prove
*your* mother's marriage a fraud."

"Oh! this villain will drive me mad!" screamed
Lord Beachcombe.  "Let me go, Perry; must I kill
you to get at him?"

"Be calm, my Lord, I beg you," urged the lawyer,
very red in the face from his efforts to restrain
his client; "this matter can be arranged without
violence, if you will leave it to me.
Mr.—a—Captain—a—Freebooter, pray address any
remarks to me.  You will only impede the
negotiation by provoking Lord Beachcombe."

"Here are the original letters and documents,"
said Mr. Double, advancing to the table, "we will
go over them together."  The lawyers went to work
together, comparing, arguing and quibbling, as
though the whole matter had not been settled in
advance.

Robin, meantime, strolled to the window, where
he observed one of the loitering men in conversation
with a furtive man in black, with a pen stuck
in his rusty wig.  He stealthily pointed Robin out
when he appeared at the window, and then darted
back to the house like a rat into its hole.

"These letters appear genuine," said Mr. Perry
finally, "but they are valueless to us without the
two certificates."

"They are worth as much to you as your pledge
of safety is to me," returned Robin.  "Why should
you expect to feel safe from me, while I am still
in danger from you?  That was not the compact.
The hour that I set my foot on a foreign shore in
safety, I will cut the last thread that binds me to
the past, but those two papers will never be yours,
Lord Beachcombe, until it is out of your power
to injure me.  I have given my word, and I will
keep it.  My title in exchange for my life; your
legitimacy in exchange for my safety."

"I knew it—I felt it!" cried Beachcombe.
"This fellow himself is the arch-impostor."

"Impostor!" said Robin, with a contemptuous
laugh, as he stood up and pointed to the earl.
"Nature has cast us in the same mold; God be
praised that her work is only skin-deep.  Double,
you have the late earl's picture in that bag; pull it
out, and let us see on which of his sons he
printed off the best likeness of himself."

Mr. Double drew forth a roll of canvas, that
bore evidence of having been hastily cut from the
frame.

"My father's picture!" cried Beachcombe, recognizing
it with amazement.  "How came it in your
possession?"

"It fell into my hands," said Robin dryly, "when
I was lately in the North Country.  I thought it
might be useful, so I brought it away with me."

"You mean, I suppose, that you stole it from
Beachcombe Castle," snapped the earl.

"How could I steal my own?  Beachcombe Castle
is entailed upon the eldest son, and I inherited
it from my father, as the son just born to you will
doubtless inherit it from you if nothing untoward
happens to me.  You ought to pray heartily for my
welfare, my Lord, until I am safely landed
in—America.  Still, I am not dependent upon the
picture of a dead man for proofs of identity.  I can
bring twenty living witnesses to prove that I am
the son of Mrs. Vincent, whose marriage to
Captain Gregory de Cliffe I can prove by documents
and other valuable evidence."

"You will give up the two certificates if Lord
Beachcombe pledges his word that you will be
allowed to leave England unmolested, will you not?"
inquired Mr. Perry insinuatingly.

"I will not," replied Robin firmly.

"Well, then—I urge this matter because my
lord will have a long period of suspense to endure
before he receives those documents, and without
impugning your good faith, it is possible they might
fall into the wrong hands after all—will you give
them up if Lord Beachcombe gives you a written
guarantee that you will be safe, so far as he can
protect you?"

"I do not value his written guarantee one
farthing," said Robin contemptuously.  "Given an
hour's start, I am ready to take my chance of
escape from any lawyer or traitor of you all.  But
I've a reason for wishing to remain in London for
the next few days, and I'll not give up the one
thing that enables me to do it in safety."

Beachcombe sprang to his feet.  "I have stood
this insolence long enough!" he exclaimed.
"You—an outlaw, a convicted robber, dare to spurn my
word!—refuse to accept *my* written promise!
Pray, what will satisfy you?"

"Oh! if you wish to offer me satisfaction, 'tis
quickly settled," cried Robin.  "To cross swords
with your lordship will give me the utmost pleasure,
and let him who draws the first blood dictate the
terms of truce."

Beachcombe sneered, but he was not a coward,
and his fingers almost involuntarily wandered to his
sword-hilt.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" cried the lawyer.
"This is no time or place for fighting; besides, if
there is anything in your story, Captain—Freebooter—the
curse of Cain would be on the one
who shed the other's blood."

"Will the one who hires somebody else to shed
the other's blood, escape the curse of Cain?" sternly
inquired Robin.  "If we can not settle this business
like gentlemen, let us get it over as quickly as possible.
It will not be difficult, I dare say, to find some
better occasion for a meeting."

In a great hurry, Mr. Perry read over a legal
document, renouncing on the part of "the person
claiming to be Robert Gregory de Cliffe and his
descendants for ever," all titles, estates entailed or
otherwise, and other belongings appertaining to the
Beachcombe family in all its ramifications, in
consideration of one thousand pounds over and above
all expenses of his transportation to a foreign land,
or any place outside of the British Isles, that he
might select for his future abode.  The above to be
paid to him on signing this deed, and to constitute a
full satisfaction for every claim, past, present and
future.

Robin listened with scant patience to the
monotonous repetition of legal terms by which every
contingency was forestalled and provided for.  Then
he requested Mr. Double to peruse it, in case there
might be snares or hidden meanings in it.  Two
clerks were called in to witness the bold signature
of Robert Gregory de Cliffe, and finally, Mr. Perry
counted out one thousand pounds in Bank of
England notes, as compensation for Robin's claim to
an inheritance worth twenty thousand a year, two
hundred more for his expenses in leaving the country,
and certain sums to Mr. Double for his services.
Lord Beachcombe showed very little interest in this
part of the transaction, but sat biting his nails and
fingering his sword-hilt.

Mr. Perry drew Mr. Double aside, and made one
last attempt to convince him that it would be greatly
to the interest of all parties if he could persuade
his client to surrender the two documents of whose
value he held so exaggerated an estimate.  Meantime,
Robin strolled up to the window, arranging
his beaver with great nonchalance, and throwing
the end of the cloak over his shoulder, so as to
display the red lining.

He observed that the loitering men had drawn
together, and numbered about half-a-score, armed
with stout bludgeons and still more deadly weapons.
Near them, under the trees, a ragged urchin walked
Lord Beachcombe's horse slowly up and down,
hopeful of a bounteous douceur from the noble
patron who had kept him so long waiting.

"Now, Captain," said Mr. Double, "I am at
your service."

Robin walked to the door, and removing his
beaver, swept so low a bow, that he dropped it on
the floor.

"Farewell, Mr. Perry,—you will hear from me—from
foreign parts.  My Lord Beachcombe—adieu."

The lawyer, who had already assumed an air of
preoccupation with other matters, returned the bow
with ceremonious frostiness.  Lord Beachcombe
did not even turn his head.  Consequently, neither
of them saw Robin kick his own hat out of the
way and help himself to one that lay on a chair
near the door.

"Give me five minutes start," he whispered to
Double, as he quickly disengaged himself from the
green cloak and threw it into a dark corner of the
stairway.  When he emerged from the front door,
a dignified gentleman in a plum-colored riding-coat
and black velvet cavalier hat with a long, drooping
ostrich feather, he looked as little as possible like
the roystering blade who had been seen a few
minutes before at the upper window.  He signed
to the boy with the horse, and mounting without
haste, threw him a shilling and beckoned to the
chief of the posse of constables.

"You had better bring your men on this side
of the street," he said imperiously; "don't give the
fellow time to get away or you will never catch
him again.  And, mind—dead or alive!"

The man knuckled his hat obsequiously.  "Yes,
m' Lud," he said, with something the air of one
bulldog being egged on to attack another.  "Them's
my orders."

Robin gave him a curt word, and rode out
through the gateway leading into Chancery Lane.
When he was out of sight, he gave rein to his horse,
and taking to the network of narrow lanes that lay
between the Strand and the river, made off with the
utmost speed toward Westminster.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SEALED PACKET`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SEALED PACKET

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Double did not hurry after his client,
but gave him a good ten minutes' start,
while he made Samuel search the blue-bag for some
imaginary papers, and then, bidding him shoulder
his hated burden, went forth, much reassured by
the absence of commotion in the Square.

The posse had collected outside the house, and
eyed the lawyer and his clerk suspiciously.  There
was a moment of expectation as they recognized
the companions of their quarry, but Double and his
satellite were not molested, and at a short distance
they separated, and Samuel pursued his westward
way alone.  He did not go far, but leaving his bag
in charge of a friendly law-stationer, scurried back
to Lincoln's Inn, and slipping through the constables,
ran up-stairs and knocked timidly at the door
of Mr. Perry's private sanctum.

"What do you want here, fellow?" demanded
Perry, opening the door and discovering the little,
cringing, shabby figure shrinking into the shadow.
"This is not the clerk's office."

"Could I—can I—speak a word with the—the
lord?" stammered Samuel.

Mr. Perry looked very searchingly at him for a
minute or so.  Then he relaxed a little and made
room for him to pass into the room, which he did,
smoothing his flaxen wig over his forehead with his
moist palm, and evidently in a desperately uneasy
frame of mind.

"Do you want to speak to Me?" demanded Lord
Beachcombe, in a haughty voice, that sounded so
terrible to the clerk, that he could hardly stammer
out, "Y—yes."

"And what have you to say?" inquired Mr. Perry,
in a more encouraging tone.  "Speak out,
man, don't be frightened; nobody will hurt you."

"Ah! but he would, if he knew," quavered
Samuel, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"You mean Mr. Double?  I suppose you want
to tell us something he is concealing from us, eh?
Well, we will protect you from him," said
Mr. Perry magnanimously.

"'Tis not so much him I'm afraid of as the
captain," whispered Samuel, glancing from side
to side, as though he expected to see him lurking
somewhere about.  Then he approached Lord
Beachcombe on tiptoe.  "What will you give me
if I get you those certificates?"

"Damnation!" cried Beachcombe, starting up,
black with fury; "are my private affairs known to
every quill-driver in the town?"

Samuel turned livid with terror.  "I only know
where they are," he whimpered; "I don't know
anything about them."

"Well, where are they?" demanded Beachcombe
threateningly.

A glint of cunning sparkled in Samuel's eye.
"It wouldn't be any use for me to tell your
lordship where they are.  No one can get at them but
me, and as I shall be suspected, it's worth a good
deal for the risk I run—if the certificates are any
use to your lordship."

"How do you know what certificates these are,
if you say you don't know anything about them?"
interposed Mr. Perry.

"Because I heard the captain tell Mr. Double
that he could afford to let Lord Beachcombe have
everything else, so long as he kept the two
certificates back.  So he put them where nobody knows
but himself and Double and me.  And he'll have
them out if I don't hurry and get there first."

"You need not be uneasy about that," said
Beachcombe, with a grin of malicious joy.
"Captain Freemantle is on his way to Newgate Prison
by now, and if those—papers—find their way
into my possession, I think it is safe to say that he
will never come out except to make the journey to
Tyburn."

"On his way to Newgate?" cried the little clerk,
rubbing his hands with glee.  "Then, if we can
agree on the price, your lordship can have them in
an hour."

"If you bring them to me—without reading
them—in an hour, I will give you ten guineas,"
said Lord Beachcombe magnificently.

"Ten guineas!" echoed Samuel, with a falling
countenance.  "They can not be so very important,
after all, if that's all they're worth."

"How much did you expect?" demanded Beachcombe,
who hated parting with his money, and was
still writhing under the agony of having had to
disburse so considerable a sum already over this affair.

"Considering the risk, I think I ought to have a
hundred pounds," pleaded Samuel, trembling at his
own audacity.

"A hundred devils!" growled Beachcombe; "do
you think I am made of money?"

"It's well worth it, my Lord," urged Samuel.
"You don't know the risk I run, even if the
captain is in jail.  And why wouldn't he get out?
He's been there before and cheated the hangman;
he's as artful as a fox, and has more friends than
you and I know of."

Beachcombe reflected a while.  "Well, bring the
documents to my house and you shall have the
hundred pounds.  But if you ever betray the slightest
knowledge of them, it will be worse for you than
if the captain, as you call him, escaped from prison
and came after you with all his friends."

"They're in a sealed packet, my Lord, and if I
break the seal you can keep your money," said
Samuel, growing bolder, as a confederacy in
dishonor brought the haughty peer nearer to his level.
Beachcombe signified his acceptance of the
compact and walked over to the window, while
Mr. Perry gave Samuel instructions how to make sure
of the packet falling into no other than the right
hands.

"God's death!" Beachcombe suddenly exclaimed,
in so strange a voice, that the others hurried to
the window and looked anxiously out to see what
had befallen.  The street was perfectly quiet.  A
couple of barristers, with their gowns tucked up,
stood talking and laughing, a street vendor shouted
the praises of his wares, a slatternly woman, with a
baby in her arms and another clinging to her skirt,
lounged under the trees opposite, and the group of
constables, still expectant, chewed straws and spat
them out in the gutter, with the utter absence of
hurry so frequently observed in men whose time
is owned and paid for by the government.  Nothing
else was in sight.

"What are those men waiting for?" roared
Beachcombe.  "Is that scoundrel hiding in this
house?  Call them in, Perry, and make them
search every corner.  By Heaven! if you have let
him slip through your fingers—"

"Do you mean the captain?" asked the trembling
clerk.  "He went out half an hour ago, just
before me and Mr. Double."

"And no one stopped him?  He passed through
the constables unchallenged?  It is collusion; they
shall hang for it.  Give me my hat, Perry—"

Samuel flew to obey, and after a brief search,
emerged from beneath a table with a somewhat
weather-beaten beaver, turned up with a silver
buckle.

Beachcombe dashed it from his hand.  "That is
not mine!" he shouted; "that is the one that fellow
wore when he came in.  He has left it behind and
taken mine; he has used it as a disguise, and those
idiots have been taken in by it—"  He flung out
of the room, and the next minute was heard
furiously cursing and berating the crestfallen
constables, who, taking him for their long-awaited prey,
sprang upon him as soon as he appeared, and but
for the speedy interference of Mr. Perry, would
have handled him roughly.

The men fell back in confusion as the situation
dawned upon them.  This the real lord?  Then
who was the haughty and self-important personage
who had ridden away from them so coolly after
issuing orders with such an air of authority?

"You shall sweat for this!" cried Beachcombe.
"Where is my horse?"

No one seemed able to answer this question.
The men glanced from one to another, and the
mysterious crowd that springs up from the roadside
when there is any excitement, began to collect.
Some one suggested that a gentleman in a black hat
and feather had been seen riding out of the Square,
on a fine chestnut horse, and a murmur from the
crowd confirmed the statement.

By this time, Lord Beachcombe had become
speechless with rage.  He signed to a passing chair,
and getting in bareheaded, pulled the curtains close,
and departed without a valedictory greeting.

After a visit to Bow Street which gave promise
of a warm quarter of an hour to the constables on
their return, Beachcombe hurried to his house,
overlooking St. James' Park, to await Samuel's visit,
and concoct plans by which Robin should not only
be arrested, but brought to an ignominious and
lingering death.  Torture was supposed to have
been abolished in those days, but treason was still
punishable by drawing and quartering, and while
the country was still astir with Jacobite plots, the
charge of treason might easily be fastened on any
man who could not readily account for his comings
and goings.

The day passed slowly, for Lord Beachcombe,
shut up in his study, gave orders that no visitor
should be admitted except the lawyer's clerk.  Once
possessor of the proofs—if proofs they were—of
the shadow upon his birth, he could set his heel
without fear upon the throat of this miscreant who
claimed to be his brother.  His brother—! his
*elder* brother—!  The shrill cry of the baby-heir
smote upon his ear, and goaded him to such a
madness of impotent fury that if Samuel could have
seen him then and known the cause of the furrow on
his brow and the blood upon his bitten lip, he might
have made his own terms and become rich for life.

In the afternoon, a groom came to say that his
lordship's horse had been brought to the stable by
a ragged boy, who had made off before he could be
questioned.

"What condition was he in?  Had he been
ridden fast or far?" Lord Beachcombe inquired
eagerly.

"Hadn't turned a hair, my Lord," was the reply;
"might 'a' been for a canter round the Park."

Beachcombe went to the stable himself to make
inspection, but could discover no mark or sign to
enlighten the most sharpsighted.  "Oh! if you
could speak!" he muttered, as he caressed the
glossy coat and deer-like head of his favorite.  "If
you could tell me where you have been these three
hours!"

But there was nothing to be learned; not so
much as could be shown by a muddy fetlock.  If
the horse had been out of town, he had been
carefully groomed on his return and every trace of
travel removed.  His master returned to the house,
more morose and vengeful than ever, to while away
the hours that slowly passed until it was time to
dress for the great entertainment at Marlborough
House.

When he descended from his wife's apartments,
where he had gone to display himself in his
masquerade dress, he was certainly a magnificent
and picturesque figure.  His costume, of the period
of Charles II., was of white satin, profusely trimmed
with exquisite lace, and adorned with dazzling
orders and jewels.  A wig of long curls softened
the harsh outline of his face, and a skilful touch of
rouge relieved his swarthy pallor and lent a
brilliancy to his dark eyes.  His resemblance to Robin
was remarkable enough then to have struck the
most unobservant.

Over his arm he carried a voluminous domino of
scarlet silk, and a mask to match dangled from his
jeweled fingers.

He was stepping into his carriage, when a little
black figure darted in front of him, and Samuel,
bowing to the very ground before this gorgeous
apparition, besought a word with him.

"Leave him alone," cried Beachcombe, as two or
three serving-men stepped forward to sweep this
insect from their master's path.  "Have you
anything important to say to me?" he eagerly inquired.

"Most important, your worship—I mean your
Lordship," replied Samuel.  "I've got it; only
just now, though, and I've run every step of the
way," and he showed a corner of the letter hidden
in his breast.

"Give it to me," said Beachcombe, in a low,
concentrated voice, and held out his hand for it.  But
Samuel hung back.

"My Lord—my Lord—" he stammered, clutching
the packet like a drowning man grasping a
straw, "will you give me my hundred pounds?"

"What, now; before I see the papers?  Besides,
I've not so much about me," exclaimed Beachcombe.
"Why, you imp of the devil, are you afraid to
trust me?  Here, take my purse and give me that
packet.  I must have it *now*, do you hear?  And
come to me to-morrow for your hundred guineas."

And before Samuel could make up his mind what
to do, he found himself standing alone with a silken
purse, full of golden guineas, in his hand, and the
precious packet being whirled away from him in
the earl's chariot.

Lord Beachcombe, with the packet tightly
clutched in his hand, gave way to a reverie so
pleasant and absorbing that he did not notice a slight
additional jar in the jolting of the carriage over
the ill-paved street.  The cause of the jar was the
sudden accession of two outside passengers; one on
the box beside the coachman, and the other beside
the lackey behind.  Each of these functionaries, at
the same instant, felt the cold contact of a pistol
against his ear, and before they could make any
outcry, the carriage was going in a different direction.

A touch of the whip sent the horses forward at
breakneck speed.  "Keep quiet and you are safe,"
said the stranger on the box, and in a moment he
slipped over the coachman's head a bag that served
both to gag and blindfold him.  The same
operation was performed simultaneously upon the
footman.  Very soon, they turned sharply under an
archway, and a heavy gate was slammed behind them.

Leaving the coachman on the box, his captor got
off and opened the carriage door.

"Descend here, Lord Beachcombe," he said,
holding up a lantern, which revealed a tall man in
a mask and behind him an open door.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?"
demanded Beachcombe, fumbling at his sword.  The
masked man, with very little ceremony, hauled him
out of the carriage, and disregarding a strenuous
resistance, conducted him into a small room, barely
furnished and dimly lighted.  He then saw that his
assailant was almost as richly dressed as himself,
and wore a jeweled star and other decorations of
great splendor.

"What am I brought here for?" he asked, in a
more subdued tone, for as his fear of robbery
subsided in these surroundings, the fact that he had
many and bitter enemies rose up before him.

"No harm unless you bring it upon yourself,"
replied the other.  "At worst, an hour or two's
detention and solitude and the loan of your
invitation to the duchess' masquerade."

"Your voice sounds familiar to me," said Lord
Beachcombe.  "Will you not remove your mask,
now that we are alone?"  The other hesitated.
"Is it worth while to keep up this mystery, Captain
Freemantle?  You see I recognize you."

"Since you know me, it is not worth while,"
replied Robin, unmasking.  As he did so,
Beachcombe whipped out his sword and rushed upon him.
Robin had no time to arm himself, but dodging the
onslaught with the agility of a cat, closed upon his
assailant with a clever wrestling trick that threw
him upon his back half-stunned, and before he could
recover, had his hands securely tied behind his back
with his gold-fringed sash.

"You *would* have it!" said Robin.  "Now I
can—" his eye fell upon a packet that had fallen
from Beachcombe's hand, with the superscription upward:

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "To Mistress Larkyn,
       "In care of Mine Hostess of
           "The Fox and Grapes."

.. vspace:: 2

He picked it up and turned it over, examining
the unbroken seals, and glancing from time to time
at his captive.

"So you found a traitor in the camp," he said,
at last.  "Let him beware—but, tush!  I know
who it is; it can be no other than Samuel.  I need
not interfere with him; he will find his own way
to the gallows soon enough.  I'm afraid I shall
have to search you, my friend.  You may as well
take it quietly; you know I'm an expert at
discovering hidden treasure."

Lord Beachcombe, however, would not submit
quietly, so Robin bound him securely to a chair and
instituted a rigorous search, which revealed nothing
except the emblazoned note of invitation to the ball.
So, warning his prisoner that any outcry would
lead to rough treatment from those who were left
in charge of him, Robin withdrew, taking with him
the packet and the invitation, and also Beachcombe's
sword and the lamp, and leaving him to darkness
and reflection.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PAIR OF GLOVES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A PAIR OF GLOVES

.. vspace:: 2

When Robin Freemantle left Prue, she ran
to the mirror and critically examined her
reflection in it.

"What a fright I look!" she exclaimed, "with
my hair plastered down and my nose red and swollen.
Peggie, I should not be surprised if that man
were as disappointed with his bargain as I am with
mine."

"You don't look much like yourself," Peggie
admitted frankly.  "But even as you are, you must
be a great deal prettier than the sort of women a
highwayman would be used to."

"Why, Peggie, do you think—do you suppose
Robin has women-thieves for friends?  Pick-pockets,
perhaps—or Gipsies!  Yet he looks like
a gentleman.  Highwaymen are sometimes brave
and chivalrous—one hears of their doing generous
things—they are not like common malefactors—"

"They get hanged, all the same," said Peggie
unthinkingly.

"Oh!  Peggie, you wicked, cruel creature; how
dare you say such things!" cried Prue indignantly.
"Robin hanged!  Never, never!  I would
rather go to the queen and implore a pardon for
him on my knees.  Peggie, you saw him yourself.
He is handsome, is he not, and dignified?  He
made me feel very much ashamed of myself; yet
I hate him!  I would I had never set eyes on him!
Do you suppose he despises me, Peggie?"

"I shouldn't think he would have the
impudence!" exclaimed Peggie.  "A common
adventurer, if no worse."

"Adventurer, 'tis true, but which of us is not?
Am I not an adventuress, Peggie?  Aye, and not
so very honest a one either.  Say he will rob my
Lord Bishop of his wig and my Lord Tomnoddy
of his purse; what better do I when I buy what
I can not pay for, and marry a man condemned to
be hanged in order to cheat my creditors.  Oh! my
dear Peggie, there are many fine folk with their
noses in the air, who can not glance into a mirror
without seeing the reflection of an adventurer."

"Not a doubt of it," said Peggie philosophically.
"but most people, when they look in a mirror, see
nothing there but what they want to see."

"Well, what I see is just the reverse of that,"
said Prue, casting a dissatisfied glance at her own
reflection, as she hurried away to rid herself of
her somber dress and release her curls from their
unaccustomed bonds.  This was hardly accomplished
to her satisfaction, when Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert
arrived, in a state of great excitement.

"Good morning, fair ladies," he cried, saluting
them with less ceremony than usual.  "No need to
ask whether you have seen this morning's *Courant*."

"Why not?" inquired Prue innocently.

"Because you look too happy and unconcerned
to have heard the disastrous news," he said, with a
portentous air.  "I grieve to be a harbinger of
misfortune."

"You alarm us," cried Prue.  "What has
happened?  Speak!"

"Calm yourself, dearest Prudence, and remember
that *I* will not suffer any harm to come to
you."  Sir Geoffrey lowered his voice to a mysterious
whisper, "The highwayman you wot of has escaped!"

"Is that all?" said Prue, with a shrug; "I
thought you had news for us.  We knew that an
hour ago."

"You knew it?  How?  Has the villain dared—"

"How did we know it?" Peggie interrupted
quickly, to prevent a retort from her cousin.
"Why, the same way you did," and she displayed
the printed sheet that, adorned with a rude cut of
a gallows, gave a minute account of the morning's
executions, adding that the queen's clemency had
been extended to Robin Freemantle, through the
influence of powerful friends in *certain quarters*,
and that he had left Newgate with *great secrecy* late
Sunday evening.

Sir Geoffrey was greatly vexed at having his
surprise discounted.  "I'm glad to find you taking it
so unconcernedly," he observed, looking anything
but glad.  "I feared that you would be crushed
by such a calamity."

"Did you, indeed, think us bloodthirsty enough
to regret the saving of a fellow-creature's life?"
said Prue, with grave reproof.  "I hoped that you
had a better opinion of our humanity."

"Humanity," echoed the baronet, with ill-dissembled
irritation.  "Such angelic sentiments well
become the cruel beauty whose path is strewn with
bleeding hearts.  But has my dear Prudence no pity
to spare for the unhappy swain, condemned to
worse than death by Robin, the highwayman's,
unexpected good luck?"

"On the contrary," laughed Prue, "she congratulates
you on your escape; believe me, a far greater
piece of luck than Robin's."

"Do not jest, dear one, I implore you," said Sir
Geoffrey seriously.  "You certainly have not
considered the position this miscarriage of justice has
placed you in.  Let me lay before you the consequences—"

"Pray, do not," interrupted Prue pettishly.
"If I am resigned to the will of Heaven, why
persecute me with reasons for rebellion?"

Sir Geoffrey, with his hand upon his heart,
bowed to the ground.

"Before such piety, I am dumb," he said.  "Is
it permitted to ask if you are reconciled to your
creditors as well as to the means you took to rid
yourself of them?"

"It is not," replied Prue with overpowering
dignity.  "That is my private affair and I do not
care to discuss it, even with Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert.  By the by, Sir Geoffrey"—with an
entire change of tone and manner—"you always
know the latest news; do tell us why
Mrs. Tewkesbury has gone home to her father, and whether her
husband is going to fight a duel or will merely
horsewhip her hair-dresser?"

The conversation drifted into safer channels,
and Prue was soon her own bright, frivolous,
enchanting self.  Other guests dropped in; fashion,
scandal, and the duchess' masquerade were
discussed, and Prue had a saucy answer for every
compliment and a ready laugh for every jest,
and beneath her dainty bodice such a tumult of
fear and shame and sharp sense of defeat, and
withal such strange, swift stabs of something that
was not pain, and yet hurt her more than all the
other emotions that quickened her pulse and sent
the blood surging through her brain.

It was late in the afternoon, and Prue's guests
were making their adieux, when Robin's messenger
came—a rustic-looking youth with a ruddy
complexion and a shock of tow-colored hair.  He was
dressed like the footboy of a prosperous tradesman,
and carried an oilskin covered basket—and of a
surety bore no resemblance to the crippled beggar
who had followed Robin so persistently on his way
to the conference in Lincoln's Inn.

Yet it was the same man.

With an air of dense stupidity, he evaded such
questions as James deigned to put to him, and
reiterated his petition for a personal interview with
Lady Prudence Brooke, for whom he had a message
that was to be delivered to her, and to her alone.
James, scenting a discreet but persistent dun, bade
him wait in the library, and conveyed his request
to Prue with the same air of respectful
condolence with which he would have announced any
other calamity.  Although he disapproved of her
youth and frivolity, James would have yielded to
none in admiration of his beautiful young mistress,
whom he had carried in his arms as a baby and
conspired with every other member of Lady Drumloch's
household to indulge, spoil and flatter from
the first hour that her blue eyes had opened on a
world full of her adorers.

"A young man is waiting below, my Lady.  He
has a message for you which he will not send up.
I told him you were engaged, but he said he would
wait until you were at leisure."

"What sort of a young man, James?  Does he
look as if he came for money?" Prue asked.
"You know most of my duns better than I do."

"He is a stranger to me, my Lady, but it is
likely he may be a lawyer's clerk in disguise."

"I will see him, James; bring him up here," she
interrupted.

"The hair-dresser is here; shall I tell him to
wait?" inquired James.

"No; send him up-stairs.  Peggie, go and have
your hair dressed first, and by that time I will be
ready."

She was alone when the young man was shown
in.  "You want to see me?" she said, as soon as
the door was shut.  "You come to fetch something,
do you not?"

"The captain told me—" he began, then stopped
and stared mutely at her.

"Well, what did the captain tell you?" she
demanded impatiently.

"He told me I should see the most beautiful
lady in the whole world, and that I should know
her for the Lady Prudence Brooke, without asking
her name," said the lad.

"Your captain is a fool!" cried Prue.  But,
try as hard as she might to look indignant, she
blushed divinely and a furtive smile played
hide-and-seek among her dimples.  Of all Prue's many
charms there was none to equal her smile.  It was,
perhaps, on that account that she smiled often and
so maintained a reputation for good-nature that
lured many an unsuspecting victim into disaster.

"That he is!" cried the messenger heartily.
"For he said he'd done this beautiful lady a great
injury, but for all that he would trust his
life—and more than that—in her hands.  Can any man
be a worse fool than to trust a woman so far as
that?"

"Said he that, in very truth?" asked Prue,
turning very pale.

"Aye, and other things just as foolish," said the
man, with the same stupid air of rusticity.  "Will
it please your ladyship to give me what the captain
left with you?"

She brought out the white silken packet from its
hiding-place among the laces of her bodice, and held
it out to him.  "Tell your captain from me," she
said disdainfully, "that I scarce know which is the
greater fool—he or his messenger."

The man laughed very heartily, and having
bestowed the packet safely, opened his basket and
took out a parcel and a letter.  "The captain bade
me present these to your ladyship," he said, and was
bowing himself out, when she stopped him hurriedly.

"I forget the captain's address," she said; "I
might want to—to send a message to him."

"Any time your ladyship wants to send to him,
a word to Steve Larkyn, at Pip's Coffee-house,
Essex Street, Strand, will find your ladyship's
humble servant, who will be most honored by any
commands you lay upon him," said the man.  And
before she could speak again, had disappeared.

Prue opened the parcel, which contained a long,
narrow box of perfumed wood, lined with pink
sarsenet.  The next moment, she was flying up-stairs,
two at a time, in her haste to display the contents to
her cousin.

.. _`Prue opened the parcel.`:

.. figure:: images/img-154.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Prue opened the parcel.

   Prue opened the parcel.

"Look, Peggie, did you ever see anything half
so lovely?" she cried, holding out for her inspection
a pair of long silk gloves as filmy as a cobweb
and exquisitely embroidered with seed-pearls.

Peggie dared not move her head, for the coiffeur
was busy with his tongs, but she rolled her eyes
round until she saw the gloves, and then rolled
them up as far as they would go to emphasize her
one word of admiration, "Incomparable!"

Prue drew on one of the gloves.  It was so
elastic, and yet so clinging, that it clasped her
slender fingers like another skin, giving them even a
more tapering and delicate appearance than usual.
She did not open her letter until she was alone in
her own room, and then, tearing off the cover with
more eagerness than she would have cared to own,
found nothing inside but ten crisp, new Bank of
England notes for one hundred pounds each.

She dropped them as though they had been so
many adders, and a flush of anger rose to her cheek.
"I suppose he has been waylaying and robbing
some one!" she said half-aloud, "and hugs himself
to think he can buy me with stolen money!
Oh! he is just as base as the rest—"

There was a movement in the other room, so
Prue snatched up the bank-notes and crumpled
them into her jewel-box.  Not even to Peggie did
she wish to confide this fresh instance of Robin's
turpitude.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RED DOMINO`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE RED DOMINO

.. vspace:: 2

Fashionable hours were early in the days
of Queen Anne, and it was a well-known fact
that the imperious Sarah Churchill did not easily
pardon the slight of unpunctuality at her
entertainments.  So by nine o'clock the gorgeous
drawing-rooms were well-filled and the steady stream of
rank and beauty poured up the great staircase as
fast as chariots and chairs could discharge their
glittering loads.

The sight was a dazzling one; every nationality,
every celebrity was represented.  Cardinals paid
court to Gipsies, Charlemagne and Henry the
Eighth contended for the favor of Helen of Troy,
and in front of the dais upon which the duchess
stood unmasked, to receive her guests, an endless
procession passed, of monks and devils, kings and
clowns, swashbucklers, nuns, fairies, princesses,
allegorical and mythological personages—a veritable
phantasmagoria, in which the mask and domino
afforded just as much concealment as the wearer
desired, but no more.

A ripple of laughter or a murmur of admiration
at frequent intervals announced the arrival of some
specially brilliant or humorous masker, and when
the crowd was at its densest, a couple approached
the dais, followed by a stream of hilarious compliments.

Foremost came Prue, dressed as a shepherdess.
Over a skirt of her grandmother's priceless lace,
she wore a Watteau dress of white silk, brocaded
with bunches of rosebuds and forget-me-nots, and
coquettishly perched upon her luxuriant curls was
a little straw hat, adorned with a wreath of roses
and a flowing knot of blue ribbon.  The
pearl-embroidered gloves covered her hands, in one of
which she carried a crook all laced with fluttering
ribbons, and in the other a silken cord, by which
she led Peggie, admirably disguised as a lamb; of
gigantic growth, to be sure, but delightfully and
gracefully grotesque as she ambled and pranced
beside the little shepherdess, who at every other
step, stopped to caress and encourage her.

The little procession was so irresistibly funny
that the duchess, at first rather disturbed by the
rising tide of laughter and applause, as soon as she
set eyes upon the cause of it, joined in with the
utmost heartiness, and even the queen, who sat
beside her in a chair of state, vouchsafed a smile of
genuine amusement, rare enough upon the face of
that woman of few emotions.

Dancing was going on in the great ball-room, but
Prue refused to dance.  "I dare not leave my
lamb at the mercy of all these wolves," she declared,
in a falsetto voice that deceived no one.  "Is there
no grassy nook where I can repose, while my pet
frolics round me?"

"Certainly," said a voice, which she recognized
as Sir Geoffrey's.  "There are secluded retreats in
the conservatories sacred to Chloris and her
flock—"

"Including Strephon?  No, thank you," and
warning him off with her crook, she roamed about,
launching the harmless arrows of her ready wit
against such of the guests as she recognized, or
pretended to.

Presently a voice began to murmur close behind
her—

   |            "Her hair,
   |  In ringlets rather dark than fair,
   |  Does down her ivory bosom roll,
   |  And hiding half, adorn the whole.
   |  In her high forehead's fair half-round
   |  Love sits in open triumph crown'd.
   |  Her lips, no living bard, I weet,
   |  May say how red, how round, how sweet—"
   |

"Oh! hush!" cried Prue, in a great flutter;
"how could you be so rash?  You will be
recognized."  She turned a quick, timid glance
backward, and was promptly reassured.  The tall,
stately figure, picturesquely draped in a voluminous
red domino, had nothing about it to attract
attention, and a red mask with a deep fall of gold-lace
concealed the entire face, except the firm mouth
and strong, square chin.

"What made you come here, of all places in
the world?" she asked.

"Chiefly to see you, but partly because I had
business here," he answered.

Poor Prue thought of the bank-notes, and
almost collapsed.  What business could a highwayman
have at a ball unless to rob the guests while
pretending to be one of them?  Just then Peggie
drew her attention by pulling at the cord.

"For Heaven's sake," she whispered, "come out
of this crowd.  I am so hot, muffled in this
sheepskin, I shall die if I don't get to the air."

Prue signed to Robin to follow, and led her
lambkin away.  Outside the ball-room, they were
soon in comparative solitude.  In the card-rooms a
few elderly people had thrown off their masks and
given themselves over to the full enjoyment of
whist and écarté.  Here and there a tête-à-tête was
progressing behind the kindly shelter of albums or
portfolios.  In the library a sedate couple mused
side by side over the latest number of the *Spectator*,
upside down, while two or three portly, be-starred
and be-ribboned fogies discussed the threatened
Jacobite uprising over an exclusive bottle of Burgundy.

Prue was at home in every corner of Marlborough
House, and had no difficulty in piloting
her companions into a cool, dim-lighted conservatory,
where the sound of voices and music reached
the ear agreeably softened by distance.

"Every one has seen me," said Peggie; "I'll get
rid of this sheepskin, and then I can dance."

"Peggie would rather dance than eat, sleep or
go to church," remarked Prue, seating herself and
making a little, half-hesitating, half-inviting
movement toward the seat beside her.

Robin was not slow in availing himself of the
opportunity.  There was something in Prue's manner
that allured him, while it kept him at a distance.
He longed to take her in his arms as he had done
once; yet he dared not touch her hand.

"I am glad to have an opportunity of speaking
to you," she said, removing her mask.  "You sent
me something to-day—"

"Yes—oh! you don't know how happy you have
made me by wearing them," he said earnestly.

"Ah! yes," she started and looked down at the
gloves; "they are beautiful—just the very thing
for my dress, too.  But that was not what I meant."

A deep flush burned his face under the mask.  "I
beg and implore you not to speak of anything else
I sent," he said, in a low, tremulous voice.  "Let
me deceive myself into the belief that you
acknowledge *that*, at least, as my rightful privilege."

She raised her lovely eyes to his with a puzzled
expression, then dropped them, a little embarrassed.
"We will not discuss that," she said, "but
unfortunately I can not avoid speaking about the money,
because—you see, I can not help knowing that
you—that perhaps—that perhaps it honestly belongs
to somebody else and you have no right to give
it to me.  There!"  She looked apprehensively at
him, fearing an outburst of rage, but he was quite
calm, and the mask concealed any change of countenance.

"You are very scrupulous," he said coldly.

"Oh!  I know you had no reason to expect
honesty from me!" she exclaimed, with a touch of
temper in her voice.  "But when you threw your
purse to me in the carriage, I had no opportunity
of returning it and I never expected to see you
again.  Besides, you took mine and—and—"  She
glanced at him out of the tail of her eye, but
he did not accept the challenge.  "You think,
perhaps," she went on, quite angrily now, "that I have
done a much worse thing for money than ever you
did; but if I have married a robber—"

"Stop, stop!" he said authoritatively.  "If you
must say these things about yourself, it shall not
be to me.  Insult *me* as much as you please, but do
not accuse me of daring to blame you for anything
you have done, or could do.  Tell me, if I assure
you that that money is my very own, will you take
my word for it?"

She hesitated and softened.  "Tell me truly—in
what way your own?  Do not fear to trust me."

"Trust you!  Do you not know that you could
charm any secrets of my own from me by a kind
word?  But this is no secret; it is the price of my
birthright, received in honest sale and barter over
a lawyer's table.  You *will* believe me, won't you?"

She put out both her hands, with a gesture of
enchanting frankness.  "I will believe anything
you tell me," she said; "I know you would not
deceive me."

He took the two little fluttering hands in his, and
raised them one after another to his lips.

"I see you are not wearing a sling," she
remarked.  "Is your arm healed?"

"It was nothing; a broken collar-bone is quickly
cured," he said carelessly, though delighted by even
so slight a token of interest from her.  "Besides,
the person whose domino I borrowed, does not
wear his arm in a sling, and I do not wish any
difference to be remarked when he resumes it."

"Then you are here in some one else's disguise?"
she said quickly.  "What will you do when we
unmask?"

"At midnight the right face will be found under
this mask," he replied.

"What fun it would be!" she cried, with reckless
gaiety, "if you were to stay until midnight
and unmask with the rest!  I wonder if any one
would recognize you."

"If the experiment will amuse you, I will stay
and try it," said Robin tranquilly.

Her own voice dropped almost to a whisper.
"To amuse me?" she murmured.  "What do you
suppose would happen?"

"Probably nothing at all; I am not so well
known.  At the worst, they would merely arrest
me," he said.

"Merely arrest you! and send you back
to—prison, I suppose?"

"Why, 'tis likely; and then, in a few days, you
would be free—to marry some one you love."

"I have had enough of marrying," she said petulantly.
"Besides, had I loved one man, I would not
have married another, even in jest."

"Even in jest," he repeated.  "Well, have a
little patience and you may laugh as heartily as you
please at this merry jest.  When you are free, will
you—" he hesitated—"I owe you a chance to
make a better use of your freedom next time, yet
it irks me to think that you will very likely throw
it away again upon one who is not worthy of you."

"Do you mean Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert?" she
said.  "Do not fear, I shall never marry him."

"You will not?" he exclaimed eagerly.  "You
do not love him?  Oh! you give me new life; I
care little what becomes of me, if I am sure you
will not marry Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."

"Hush-sh," she whispered, peering round in
the dim twilight of their retreat; "I thought I
heard a movement; suppose any one had overheard you!"

He clapped his hand on his sword, but everything
was still except the distant music and the
approaching voices of another pair in search of
solitude.

"Let us go," said Prue, rising in a tremor and
adjusting her mask.  "I would not, for the world,
have anything happen to you, and I fear you
are not safe here; we have been incautious—prithee,
begone from this house—"

"Do not be uneasy, dear Lady Prudence; I am
safe here," said Robin, devouring her with his eyes.
"I may never see you again; do not banish me—"

"Never see me again?" she interrupted.  "Why
not?  I am sure you are in some danger you will
not tell me of, else why should I never see you again?"

"Would you care if you did not see me
again?"—he was beginning, in a passionate whisper,
when Peggie, released from her sheepskin and
clad in somewhat scanty drapery intended to
represent springtime, pounced upon them, delighted
with the semi-nudity that displayed her charming
form, while the mask concealed her plain face.

"Have I been away long enough?" she cried
saucily.  "Have you had plenty of time to quarrel
and make love?  Come, Prue; eleven o'clock has
struck, and we shall scarcely be in time for a
country-dance before we unmask.  Hasten!"

She was drawing Prue after her by one hand,
but she hung back, extending the other to Robin,
who stood irresolute, longing to follow, yet not
venturing, unbidden.

"Farewell," she said, in a thrilling voice.
"Prithee, do not linger."

He pressed a kiss on her finger-tips and was still
looking after her with his heart in his eyes, when
a hand brushed his arm with a peculiar touch, and
turning with his wandering senses suddenly on the
alert, he saw a figure in a monk's habit, strolling
slowly toward the most crowded card-room.  He
followed, and soon caught up with him.

"Your dress is too conspicuous," said the monk,
in a harsh whisper.  "There is work to be done,
instantly, and your dress unfits you for it."

"Show me the work," said Robin, apparently
greatly interested in two players who were
throwing dice for high stakes.

"I expected to find you at your post, and after
a long search, where do I discover you?  *You*, of
all men—at the feet of the most heartless little
Jezebel in London," said the monk, with bitterness.

Robin laughed silently.  "Have you also been
under her feet?" he asked.  "Well, if it were any
one else, I would kill him for such a calumny upon
the most virtuous and adorable lady in the world;
but I can not spare you, so give me your news."

"The papers stolen from a certain general are
here, in the possession of a man who does not know
their importance, but only that Madame Sarah will
pay handsomely for them.  Not being able to
obtain audience of her, he is now leaving the house."

"Why do you make such a long story of it?"
said Robin impatiently.  "Describe him to me, and
I will see to the rest."

"There is no hurry; he has a sweetheart among
the maids, and will be some time about his adieux.
I will show him to you, but you must get rid of
that scarlet affair; what have you underneath?
Oh! that is still worse; satin and velvet and
diamonds!  Why couldn't you come quietly dressed,
like the rest of us?"

Robin blushed under his mask, for he knew very
well that if Prue had not been among the guests,
the monk's frock or the student's cap and gown
would have been fine enough for his purpose.

"Never mind my dress," he said shortly.  "You
can lend me your frock, and if you have no further
business here, you can do me a service."

As they went out together, Robin explained to
his friend the manner in which he had obtained a
domino and an invitation, and, incidentally, the
predicament of Lord Beachcombe.  Together they
sought and found his carriage, at a place previously
arranged for, and within it the exchange of
garments was effected.

"Now go to the house by the riverside, where
you will find Lord Beachcombe tied hand and foot
in the dark in the guard-room, and his lackeys
under similar conditions in another room.  Steve
Larkyn is in charge of them.  Restore the mask
and domino to Lord Beachcombe, return him and
his varlets to the carriage, blindfolded, and when
you have taken them a safe distance from Essex
Street, set them free to go their way to the ball or
the devil, whichever pleases them."

The carriage drove away and Robin, completely
concealed under the monk's gown, made his way
back to the house.  Not, however, through the
brilliantly lighted main-entrance, but this time by
a side-door that led to the servants' quarters.





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.. _`AT THE UNMASKING`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   AT THE UNMASKING

.. vspace:: 2

When Prue and Robin had left the
conservatory a sufficiently long time to insure
their return to the ball-room, out from behind a
clump of plants slipped Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert.
Observing her exit from the ball-room with a tall
and conspicuously habited masker, he had followed
with the intention of interrupting a tête-à-tête and
forestalling one of Prue's little flirtations that,
however harmless in themselves, were dangerous,
as he knew by experience, to anterior claims.

When he found that, avoiding the well-lighted
rooms, Prue guided her companion to an out-of-the-way
retreat, where it was unlikely that they
would be disturbed by any one less familiar with
the house than herself, his annoyance increased, and
with it his anxiety to know who the favored swain
might be, and when Peggie, with the good-natured
intention of giving Robin an opportunity, left them
to rid herself of her sheepskin, the green-eyed
monster took complete possession of Sir Geoffrey
and prompted a baseness of which, a moment
before, he would have blushed to think himself
capable.

The only available concealment was at such a
distance that at first nothing reached him but the
murmur of voices.  He could see that Prue
stretched out her hands to her companion, and that
he kissed them with ardor, but until his own name
was mentioned, he heard nothing but a disjointed
word here and there.  Then, with ears preternaturally
sharpened by something even more poignant
than jealousy, he overheard Prue's repudiation of
himself and her companion's expression of relief
and gratitude for the same.

It was fortunate, perhaps, that the colloquy was
so soon brought to an end by Peggie's eagerness
to carry her cousin off to the ball-room, whither Sir
Geoffrey followed as quickly as he deemed wise,
only to find Prue already standing up in a
country-dance, and the tall masker in scarlet missing.
He hunted everywhere for him, but in vain, and
finally withdrew to one of the card-rooms, where he
played with a marked absence of his usual skill,
and also of the luck for which he was proverbial.

At midnight a flourish of trumpets announced
that the moment for unmasking had arrived.  The
dancers formed a double line and marched past the
dais, each couple unmasking as they saluted the
duchess and her royal guest.  Following them
came an almost interminable procession of the
beauty, talent and rank of the country, and among
the very last of these, Sir Geoffrey's search was
rewarded.  The tall figure in its scarlet drapery
suddenly appeared, he knew not whence, and within
a few feet of him, doffed domino and mask and
revealed the familiar but unlooked-for person of
Lord Beachcombe.

Instantly there flashed into Sir Geoffrey's mind
an explanation of the words he had overheard,
which roused him to an almost uncontrollable fury.
This man, once his rival, was still in love with Prue,
and after goading him into a monstrous wager
about her, had exerted some infernal arts or
arguments to induce her to play the jilt once more and
thus rob him, at one stroke, of his bride and his
money.

"Oh!" he muttered, with intense bitterness,
"such a trick is worthy of a man who would not pay
his own sister's dowry, until he was sued for it!
He shall answer for this treachery with his heart's
best blood, and as for her—"  His look boded ill
for the future of the capricious beauty toward
whom his feeling just then was less like love than
hate.  He was forced into self-control, however,
by the reflection that to provoke a meeting on this
issue would place him in a more than equivocal
position and that it would be necessary to find some
other cause of quarrel.

Beachcombe, meanwhile, unconscious of what
had happened under shelter of his disguise, saluted
his hostess and his sovereign and passed on with
a bland exterior and a temper in a highly
inflammable state.

Sir Geoffrey lost no time in throwing himself in
Beachcombe's way.  They exchanged greetings
and then, "How goes the courting?" asked my
lord.  "How is it you are not in attendance on
the fair widow?"

Sir Geoffrey's fury choked him.  Was ever such
impudence as this scoundrel's?

"Do you require an explanation on the subject?"
he said, between his clenched teeth.

"Far from it," retorted Beachcombe, with a
jeering laugh.  "It will be quite enough for me
to know that she has jilted you; I care nothing for
the details.  Still, if I were you, I would not carry
my willow quite so openly."

"No doubt your lordship regards it as quite
permissible to prejudice the Viscountess Brooke
against a suitor who has a wager with you,
dependent on her favor," sneered Beaudesert.

"I hardly fancy it would be diplomatic," drawled
the other, not having the clew to Sir Geoffrey's
meaning, and relishing his peevishness as evidence
of defeat.  "As the lady has probably never
pardoned my speedy consolation, I doubt not that
anything I might say against you would only drive her
into your arms.  This is the first time I have seen
the Lady Prudence since Her Majesty requested her
to retire from the court a year ago.  She appears
to me even more beautiful and vivacious than
formerly.  I must endeavor to make my peace with
her; one can not afford to be at odds with so
bewitching a creature, especially if she is to be
attached to the queen's household again, where we
shall be obliged to meet constantly."

Sir Geoffrey was so dumfounded by what he
took to be the earl's audacity and dissimulation,
that he fell back and allowed him to follow in the
wake of the subject of their conversation.  It was
but a small consolation to him that Prue was in
his power through her rash marriage; she had
already shown him that she considered him *particeps
criminis*, if she did not go so far as to lay the
blame on his shoulders.  It was plain to him
that Beachcombe would give him no opening for
a quarrel about her and that he would have to find
some other cause for the duel he was determined
to force upon him, but that gave him no uneasiness.
At that period dueling, though nominally unlawful,
was a highly popular means of settling any and
every difference between gentlemen, and love,
cards, etiquette, family jars, political opinions and
a host of more or less trivial causes gave plausible
excuse for the indulgence of personal hatred.  Sir
Geoffrey was a dead shot and a fairly skilled
swordsman, and had come off scathless in
encounters with far more formidable antagonists than
this young lordling, whose prowess was still
untried and whose reputation for courage or any other
lofty quality was yet to make.

With a wager of five thousand guineas contingent
upon Prue's fidelity to him, Sir Geoffrey was
not prepared to be overnice about the pretext that
would put such an antagonist *hors de combat* for a
few weeks.

While he was turning over in his mind a variety
of baits by which he might draw Beachcombe into
a quarrel, the latter pursued his way through the
crowd, exchanging greetings and receiving
congratulations upon the advent of his son and heir,
and at last reached Prudence.  It was no very easy
task to edge his way through the throng of her
admirers, nor had he any special reason to
felicitate himself upon his success when he had gained
it.  He came up, bowing low, with his hand upon
his breast, pouring out the customary stream of
high-flown compliments and asseverations that the
sun, moon and stars had refused their light since
her eyes, the brightest of all luminaries, had been
withdrawn from the firmament!

Prue regarded him with one of her most beaming smiles.

   |  "'And pray, sir, when came you from hell?
   |  Our friends there—did you leave them well?'"

she inquired, with an air of flattering interest.

In the midst of the laughter that greeted this
sally, Peggie was heard to exclaim, in a voice of
mock-horror, "Prue! how shocking!"

"My dear, you must blame Mr. Prior, not me,
if you object to the quotation," said Prue demurely.

"Maybe," retorted Peggie; "but in conversation
one can not see the inverted commas, and you know
Lord Beachcombe does not read poetry."

"True, I apologize," said Prue, and turning
again to her former suitor, she dropped a deep
curtsey.  "How is it, Lord Beachcombe, that we have
not seen you earlier?" she asked graciously.
"When did you arrive from—home? and did you
leave her ladyship and the baby well?"

The laugh that followed this was utterly
incomprehensible to the proud father, who replied with
urbanity, feeling that Prue showed great
self-denial in making these inquiries so publicly and
exposing herself to the hilarity of those who could
not fail to remember how she had forfeited the
proud position of wife to the present and mother
of the future Earl of Beachcombe.  He felt quite
sorry for the regret and mortification she must be
suffering and was inclined to concede that the
punishment was overharsh for the frailty of a creature
so winsome.

He offered his hand to lead her into the supper-room
and the magnetic thrill of her touch sent the
blood surging through his veins in the old
accustomed way—he looked down into the sparkling
depths of her lovely eyes and straightway
forgot—everything that he ought to have remembered.  It
needed but the gloomy frown of Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert to incite him to offer the most effusive
attentions and Prue to permit, if not actually
encourage them, until wearying of a pastime that had
nothing to recommend it but its folly, she turned
the battery of her fascinations in another direction.

It must not be supposed that Lord Beachcombe
was without curiosity as to the use Robin had made
of the invitation and disguise he had borrowed so
peremptorily.  He questioned several people, but
no one seemed to have observed the scarlet domino,
and the one person who could have enlightened
him, he did not dream of connecting with the
exploits of a highwayman.  He began to feel
reassured, and a couple of bottles of wine helped to
restore his damaged *amour propre*, though his
temper was considerably ruffled.  He followed Prue
to the ball-room, but his invitation to dance was
coldly declined and he retreated to the card-room
where Sir Geoffrey was already seated and hailed
his coming with fierce joy.  It would be strange,
indeed, he argued, if means could not be found to
fasten a quarrel upon a man who came to the
card-table with a naturally morose temper heated with
wine and still further excited by the bitter-sweet
arts of a coquette.

That Beachcombe was still infatuated with his
old love, Sir Geoffrey had not the slightest doubt,
and that he had persuaded her to jilt him he had,
as he firmly believed, the evidence of his own senses.

The play was high, and Sir Geoffrey's luck had
taken another turn.  The pile of guineas in front
of him grew apace and gradually the others dropped
out, except Beachcombe, who had also been
winning, though not so largely.  His luck soon gave
way before Sir Geoffrey's, and in a short time he
had lost all his winnings and a considerable sum
besides.  Seeing him hesitate and half rise from
the table, his opponent laughingly exclaimed,
"Don't leave me, Beachcombe; I'm in the vein to-night—"

"Unlucky in love, lucky at cards," sneered
Beachcombe.  "I see the widow *has* jilted you."

"That's a lie and you know it!" cried Sir Geoffrey.
Both the men started to their feet and stood
glaring at each other across the table.  Most of
the other games were suspended, and a breathless
hush fell upon the whole assembly.

"Is that intended for an insult?" said Beachcombe
thickly.  A laugh or two expressed the
opinion of the onlookers as to the propriety of such
a question.

"You can take it any way you please," retorted
Sir Geoffrey.  "What I have said I am ready to
repeat, if you require it, and uphold in any way
you demand."

A gray-haired man in general's uniform came
forward and laid a hand on the arm of each.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the duchess will be
much offended, if this should go further under her
roof, on such an occasion as this.  If you wish to
continue this discussion, my quarters, near by, are
at your disposal after the ball.  Until then, pray
let us avoid any unpleasantness."

Beachcombe turned on his heel and walked off
to the other end of the room.  Sir Geoffrey
accepted the old general's invitation, and pocketing
his winnings, repaired to the ball-room, his temper
and spirits vastly improved.

There he had the good fortune to find Prue in
a gracious mood, and willing to make up for her
previous neglect by dancing with him and allowing
him to linger at her side until the ball came to an
end.  Then he had the felicity of shawling her and
handing her into her carriage, where she bade him
good morrow and permitted him to press a kiss
upon Robin's pearl-embroidered gloves.





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.. _`LADY BARBARA'S NEWS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   LADY BARBARA'S NEWS

.. vspace:: 2

The sun was flushing the horizon when Prue
and Peggie left off comparing notes about
the ball and laid their weary heads on their
respective pillows.  Peggie, light of heart and easy of
conscience, was very soon asleep, but Prue was less
fortunate.  The more tightly she closed her eyes,
the more distinctly she saw everything that had
happened to her since yester morning's sun had
looked coldly upon her grief and remorse.  Could
it be only yesterday that she had been awakened
by the hideous thought that her *husband* was
expiating his crimes upon the gallows?  Only yesterday
that she had bemoaned herself as the wickedest and
crudest of women, while she believed him dead:
yet was ready to reproach him with perfidy when
she saw him alive?  Oh! it was impossible that
only yesterday morning she had scorned herself for
the folly that bound her to a malefactor.  Why,
last night she had treated him as an equal, had
taken his word as a gentleman, had felt and
acknowledged anxiety for his safety, and had
permitted him to kiss her hands; not out of pity as when
she married him, but just as if he had been of the
same social flesh-and-blood as herself.  She vainly
reminded herself that this Robin was the same who
had waylaid her on Bleakmoor; the same who had
lain in Newgate Prison, a felon condemned to the
gallows; the same she had married because he was
doomed to death, and for no other reason; oh! more
the shame to her!  As to him, his part in
that ignoble contract was blameless and even
generous.  With which thought last in her mind, she
fell asleep.

When she opened her eyes, Peggie stood at her
bedside, smiling over an armful of roses.

"Guess what little bird sent these to you," she
said.

Prue started up eagerly.  "Is he here?"  Peggie
shook her head.  "What, did he go away
without seeing me?" cried Prue, her face falling
and her lip drooping like a grieved child.

"No, he sent them by his lackey.  You had better
make haste to be up and dressed, in case he
comes to be thanked."

Prue jumped out of bed and began dressing in a
great hurry.

"How comes *he* with a lackey, forsooth!" she
said presently, feigning to cavil so that Peggie
would go on talking.

"Why, does not Sir Geoffrey always send his
lackey with flowers for you—and grandmother?"
laughed Peggie.

"Sir Geoffrey!" cried Prue, starting away from
the roses as though she had suddenly encountered
their thorns.

"Of course; who did you think had sent them?"
inquired Peggie blandly.

"Why—I thought—you said—Oh!  Peggie,
what did you mean by a little bird?" pouted Prue.

"Ha! ha! ha!" Peggie screamed with laughter.
"So the only bird you can think of now is a Robin!
Why, Prue, you foolish coz, what is the use of setting
your heart on him?  You know you can not have
him."

"And suppose I can not; is not that enough to
make any woman set her heart on a man?" cried
Prue.  "Take those nasty things out of the room,
Peggy; the smell of them makes me quite sick."

Peggie started to go, sniffing them voluptuously.
"Poor Robin!" she murmured; "'tis well he can
not see how his roses are treated.  Nasty things,
indeed!  I never knew the smell of roses to make
you sick before."

Prue flew after her.  "Margaret!" she
exclaimed, with flashing eyes.  "How dare you
torment me like this?  Tell me, this instant, who sent
those flowers to me?"

"Why, didn't I tell you they came from Robin?"
asked Peggie, regarding her with guileless surprise.

"Give them to me this instant!  Oh, Peggie,
Peggie, you know you tried to make me think Sir
Geoffrey sent them—"

"I only said he always sent flowers by his
lackey," Peggie interposed.

"Was there nothing with them?  Not a letter,
not a message?" Prue went on.  "Oh, Peggie, just
a word—?"

"Not a word.  But the day is not over yet, and
mayhap Captain Scatterbrain will bring his own
message.  He is mad enough for anything.  Now
don't keep smelling those 'nasty things'—you
know the smell of roses makes you sick to-day—and
make haste down-stairs.  Grandmother is feeling
almost well to-day and will take her chocolate
in the drawing-room.  She wishes you to join her
anon, so that she can hear from your own lips all
about your triumphs last night."

When Prue came down presently, she wore a
great cluster of red roses at her breast, and one or
two nestled in the rich braids of her hair.  It was
a pity Robin could not see how well they became
her, but they were not altogether wasted, as Sir
Geoffrey, coming in a short time later, made them
the occasion of some charming compliments.

Old Lady Drumloch, with no sign of weakness
about her but her delicate waxen pallor, reclined on
a couch enveloped in her cashmeres, sipping chocolate,
and listening with great complacency to her
granddaughter's account of the masquerade.  She
greeted Sir Geoffrey without enthusiasm, accepted
his congratulations upon her recovery with resignation,
and remorselessly turned him over to Peggie
for entertainment, while she kept Prue in close
attendance upon herself.

Other guests dropping in, Prue was kept so
busy dispensing chocolate and sweetmeats that she
hardly noticed the portentous gravity with which
Sir Geoffrey drew Peggie apart and engaged her
in a low-voiced conversation, which at first amused,
then surprised, and finally caused her to exhibit
unmistakable signs of uneasiness.  Her efforts to
catch Prue's eye being abortive, she was on her
way across the room, when the door was thrown
open, and with a great rustling of silks and
clattering of fans, three ladies were announced.  "Lady
Limerick, Miss Warburton and Lady Barbara Sweeting."

Of the new-comers, the latter deserves a word of
introduction, for Lady Barbara had been the sharer,
and many thought, the instigator of half the frolics
of Prue's lively widowhood.  They were fast
friends, and if the fading charms of Lady Barbara
suffered by contrast with Prue's fresh loveliness,
those who desired the friendship of either were
usually wise enough to treat both with impartial
gallantry.

A great favorite of Queen Anne and also a
dangerous rival of Sarah Churchill, Lady Barbara
owed her popularity chiefly to her skill in collecting
and disseminating scandal.  She knew everything
long before any one else suspected it.  Projected
marriages, family jars, political intrigues supplied
her with an ever-fresh stock of amusing anecdote.
Mischievous but rarely malicious, she often pricked
but seldom stabbed, and was as ready to turn the
laugh against herself as to make fun out of her
most cherished enemy.

"Dear Lady Drumloch, what a delightful surprise,
and how charming you look!" she cried, taking
the old lady's delicate hand in hers and pressing
upon it as reverential a kiss as though it had been
Queen Anne's own chubby fingers.  "You don't
know how enchanted we are to have you among
us again!  We have missed you so.  Prue, you
wicked witch, how dare you look so lovely?  After
last night you ought to be pale and languishing,
instead of looking so shamelessly unconcerned
and lighthearted."  Prue, without knowing why,
changed countenance a little, at which her
tormentor ran on still more volubly.  "We were
getting on very nicely without you—a little dull,
perhaps, but one can live without duels, and while
you stayed in the North, wives could let their
husbands run alone, even if they had been your
bond-slaves.  Prithee, was ever General Sweeting the
victim of your enchantments?  If so, alack, what
is to become of me?"

A laugh rippled round the room, for Lady
Barbara's husband was notoriously henpecked, and
although he had once been a redoubtable warrior and
a still more formidable rake, it was in the days when
Prue's mother had not emerged from the nursery
and Prue's self was an unpropounded problem of
the distant future.

Not at all disturbed by the amusement of her
audience, Lady Barbara raised her quizzing-glass
and ran her bright, sharp glance round the room.

"What!  Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert! how come
you here?  Why are you not flying for safety to
your Yorkshire Castle?  Or perhaps your parliamentary
immunities extend to the slaughter of the
innocents as well as the spoiling of the Egyptians!"

Sir Geoffrey, very red in the face, came forward,
bowing low.  "Dear Lady Barbara, as you are
strong, be merciful," he murmured imploringly.

She gave him a look very unlike her ordinary
merry defiance.  "Merciful to *you*, who have no
mercy even for the nursing mother and the suckling
babe?  Never!  Lady Beachcombe is one of my
ninety-and-nine dearest friends.  I have just come
from her.  There was a sight to wring the heart
of a monster! the weeping mother in one room
and the wounded husband and father—"

"Oh, tush!" interrupted Sir Geoffrey, recovering
his aplomb.  "'Twas the merest scratch.  A
strip torn from my lady's kerchief would have
bound it up and left something to spare—"

"Don't quarrel, you two," interposed Prue's
sweet, cooing voice.  "Bab, come and sit beside
granny and I'll give you a cup of chocolate, while
you tell her the latest news."

"The latest news!  There is so much, that the
difficulty is to know where to begin.  I went, this
morning, to visit my interesting friend, Lady
Beachcombe, and according to promise, to give her full
description of the ball, including"—here she shook
her finger at Prue—"all the doings and misdoings
of her lord.  I was prepared to be cautious with the
dear creature, but instead of finding myself
welcomed as a bearer of news, I heard so much that my
poor head fairly swims with trying to remember it all."

"Begin with the least exciting and work up by
easy stages to a climax," suggested Peggie, edging
toward her cousin and trying to attract her
attention.

"No, begin with the most thrilling while our
nerves are strong enough to bear it," Prue proposed
eagerly.

"First, then," Lady Barbara began, highly
enjoying her anticipated triumph, "there was a
robbery at Marlborough House last night; and sure no
common thief would venture to steal Her Majesty's
diamond necklace from the royal tiring-room."

The general chorus of incredulity and indignation
realized her expectations and she looked around
with a mysterious smile.  "No common thief,
indeed; but Robin Freemantle, the highwayman, is
out of jail, and 'tis said—indeed my authority can
not be questioned—that he was among the
maskers."

Prue felt cold shivers trickling down her spine,
but the consciousness that Sir Geoffrey was watching
her, gave her strength to fix a smile upon her
face and pour out the cup of chocolate with a steady
hand.

"Why do they think he had anything to do with
this?" some one inquired.  "Tell us everything
quickly, Barbara, before we die of curiosity."

"Why, now we come to the best story of all,"
cried the fair newsmonger.  "On his way to the
ball, Lord Beachcombe was waylaid by Robin
Freemantle and a band of ruffians, who carried him
off—carriage, servants and all complete—to a secret
cavern and left him there for several hours, having
robbed him of his mask and domino and borrowed
his invitation and his carriage!"

"The devil!" ejaculated Sir Geoffrey, suddenly
very much enlightened.

"Fie, Sir Geoffrey; you should leave such
remarks to our poor friend Beachcombe, when he
discovered, this morning, the purpose for which his
disguise had been taken."

"But he was there; I spoke with him," said Prue,
feeling the color ebb from her cheeks and
surreptitiously trying to pinch some of it back.

"Did I not see you supping with him?" retorted
Lady Barbara archly.  "I refrained from dwelling
upon that subject to my poor friend, Lady
Beachcombe, but I saw what I saw!  Before midnight
his property was restored and he was set free.  He
hastened to the ball, and doubtless he would have
done much better to go straight home, eh, Sir
Geoffrey?"

"He seemed in a bad humor," said Prue
reflectively, "but not more so than usual."

"He might well be in a bad humor.  It appears
that he was instrumental in getting Robin
Freemantle pardoned when he was in Newgate,
condemned to be hanged."

"That is strange!" Peggie exclaimed.  "'Tis the
first time I ever heard tell of a charitable act of
his!"

"'Twill be the last, no doubt; the man is an
ingrate.  His first use of his liberty was to steal
his benefactor's mask and domino, and under cover
of them to rob the queen's Majesty.  Oh! 'tis
outrageous!" Lady Barbara ran on volubly.  "But he
will be punished; and speedily."  She became
mysterious.  "His retreat is known.  When
Beachcombe questioned his servants and added his own
suspicions to theirs, he came upon important clues,
and when I left he was going to place them in the
hands of the authorities, from whom this miscreant
will certainly not be rescued a second time—by him!"

"Or by any one else, it is devoutly to be hoped,"
remarked Sir Geoffrey; "don't you agree with me,
Lady Prudence?"

"You played thief-taker before, Sir Geoffrey,"
she retorted, with unaccustomed acrimony.  "You
should offer your services again; his escape would
then be impossible."

"Quite impossible!" cried Lady Barbara, who
only caught the last words.  "His home will be
surrounded by soldiers, and he will be lodged in
the Tower, when they catch him."

"Do they send soldiers to catch a highwayman?"
inquired Peggie.

"And why the Tower?" objected Lady Drumloch.
"Methought that was reserved for gentlemen;
'tis too much honor for robbers and footpads.
Will they also behead this person; like a gentleman?"

"'Tis likely," cried Barbara.  "I had so much
to tell you, that I forgot that this Robin is not a
mere ordinary highwayman; he is a Jacobite plotter,
no less, and is known to carry letters and messages
from rebels in the South to those in the North
and back again—doing, I presume, a little highway
robbery on the way, for the good of the cause.
Mayhap he appropriated the queen's necklace as a
contribution to the treasury of the 'King in Exile.'"

"Barbara!" exclaimed Prue and Peggie
together, in a panic.

"My dear Lady Barbara," put in the thin, incisive
voice of Lady Drumloch, "the 'King in Exile' is
the queen's brother and probably—may the day
be distant—will succeed her.  I can not permit such
insinuations to be made in my presence, against the
cause for which my husband and my son laid down
their lives."

"Pray pardon me, dearest Lady Drumloch,"
cried Lady Barbara, really shocked at her own want
of tact.  "I meant no harm—my tongue runs away
with me—and to be sure, I have no greater fancy
for a Dutchman on the throne than any other loyal
Englishwoman.  Yet 'tis true that Robin Freemantle
is only the *nom de guerre* of one of the most
turbulent rebels against the queen's government—"

"If by that you mean the Whigs, you should
rather say against the Duchess of Marlborough's
government," retorted Lady Drumloch crisply.

"And what is the real name of this—rebel?"
inquired Prue.

"Why, he calls himself De Cliffe, and if he really
is an offshoot of the family, that would explain why
Beachcombe obtained a pardon for him," said Lady
Barbara.

"Indeed, it requires explaining," remarked Prue,
who had quite regained her self-command.  "It is
much easier to understand why he is sending him to
the Tower, if he be a poor relation."

During the laughter that followed this sally,
other guests arrived and the loss of the queen's
diamond necklace having, by this time, become
pretty generally known, poor Prue had to listen
to every variation of the story and every kind of
theory concerning it, all leading to the same
conclusion, that Robin the highwayman had been at
the masquerade ball and profiting by opportunity—the
Ruling Planet of adventurers—had carried off
a prize of incalculable value.

With difficulty she eluded Sir Geoffrey's ironical
condolences, and took her accustomed part in the
heedless chatter, watching the clock as minute by
minute slipped away and still her visitors lingered.

"Oh! if they would only go," she whispered to
Peggie.  "Do you think if I were to fall in a fit,
or make James give an alarm of fire, that it would
speed the parting guest?"

But the longest afternoon comes to an end some
time, and Lady Drumloch's weary looks presently
reminded her guests that she was but recently off
her sick-bed.  So with a great rustling of silks and
sweeping of voluminous curtseys, they withdrew,
with as many farewell speeches as though they did
not expect to meet again in a few hours at dinner,
rout or playhouse, and left the old countess to be
carried up-stairs, and the two girls to their own devices.

When they were alone, Peggie threw her arms
round her cousin.  "Oh! my poor Prue," she cried;
"what I have suffered for you the last hour—"

"Tell me of your sufferings by and by, Peggie,"
said Prue, rather ungratefully.  "If you would
help me, bid James fetch a chair, while I get me a
cloak; I must hasten to the duchess."

"The duchess!  Oh, Prue, dearest, don't do
anything rash; for Heaven's sake, try to be discreet.
If you can not help Robin, do not ruin yourself for
the sake of a thief!"

"You are quite mistaken, Margaret; every one is
determined that Robin has taken the necklace, and
if I did not know him better than you do, I might
think the same.  But trust me; for once I will be
the personification of prudence, and you will see
that everything will come right.  If any one should
ask you where I am, say I have gone to offer my
services and sympathies to the duchess.  Sure, 'tis
a terrible blow for her, and there are those about
the queen who would rejoice if it were mortal.
No one will wonder that I should wish at such a
time to prove my friendship for one who has so
often stood by me."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DEN OF THE HIGHWAYMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DEN OF THE HIGHWAYMAN

.. vspace:: 2

Prue allowed James to direct the chairmen
to Marlborough House, but, a short distance
away, she stopped them, and giving them a crown,
desired them to carry her with the utmost speed
to Essex Street, where she would reward them
amply for their diligence.  Scenting an intrigue,
with the usual accompaniment of a generous
douceur for their share in it, they trotted off at a
pace that gave their light burden hard work to keep
her seat.

With all their haste, it was dark before they
reached Essex Street, where Prue desired them
to seek out "Pip's Coffee-House," a small hostelry
of retiring, not to say furtive aspect.  A flickering
oil-lamp hung over the entrance, and through the
red-baize window-curtain a dull glimmer penetrated.

Excited as she was, Prue was not without alarms
at the sinister possibilities of this adventure, so
vastly different from the sparkling follies of her
giddy career.  But "Cowards fayle," and Prue
was no coward, nor was she capable of drawing
back when curiosity and inclination combined to
thrust her on.  She descended, and bidding the
chairmen wait, boldly entered the house and
knocked at the first door she came to.

A voice called out, "Come in," and she obeyed.
The room was of moderate size, divided into small
compartments, each containing a rough wooden
table and a couple of benches to match.  The floor
was sanded, the ceiling low and smoke-blackened,
but there was no appearance of squalor, and the
few occupants, who were reading the *News* sheet
or playing dominoes, looked respectable and orderly
enough.

Reassured, Prue approached the man in charge
of the little curtained bar, and in a timid voice
inquired for "Mr. Steve Larkyn."

He stared at her, but her veil effectually hid her
face, though the sweetness of her voice and the
distinction of her bearing could not be disguised.

"Steve Larkyn?  I'll call him, my lady," said
the man.

"I'm no lady," retorted Prue sharply.  "If I
were I should not be asking for Steve Larkyn!"

She was sorry for her quickness the next moment,
for the man laughed rather rudely, and opening
a door behind him, called out, "Hullo, Steve,
here's a lady asking for thee, that says she ain't no
lady."

The Steve Larkyn who came hurrying out was so
unlike the one she had seen in disguise, that she was
about to repudiate him, when with a sudden grimace
he changed himself back into the rustic foot-boy, all
but the shock of tow-colored hair, which no longer
covered his sleek brown head.  The change passed
like a ripple of wind over a smooth pool, but it
reassured Prue.

"Can you come outside a minute?" she said, in
a very low voice; "I must speak with you."

He followed her into the street, and once out of
range of observant eyes and ears, she grasped him
by the arm, and demanded to be taken instantly to
the captain.

"I can take a message," said Steve, hesitating.
"It will attract less notice than a visit from a lady."

"Waste no time in idle objections," she cried,
almost fiercely.  "I *must* see him; what I have to
say is for his ear alone, and even if otherwise,
'twould be a waste of precious time to tell my tale
twice over.  Lead me to him instantly or take the
responsibility of his certain death upon your own
head!"

"Come, then," he replied; "but you must come
afoot.  'Tis ill enough to take a woman into a
secret, without a pair of spying lackeys to boot.
Can you walk a short distance?  The road is dark
and rough."

"No matter, I can walk it."  She paid the chairmen
liberally, and dismissing them, followed Steve
down a steep and narrow lane leading to the
riverside.  It was unlighted, and she slipped and
stumbled on the miry, uneven causeway until Steve, in
pity, begged her to lean upon his arm.  "'Tis not far
now," he said, less gruffly, and a few yards farther
they came to a huge and gloomy gateway, within
which a little door admitted them into a dark hall.
Steve struck a light and led the way across the
echoing emptiness and up a broad staircase.  He
scratched with his nail upon a door, which was
promptly opened by Robin himself, fully equipped
for a journey.

"Steve!" he exclaimed.  "What has happened,
and who is this with you?"

Before he could answer.  Prue stepped forward
and throwing off her veil replied, "Your wife!"

"Lady Prudence!" he cried, scarcely believing the
evidence of his senses.  "In the name of Heaven,
what brings you here?  Why are you so pale and
excited?  Something terrible has happened?"

"No; but will happen unless you instantly
escape."  She came into the room and closed the
door, leaving Steve outside.  "Oh!  Robin, Robin,"
she cried, clasping her hands and looking at him
with reproachful eyes, "I know all that happened
last night.  How could you be so mad?  You can
not hope to escape again if you are arrested for
this."

"Indeed," said Robin grimly, "if I am taken
this time, 'twill be worse than hanging!  But I'll
never be taken alive—"

"There is time to escape," she urged.  "Your
retreat is known and you will be arrested to-night.
Lord Beachcombe has discovered where he was
brought yester night—"

"Ah!" said Robin, with a bitter smile.  "I
should have taken extra precautions against the
bloodhound instinct of hatred!  And so, Dear
Heart," he went on, in a very different tone, "you
came to warn me of danger?  'Twas very noble of
you, for if you had left me to my fate, in a few
hours you might have been a free woman."

Prue burst into tears.  "Oh! you are cruel,
cruel," she sobbed.  "I do not want freedom—that way."

"I believe it," he said, taking her hand and pressing
it to his lips.  "Do not grieve, my hunted life
is not worth one of those tears—"

"But hasten," she interrupted, listening attentively
and holding up her hand to silence him.  "I
know who you are and that you are concerned in
Jacobite plots.  Soldiers will surround the house
and you will be arrested and taken to the Tower
as a traitor.  You have very little time to escape—"

He glanced at some papers on the table and
began to gather them up and conceal them about him.
In doing this, he uncovered a jewel-case of purple
velvet embroidered in gold with the royal arms.

Prue uttered a faint shriek and covered her
eyes, as if to shut out the sight that confirmed her
worst fears.

"Oh!  Robin!" she gasped.  "The queen's necklace—!"

"Was it the queen's?" he replied carelessly.
"Well, now it is yours, if you care to have it."  He
opened the case and displayed the diamonds
flashing like a string of fire.  "'My faith! the gems
are gorgeous; they will look well on the peerless
neck of my beautiful Prue."

"*I* wear the queen's diamonds!  You must be
mad!  What possessed you to take them?  Oh, I
hoped so that it was a mistake and that you were
innocent of this."

"Innocent of what?  Do you really think I stole
the necklace?  My dear Lady Prudence, I am a
highwayman when occasion serves, but I am not a
thief.  Last night, on the king's business, I waylaid
the wrong man, and all I got for my pains was this
fine casket, which I never opened until now.
Evidently I robbed the thief, confound him! and the
papers I was commanded to secure are God knows
where!"

"Oh!  Robin, I am so glad!" she cried.  "They
said Robin the highwayman was at his tricks again,
and had stolen the queen's necklace from Marlborough
House, and oh, I was so ashamed to think
such a thing could be said of—-*my husband*!"

She half turned away, murmuring the last words
so softly that only the ears of love could have
caught them.

"Oh!  Prue—angel—is it really possible that
you think of me as your husband?  Oh!  I know
there has been an empty ceremony which meant
nothing to you, and to me only vain longing
and a mad dream of unattainable happiness; but
what a fool I am!  Of course I ought to have
understood that you fear to be brought to shame if
it should be suspected that the thief of the queen's
necklace is your—"

Prue's eyes flashed and her little high-heeled shoe
tapped angrily on the floor.

"You are indeed a fool!" she exclaimed.  "I
do not know why I have any patience at all with
you.  Will you begone from here at once, sir, and
not offend me by tarrying when I have risked so
much to save your life?"

He started and flushed guiltily.  "Selfish brute
that I am!  I forgot the danger to you.  A thousand
thanks, dear Lady Prudence, for your warning.  I
will profit by it when I have conducted you to
safety."

"You will do nothing of the sort," she retorted
imperiously.  "When I arrived you were preparing
to depart; do so at once, for if you wait for the
house to be surrounded by the soldiers it will be
too late.  Even now, if you leave it alive, you may
fall into an ambush.  Is there no exit except into
the street?"

"Yes; this room opens on a terrace overlooking
the river, and although I believed myself safe in
London for a few days, I have a boat in readiness
in case I should be forced to leave in a hurry," said
Robin.  "There are hiding-places in Southwark
and Lambeth where the queen's whole army might
hunt a week for me in vain."

"Be cautious then, for that may be known to
your enemies; and, above all, be speedy—"

While she was speaking, the door was flung open
abruptly and Steve Larkyn—his face blazing with
fury—darted in.

"You are betrayed, Captain!" he ejaculated.
"This woman has brought the soldiers with her.
For the love of God, do not stop to listen to her,
but escape while there is time—"

"You hear?" cried Prue, in a frenzy.  "Go—go
instantly!  I command you!"

"What, go away and leave you here to meet the
soldiers alone?  Never!" said Robin, with a calmness
that contrasted strongly with the excitement of
the others.

"Then I will remain with you, and when the
soldiers come I will declare that I helped you enter
Marlborough House, and show the diamonds to
prove that I was your accomplice; nay, I will say
that my familiarity with the duchess' apartments
gave me access where you could not have entered
and that *I* stole the diamonds and gave them to you!"

"You will do this?" he gasped, utterly stupefied.

"I will; and if necessary I will proclaim myself
your wife and let them think I have had my share
in whatever you are accused of."

"But why?  In the name of God, what is the
meaning of this madness?"

She stretched out her arms to him with a gesture
of utter self-abandonment.  "It means that I love
you, Robin.  I love you, and would rather die with
you than live without you!"

He caught her in his arms and strained her to his
breast with all the pent-up passion of his being in
that fervid embrace.

"Leave you—now, my darling, my heart's heart—"

She tore herself from his arms.  "More than
ever now," she pleaded.  "If you hope ever to
possess me, fly, and I swear that I will come to
you—if not on earth, in Heaven.  Stay, I have
an idea."  She snatched up a sheet of paper and
thrust a pen into his hand.  "Write," she
commanded, and he wrote at her dictation.

.. vspace:: 2

"MISTRESS BROOKE:

"Follow the bearer and you will find the queen's
diamond necklace."

.. vspace:: 2

"There," she exclaimed, laughing and crying
together, "leave the rest to me, and go—if you do
not wish to destroy us both.  Hark! the soldiers
are already at the gate," she flung the window
open—"trust to my woman's wit," she cried, "I shall
not only be safe but covered with glory and honor."

He pressed a burning kiss upon her willing lips
and sprang through the window.  "Follow your
master," she said to Larkyn, who stood by, an
effigy of astonishment.  He obeyed without demur,
and she shut the window, closing and fastening the
shutter and half-drawing the faded curtain.

Then she resumed her mantle and veil and looked
around for any sign of Robin's late occupancy.
He had secured all his papers and on the table
nothing was left except the purple velvet case and
some writing materials, which she thrust into a
drawer.  In doing so she came upon a packet addressed:

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "To Mistress Larkyn,
       "In care of Mine Hostess of
           "The Fox and Grapes."

.. vspace:: 2

She took it up and recognized Robin's writing.
The angry blood glowed in her veins.  "The
insolent varlet!" she muttered.  "He has been
writing to a woman—'Mistress Larkyn,' indeed!—Mine
Hostess of the 'Fox and Grapes,' forsooth!
'Tis some low intrigue, and I thought him
my true lover and loyal husband.  I will see how
he addresses this creature."  She was about to
tear open the packet, when a crash below stairs and
the sound of hurried footsteps warned her that the
soldiers had broken into the house.  She hurriedly
thrust it into her bosom and waited.

A voice shouted harshly, "In the queen's name!"
and the door was opened without ceremony.
Half-a-dozen soldiers with drawn swords rushed in, and
at sight of the little cloaked figure, came to a halt in
some confusion.

But Prue, without waiting to be interrogated,
threw back her veil, exclaiming, "Soldiers!" in
accents of well-feigned joy and relief.  "Oh!  I am
so glad!  I was afraid, when I heard the noise,
that I had fallen into a den of robbers, who would,
perhaps, kill me for the sake of the queen's necklace."

"The queen's necklace!" exclaimed the officer
in command.  "Who are you, and what do you
know about the queen's necklace?"

"I am the Viscountess Brooke," she replied, in
her loftiest tone, "and this message will explain
why I am here, and what I know about the queen's
necklace."

She landed the paper to him and watched anxiously
to see its effect.  He read it dubiously and
turned it over and over, evidently at a loss how to
deal with a matter outside of his instructions.

"You see the necklace," she went on after a
pause, taking up the emblazoned casket and
opening it.  "The person who brought me here
disappeared when the noise began at the gate."  She
looked round in every direction but the window.
"I think there must be a secret panel somewhere
in the room, for while my attention was distracted
by the noise, she disappeared."

"*She!*" cried the officer.  "Did a woman bring
you here?  What kind of person was it?  Could
it not have been a man, disguised?"

"A man!" she exclaimed; "oh, no"—then the
advantage of prolonging this cross-examination
struck her and she continued slowly, as if pondering
over the suggestion—"at least, that never occurred
to me.  Her voice was loud and rough 'tis true—"

"Was she—or he—tall and broad?" demanded
the officer, glancing at a document in his
hand and reading from it—"swarthy complexion,
black eyes, black hair, without powder, worn—"

She interrupted him with a laugh.  "Surely not,
the woman was old, bent, no taller than myself; a
toothless, blear-eyed beldame—"

"And she disappeared, you say?  Sergeant, examine
the room thoroughly and break in anything
that seems like a secret panel.  I fear, Madam,"
the officer said, again addressing Prue, "that I
shall be compelled to arrest you if we can not find
the person we are seeking."

"Arrest *me*!" cried Prue.  "Why, you will
make yourself the laughing-stock of London if you
arrest Lady Prudence Brooke.  As to myself, I
should enjoy it amazingly; I have never been
arrested, and it would be something quite new for
me in the way of an adventure, but I have found
the queen's necklace"—she clasped it in her arms
with an air of defiance—"and you must first take
me either to Marlborough House, where it was lost,
or to Kensington Palace, where you will easily find
out whether or no to arrest one of Her Majesty's
ladies-in-waiting."

She threw off her veil and smiled up at him with
all the alluring archness at her command.  It was
not thrown away, although the young soldier made
a brave effort to resist her captivating arts, by
ordering his men to leave no loophole of escape for the
object of their search or any one who might be his
accomplice.  They roughly tested the walls with
blows and kicks, and finding at last a hollow-sounding
panel, knocked it in without delay and found,
not a secret passage, but a closet containing some
weapons, a saddle and a couple of cloaks.  These
they made into a bundle and were about to search
farther, when the sounds of shouts and shots from
the river drew their attention that way.

"By Heaven, they have caught him on the
river!" cried the officer, hurrying to the window.
He unclasped the shutter and dashing the window
open, sprang out on the terrace, followed by Prue.
The night was intensely dark and a drizzling rain
falling, but at a short distance the blaze of torches
stained the fog a dull crimson, that looked to her
excited imagination like a haze of blood.  She
stood shivering on the terrace beside the officer, as
he shouted himself hoarse in his efforts to get into
communication with the crew of the boat which had
intercepted Robin's flight, but the lights drifted
farther away and the shouting ceased, and, at last, she
ventured to lay her hand lightly on the officer's arm.

"Who is being pursued?" she asked, "and what
is all the disturbance about?"

"Don't you know that this is the hiding-place
of the notorious highwayman, Robin Freemantle,
who is also suspected of being an active agent of
the Jacobite plotters in Scotland?  It is strange
that you should be alone here, Madam, and yet
know nothing of this man's escape!  My orders
are to arrest him and all persons found in his
company; therefore you must consider yourself under
arrest."

"Arrest me if you will," she replied, "but if
you refuse to take me to the Duchess of Marlborough
or the queen, the consequences be on your
own head.  Rest assured that there will be honors
and promotion for the gallant soldier who protects
one of the ladies of the court and brings her and
the treasure she has recovered to safety.  But to
thrust one of my condition"—her eyes flashed
and she raised her head with indignant pride—"into
prison, will certainly bring disgrace or worse
upon you.  I have influence with the duchess and
through her, with the duke."

The officer was young and not altogether
insensible either to the sweet, imperious voice, or the
arguments it propounded.  He hesitated, and meeting
the earnest eyes raised to his, began to waver.
This was evidently a great lady.  Her elegant dress
and haughty manner abashed him, and he began to
think that if he took her to the Tower in place of
Robin Freemantle, she might prove a dangerous
substitute.

"Come, come, Sir Officer," Prue went on,
reading the changes of his expression with an
experienced eye, "do not be so hard to convince."  She
smiled up at him now with a bewitching petulance
and laid her slender hand on his arm.  "'Tis
but a step to Marlborough House and I am in a
fever to see the duchess.  I was, perhaps,
indiscreet in coming to this strange place alone, but
the hope of finding the jewels turned my foolish
head and put all other considerations out of it.  I
fear I ran a desperate risk; I might have been
attacked by robbers, instead of rescued by soldiers!
I shall never forget that I owe my safety, perhaps
my life, to you!"

By this time the lieutenant was in complete
subjection.  "I am most fortunate, Madam, in being
of some service to you!" he said gallantly.
"When I came here to take a prisoner, I little
expected to become a captive myself."

Prue finished him off with a glance of
irresistible archness.  "Oh!  I am quite reconciled to
my arrest now," she protested.  "Indeed, I should
claim your escort, if I did not feel sure that you
would wish to see the queen's necklace safely
through its adventures.  Fortunate man! there is
not an officer in the duke's army, who would not
envy your good luck."

"I can well believe it!" he cried, with an ardent
glance.  "I would not change places with a general!"

"The duchess appreciates devotion as much as
her husband does courage," said Prue, with
tantalizing demureness.

"And the Lady Prudence Brooke—does she also
appreciate devotion?" the young officer murmured
hurriedly.  "Oh! if I could believe so—"

"You would take me to Marlborough House
instead of the Tower?" she interrupted quickly.
"Prove your devotion by doing so, and
afterward"—she lingered softly on the word—"we
will talk about appreciation."

The soldiers, by this time, having ransacked the
house without finding anything suspicious, one of
them was despatched to fetch a chair for Lady
Prudence, and leaving a guard at the house in case
of Robin's return, the lieutenant and the rest of
his soldiers escorted the prisoner—and the
necklace—to Marlborough House.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE DUCHESS' APARTMENTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE DUCHESS' APARTMENTS

.. vspace:: 2

Any doubts that Prue's escort might have
secretly entertained as to the credibility of
her strange story, were set at rest the moment she
entered the doors of Marlborough House.  Her
reception was that of the elect; a privileged guest
whom all delighted to honor.  The obsequious
flunkeys bowed before her, and the stately Groom
of the Chambers, by whose command the lieutenant
was shown into a waiting-room, himself carried the
Lady Prue's request for an audience of the duchess
on most pressing business.

The anterooms were thronged with visitors
whose curiosity had been whetted by a rumor that
the long-expected had happened, and that the queen
had gladly availed herself of the loss of her jewels
as an excuse for humiliating the tyrannical favorite
whose exactions had lately increased in proportion
to the waning of her influence.  It was whispered
that the queen had been most reluctant to attend
the masquerade, and that the duchess, fearing that
she might repeat the slight of a recent public
occasion (when Her Majesty had declined to appear in
regal state in compliment to her), had exercised
her privilege as Mistress of the Robes, and caused
certain jewels to be conveyed to the royal tiring-room
in Marlborough House.  But the queen, on
her arrival, had signalized her disapproval of this
audacious proceeding, by refusing to make any
alteration in the conspicuously simple costume she
wore, and the jewels—among which the necklace
was the most important—were left in the
tiring-room in care of the attendants.

All this, however, was mere gossip.  Those more
friendly to the duchess discredited the whole story
and claimed to know that no royal jewels had come
into the house, except on the queen's person, and
that if any were mislaid, they would certainly be
found either at Kensington Palace, where Her
Majesty had been residing for some weeks, or
St. James', where she had passed the previous day, in
order to incur as little fatigue as possible in
attending the masquerade.

Ladies Rialton and Monthemer, with other members
of the ducal family and household, flitted from
group to group, making light of the rumored
estrangement between "*poor, unfortunate, faithful
Mrs. Morley*" and her erstwhile inseparable and
all-powerful friend, and vowing that nothing kept
them apart but the violent illness of the duchess,
over whom the physicians were in consultation as
to the propriety of bleeding her to avert an attack
of fever.  But all hints and allusions to the lost
necklace were ignored, and those who were hardy
enough to put their inquiries into plain words, were
met with diplomatic replies that neither affirmed
nor denied anything.

With a greeting here and a hand-pressure there,
Prue threaded her way through the crowd and
hurried up-stairs to the duchess' private
apartments.  The way led past the little conservatory
where she had sat with Robin last night.  It was
dark now and the entrance was blocked with tubs
containing the orange-trees and shrubs which had
adorned the grand stair-case and entrance-hall.
Prue's heart beat a shade faster and a pang of
remorse assailed her at the thought that by
introducing Robin to this sequestered part of the house
she had exceeded her privilege as a guest, and
exposed both Robin and herself to a suspicion that
only her utmost ingenuity could dissipate.

In the duchess' dressing-room a little throng of
ladies-in-waiting and intimate friends welcomed her
warmly.  Deep concern sat upon every face as they
listened to the hysterical cries and moans, in which
the patient in the adjoining bedroom gave expression
to her sufferings, and the broken exclamations
and fierce invectives by which she called upon her
doctors and attendants to bear witness to the
ingratitude and perfidy of the queen, and the baseness
of her minions.

While Prue hesitated about intruding, the
doctor and the apothecary came out.  The former
hurried away with a red face and air of offended
dignity, and his satellite only lingered long enough
to assure the ladies that her grace, having refused
to be blooded and having ordered the two medicos
from her presence under pain of a drenching with
their own potions, nothing could be done for her
until she could be brought into a more reasonable
mood.

"I must see her at once," said Prue, with decision.
"I have a cure for her malady far more efficacious
than all the court physicians' nostrums."

"Why, do you come from the queen?  Has she
found her diamond necklace?"  A dozen eager
questioners crowded about her, but with a smile of
mysterious but encouraging significance, Prue
reiterated her demand and at last escaped from further
interrogation, by making her way unannounced into
the presence of the duchess.

The great lady lay upon her bed, her disordered
dress and disheveled hair revealing the ravages of
time, which she usually disguised with so much
skill.  Her tire-women vainly attempted to soothe
her by chafing her feet and hands and fanning her
flushed and swollen face.

"Who is that?" she screamed, catching sight of
Prue.  "Go away—I can not see any one—I
am very ill—I am dying!  Make haste to pay your
court to Masham—Masham! the creature I raised
out of the mire—the kitchen-wench, who will
queen it to-morrow when I am dead!  Oh! oh! oh!"  And
the hysterics were resumed with wilder
frenzy than ever.

"Leave her to me," said Prue to the women.
"I can cure her, but I must have her to myself for
a few minutes."  They looked from one to the
other with bewildered eyes, wondering at Prue's
audacity, yet unable to resist her calm tone of authority.

When they had withdrawn to the farther end of
the room, she bent over the shrieking, raving
duchess, and said, in a quiet, penetrating voice, "The
necklace is not lost, it is quite safe."

The cries ceased with almost ludicrous suddenness.
"What do you say?" gasped the patient.

"I will tell you all about it as soon as you are
able to lie still and listen," said Prue, who had
laid her plans on her way from Essex Street, and
had her story all ready.  The duchess quieted down
and turned her face partly toward her.

"Is that Prudence Brooke?" she asked.  "If you
know anything about that accursed necklace, tell me
quickly, before it is the death of me."

"I have news of it," said Prue, passing a cool,
soothing hand over the hot brow and brushing away
the heavy, straggling masses of hair, once the pride
of Sarah Churchill and the envy of rival beauties.
"If the necklace is returned what reward will you
give the finder?"

"Reward?  Oh! he shall be well rewarded; the
finder need not be afraid to ask his own price,"
cried the duchess.  "And yet the thing is worthless
to any one, child—worse than worthless—it
is deadly!  No one would steal it except to injure
me!  But they shall swing for it, no matter who is
at the bottom of it.  It is a conspiracy of those
who hate me—"

"It is a mistake," interrupted Prue; "the necklace
was not stolen, it was taken by—by accident."

"Accident!  Oh, I know what kind of accident
it was; it was a conspiracy, I tell you!" the
duchess reiterated.

"It was a mistake," Prue urged.  "I am sure
I can prove it."

"Prove it a conspiracy, Prudence Brooke—prove
it so that I can get my revenge upon these wretches
and you may ask what reward you will.  Honors
and emoluments shall be heaped upon you—"

"I want neither!" cried Prue vehemently.
"That is, the finder would not accept money or
anything of that kind."  She began to feel uneasy
at the threatening tone the duchess took, and her
nimble wit jumped for shelter.  "For myself," she
said, in her most cajoling way, "I would ask a
favor—not now, but later—and I want you to
promise that you will grant it, no matter how
strange and unreasonable it may seem."

The duchess, who was now quite collected, sat
up and looked searchingly into the guileless blue
eyes, bent so eagerly upon her.  "*You* would not
ask anything that would injure *me*?" she said
slowly.  "My enemies are so many and so wily,
I fear to trust—even you.  Is it something you
want for yourself?  If so, I promise."

"A thousand thanks," cried Prue.  "I may
never ask for anything; certainly never for
anything that would hurt my dear benefactress to grant.
'Twas but a fancy.  And such strange things
happen—one never knows what one may be led into.
I have had the strangest adventure to-night—"

"Another time, dear Prue," the duchess interrupted;
"I can think of nothing now but the necklace."

"Yet you will own," persisted Prue, "when
you have heard it to the end, that it is worth
listening to.  'Twas thus—as soon as I heard of your
grace's troubles, I set out to offer my heartfelt
condolences.  Scarce a hundred yards from home, the
chair was stopped and a rough hand thrust a paper
through the curtains.  Here it is; shall I fetch a
lamp for you to read it by?"

"No, read it to me.  I have wept myself purblind,"
replied the duchess, without attempting to
disguise her impatience and lack of interest.

Prue unfolded the paper, now soiled and crumpled
from frequent handling, and read:

.. vspace:: 2

"MISTRESS BROOKE:

"Follow the bearer and you will find the queen's
diamond necklace."

.. vspace:: 2

The duchess started up and seized her arms
convulsively.  "Is this true, Prue?" she demanded
tragically.  "Then why did you not go at once
without coming to make terms with me first?"

Prue was too well acquainted with the suspicious
and selfish nature of the woman to take any
offense.  "I thought you would be interested," she
replied sweetly.  "Have a moment's patience and
I will tell you how, reckless of consequences, I
ordered the chairmen to follow this unknown leader,
who took us through narrow by-streets, where I
momentarily expected to be waylaid and perhaps
murdered.  But my desire to serve your grace was
stronger than my fears; besides, as you are well
aware, I am not very timid, especially when there
is an adventure to the fore—"

"Yes, yes, I know how reckless you are, but
where did you find the necklace?" the duchess
broke in.

"I am coming to that.  The chair stopped at
last and I descended in a dark and muddy street,
where I followed my conductor afoot to a lonely
house, apparently uninhabited."

"Prudence—you reckless girl—you ventured
into such a place alone and unprotected!" exclaimed
the duchess, excited to such a pitch by the story
that she absolutely forgot its reference to herself.
"What madness!"

"Oh! that is nothing to what I would have done,
if necessary, for—for your grace's sake," cried
Prue.  "But I confess that all my devotion was
needed to keep up my courage.  Inside the house
my situation was even more terrifying.  All was
dark and empty—it seemed the very place for
secret deeds of horror—yet no attempt was made
to harm me; not a living creature appeared except
the person who wrote this message and who,
without any ado, placed this in my hand and begged me
to take it away."

Having now arrived at the climax of her story,
Prue drew forth the emblazoned casket and
displayed the diamond necklace.

The duchess snatched it from her and gazed at
it with entranced eyes.  She flung her arms about
Prue, calling her a heroine and a marvel, and the
truest friend woman ever had.

"Any one but you would have gone straight to
the queen and left me to my fate.  There are those
about that ungrateful woman who would have paid
mighty high for such a chance of humiliating me.
What reward did the robber demand, and how did
you satisfy him?"

"There was no robber; only an old woman,"
said Prue, whipping out her carefully planned
lie without a tremor.  "I know not how she came
by it, but she asked for no reward and only seemed
to wish to be rid of it.  Indeed, there was no time
for me to ask an explanation, if she had one to
give, for at the very moment when the casket was
in my hands, there arose a hubbub in the street
outside and the house was surrounded by soldiers.
The old woman disappeared as if by magic, and
when the soldiers broke into the room I was alone;
nor could they find any trace of her, though they
battered the place to pieces."

"She shall be found and compelled to give up
her accomplice," cried the duchess furiously.
"Soldiers surrounded the house, and yet the
miscreant escaped!  Pretty soldiers, forsooth!"

"Yes, truly," cried Prue; "and more than that—they
arrested poor little me—because I was all
alone there with the queen's diamonds; think
of that!  I had a narrow escape of spending the
night in jail!  However, my tears and entreaties
prevailed upon them to bring me here, and all that
remains to be done is to dismiss my captors, and
permit me to take my leave of your grace."

"Not so fast, Prue; you have still something
to do for me," said the duchess.  "I must hasten
to the queen and you must go with me, and repeat
what you have just told me.  Marie!—Alice!—leave
off chattering and tire me with all despatch.
I must see the queen without a moment's loss of time."

"Surely, 'tis too late to-night," remonstrated
Prue, who was sinking with fatigue.  "Her Majesty
will have retired."

"That's no matter," retorted the duchess
arrogantly; "I am still Mistress of the Robes, and by
virtue of my office entitled to enter the queen's
bed-chamber at all hours of day or night.  You
must accompany me, and repeat your story, else I
might be discredited by the reptiles who are for ever
at the royal ear, poisoning *poor, faithful Mrs. Morley's*
mind against her once beloved *Mrs. Freeman*.
Come, I am ready."

As they descended by a private staircase to take
the carriage, the Groom of the Chambers
approached, and deferentially inquired what was to
be done with the Viscountess Brooke's military
escort.

"Faith, 'tis the honest soldier who wanted to
hale me off to jail," cried Prue in reply to the
duchess' look of surprised inquiry.  "He came
prepared to arrest a houseful of robbers or
conspirators—he seemed uncertain just which—and
finding me alone, with the queen's necklace in
my hand, would have taken me to prison if I had
not coaxed him to bring me to you first.  If I
might venture to suggest that your grace bid him
attend us, he can corroborate my story, if needful."

"Let him come," the duchess commanded.  "I
would I had a hundred witnesses that it was not
found in Marlborough House."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A THREAT AND A PROMISE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   A THREAT AND A PROMISE

.. vspace:: 2

When Prue reached home, about midnight,
Peggie, who had been watching at the
window during several anxious hours, met her at the
door and almost carried her up-stairs in a strenuous
embrace.

"Was that the Marlborough carriage?" she
demanded eagerly.

"Yes; the duchess insisted on bringing me home."

"Then all is well; you have no idea how
uneasy I have been.  About ten o'clock, Sir Geoffrey
came to see you; on a matter of the utmost
importance, he declared, and the mysterious hints he
threw out about the danger your rashness and
love of adventure had led you into, positively drove
me distracted."

"I am deeply indebted to him for his solicitude,"
said Prue disdainfully, "but the worst danger
my rashness ever brought me near—that of
marrying Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—is happily
averted.  'Tis true I have committed other
follies—one of which has snatched me from the jaws
of that peril, only to plunge me into a host of
others, from which I know not how I shall
extricate myself.  Alack! my dearest Peg, methinks
poor Prue is but a sorry fool after all's said."

Peggie's countenance fell into an expression of
deep concern.  For Prue to express a doubt of
her own ready wit, was to utter heresy against the
first article of Peggie's faith in her.

"Why, what has happened?" Peggie asked, almost tearfully.

"Oh! nothing but good: indeed, the Fates have
showered me with good luck until I am afraid I
shall be buried alive under it."

"Come, there are worse ways of being buried
than that," cried Peggie, brightening up.  "A fig
for Sir Geoffrey's croaking, if there be nothing else
to fear.  Now tell me where you have been all the
evening; with the duchess, of course, as she brought
you home?"

"Not all the time.  First I found the necklace.
Then I took it to the duchess and together we
returned it to the queen.  And now, Peggie, bring
down your eyebrows out of your hair and don't
open your mouth wide enough to engulf me, and
I'll tell you everything that has happened to me, if
you will undress me, for I am too tired to move a
finger."

Peggie most gladly set to work and had her
cousin unlaced and unpinned and comfortably
tucked in bed, long before the history of the
evening's events had been expounded.  From her, Prue
hid nothing; in fact she was craving to pour her
confidence into that kindly ear and receive such
ungrudging sympathy and shrewd advice as the
circumstances prompted.

When Peggie had exhausted the vocabulary of
astonishment, admiration, congratulation and
anticipation—had shuddered at Prue's danger,
laughed at her wily devices, marveled incredulously
at her passionate avowal of love, and rejected
all possibility of fear for Robin's safety, she
withdrew reluctantly, declaring that she should not
close an eye that night—and was fast asleep
almost before her head reached the pillow.

Prue was less fortunate, and for an hour or
two tossed and turned, vainly trying every soothing
device to calm her racked nerves and woo repose.

While Peggie the optimistic was beside her,
Robin's escape appeared more than probable; she
could almost persuade herself that it was an
accomplished fact.  But it looked less certain, now
her blood ran cool, and her high spirit flagged in
the darkness and silence of night.  Her faith in
his courage and resource could not entirely resist
the paralyzing touch of fear, and even her
confidence in the value of the pledge she had extracted
from the duchess was shaken by the unmistakable
coolness of the queen, who had listened in silence
to the explanations of her former favorite and
reserved all her praises and expressions of satisfaction
for Prue, to whom she had been cordiality itself.

Toward morning she slept so long and heavily,
that Peggie came and went a dozen times before
the long lashes lifted and the sweet blue eyes smiled
drowsily up at her.  And even when she woke she
was loath to rise, and fain to rest more than once
during the tedious process of her toilet,
interrupted as it was by an obsequious procession of
mercers and modistes, eager to make their peace
with the restored favorite by the most pressing and
disinterested services.

But a curious change had come over the wilful
beauty, and instead of throwing herself heart and
soul into the entrancing discussions of hoops and
pouffes, sarsenet and tabbinet, plumes and perfumes,
she declined the counsel of this one and the coaxing
of that one, and sent the sycophant crowd away
wondering what had happened to turn the most
extravagant of court butterflies niggardly.  The
most bewitching "head," the richest farthingale,
won but a passing glance and a word of careless
criticism, and when Peggie, almost as dissatisfied
as the rejected tradesfolk, remonstrated against
such a blind neglect of opportunity, Prue lay back
wearily in her chair and dropping her arms loosely
at her side, said impatiently:

"Cousin, Cousin—I am sick to death of it all!"

"All of what?" cried Peggie briskly.  "All you
have lost for a whole year and won back in less
than a week?"

"Aye, all that and more; sick of court and
courtiers, sick of idle men and vapid women, sick
of myself most of all—"

Then she sprang to her feet and burst out
laughing.  "What a fool I am, Peg, and what a fool
you look standing there, open-mouthed, drinking in
my vaporings as though you never had heard me
grumble before!  Did you think I was in earnest?
Why, I was never so happy in my life.  Did not
the queen kiss me on the cheek, and the duchess
swear to give me whatever I might ask of her;
even the first choice of the places she has no longer
to dispose of and the royal favors that she can no
longer influence?  Am I not invited to Windsor
as lady-in-waiting on probation and lauded to the
skies as a heroine by—"

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert wishes to know if your
ladyship will receive him."

The voice of James at the door produced a silence
so profound that after a short pause he repeated
his message in a louder tone.  "Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert is below, my Lady, and wishes to see your
ladyship most particularly."

"You had better see him," said Peggie, in response
to Prue's startled and questioning glance.

"I will see Sir Geoffrey," said Prue.  "Tell him
I will be down immediately."

"Shall I come with you?" asked Peggie.

"Oh, no, no.  I can play my little comedy better
to an audience of one; besides, *you* know the
truth!" she cried, and ran to the mirror to see if
the battery of her charms was in order for the fray.

Sir Geoffrey, his face set in a mechanical smile,
met her with a deep bow and pressed a ceremonious
kiss upon her extended hand.

.. _`220`:

"Permit your slave to offer his humble congratulations,
my dear Prudence," he said; "I hear that
you have distinguished yourself with even more
than your usual brilliancy."

"You allude to the fortunate accident that enabled
me to return the lost necklace to Her Majesty,
I presume?" Prue replied, seating herself and
negligently pointing with her fan to a sufficiently
distant chair.  "I assure you I deem myself most
happy in rendering a service, which has been only
too highly appreciated, but I can not lay claim to
brilliancy, for I was but a passive instrument."

"The brilliancy I refer to, dear Viscountess,
was not so much the 'fortunate accident' as the
ready wit by which you turned so compromising
an adventure to such good account," said Sir
Geoffrey significantly.

The challenge of his tone and words was unmistakable
and Prue responded with more spirit than wisdom.

"You must speak more plainly if you wish to
be understood," she answered.  "Compromising
adventures, you know very well, are not rare in
my experience—or yours"—she laughed rather
maliciously—"but I seldom turn them to good
account.  Now, the accident that gave the queen's
necklace into my hands—"

"Was the happy result of a little visit to
Newgate," interposed Sir Geoffrey, with veiled
insolence.  "Why beat about the bush with me,
dearest girl?  I know who gave you the necklace—when
he was warned, by you, of the danger of
keeping it! and how it came about that he was
lucky enough to escape before the soldiers arrived
to arrest him."

"What in the world are you talking about, Sir
Geoffrey?" she cried, with rather over-acted bewilderment.

"What is every one talking about to-day, but the
madcap viscountess, who coaxed the highwayman
out of the stolen necklace, and being caught in the
trap that was limed for Robin Freemantle,
circumvented the soldiers, cozened the Duchess of
Marlborough and beguiled the Queen's Majesty.  Am
I not right in congratulating you on such a brilliant
series of achievements?"

"My dear Sir Geoffrey, you have mistaken your
vocation," she laughed.  "With such an imagination
you ought to have been, not a member of Parliament,
but a poet!  I am quite interested in this
romance; surely there is more of it?"

"Considerably more," he went on, lowering his
voice and drawing his chair closer to her.  "There
are those who saw the beautiful shepherdess in
close conversation with a masker in red, at the ball;
and who now know that he was no other than
Robin Freemantle in the borrowed plumes of
Beachcombe.  You have enemies, fair Prudence—men
you have jilted and women you have excelled
in wit and beauty—and by some of these you were
seen, in company with the Red Domino, very near
the queen's tiring-room, from which the necklace
was stolen.  Can you wonder that when a story is
bruited about that Lady Prudence Brooke, in dead
of night, was discovered with the necklace in her
possession, in the place where Robin Freemantle
was looked for, these good people should compare
notes about her ladyship's latest exploit, and place
their own construction upon it?"

"And you, Sir Geoffrey?" she asked, her
thoughtful eyes upon his, "what construction do
you place upon this curious rodomontade?"

"Oh!" he laughed softly; "I hold all the clews,
so it seems less of a rodomontade to me than,
perhaps, to others.  I alone know of the little ceremony
in Newgate, which explains all."

"Oh! it explains all, does it?" she repeated
reflectively.  "I should be glad to hear the
explanation, now you have propounded the conundrum."

"'Tis simple enough.  When Barbara Sweeting
told the story of the necklace, you instantly jumped
at the same conclusion as the rest of us—namely,
that Robin Freemantle, secure in his disguise, had
made the use of his opportunity that a robber
naturally would, and had stolen the most valuable thing
he could lay his hands on—"

"Oh! then you don't give me the credit of the
robbery?" she exclaimed with a pout.  "It would
have added so much to the interest of the romance
if I—"

"You?  Oh!  Lady Prudence, can you ask me
such a question?" he interrupted, in a tone of
vehement reproach.  "I only give you credit for
hastening to warn your—*husband* of his danger and
carrying away the incriminating proof of his guilt;
and I admire your courage and generosity though I
deplore its object."

"Have you quite finished this romantic story,
Sir Geoffrey?" queried Prue, dismissing his
personal opinion with a disdainful toss of her fan.

"The preface only, but the rest will wait," he
replied, with a sinister smile.

"Then perhaps you would like to hear what
really happened?  It would be useless for me to
deny—even if I wished—that I spoke with
Captain Freemantle, at the ball—"

"Quite so," Sir Geoffrey agreed blandly.

"Not that I wish to deny it," she went on
petulantly; "at a masquerade everything is permitted,
and you, my dear Sir Geoffrey, know better than
any one else, this gentleman's claim upon my
attention.  Still, I fail to see any connection between
Captain Freemantle's presence at the ball and the
disappearance of the necklace—about which, you
must acknowledge, that I know more than any one
else, since I found—and restored it."

Sir Geoffrey bowed his acquiescence, but his
smile was not reassuring.

"We all know what an admirable *raconteuse*
Barbara is, and I was naturally much worked up
by her story of the lost necklace; in fact I could
scarcely restrain my impatience to hear a more
authentic account," Prue proceeded, recovering her
self-confidence, which for a moment had wavered
under Sir Geoffrey's attack.  "So the moment
my visitors left me, I sent for a chair and started
for Marlborough House, to get my information at
first hand.  At a short distance, however, I was
interrupted by a person who thrust this paper into
my hand."

She drew from her bosom the crumpled document
which had already played an important part
in her version of the affair, and handed it to him.

Sir Geoffrey read it carefully, refolded it, and
meeting her eye, bowed gravely, as though to
intimate that he was too much interested to break the
thread of the narrative, even by a word.

"You know my love of adventure too well to
doubt that I instantly decided to risk everything
and follow this clue.  It took me to a dismal old
house—empty, I believe, except for an old hag,
who, keeping her face concealed, thrust the casket
into my hands and at the first sound of the soldiers'
approach, disappeared."

Sir Geoffrey softly clapped his hands, as though
in applause.

"Capital! excellent!" he cried.  "My dear
Prue, with shame I confess that I never before
have done justice to the vast resources of your wit.
I actually dared to wonder how you had managed
to forestall suspicion and snatch safety out of the
jaws of peril.  You have surpassed yourself!  To
plan so subtly; to execute so promptly!  To omit
nothing—even the written proof—and to crown
it all with a guileless frankness that might disarm
the most captious, and certainly would have
deceived me, if I had not been close beside you from
the moment you emerged from your own door until
that of Robin Freemantle hid you from my jealous eyes!"

Then suddenly, without giving her time to
disguise the startled dismay that sprang to her eyes,
he bent forward and seized her two hands in his.

"Why treat your faithful lover so harshly, sweet
Prue?" he went on passionately.  "Have I not
proven my love again and again in the defense of
your reputation and in unquestioning submission to
your caprices?  Have I not endured your coldness
and yielded my just claims before the scruple that
prompted you to deny your future husband the
smallest favor, while the phantom of a vow linked
you to a felon?  And am I to have no reward,
not even enough of your confidence to enable me
to give the lie to your traducers?"

"My traducers!" she cried impatiently.  "Who
are they?  At present the only person who has
dared to cast a doubt on my veracity is—Sir
Geoffrey Beaudesert!"

"And how long do you expect to escape the
pack of 'damned good-natured friends' who have
been accustomed to feed upon the choice morsels
of scandal you have liberally provided for them?"
he demanded.  "Before to-night every gossip in
town will be in possession of the story of your
adventures, and each one who recounts it will put
his own construction upon it."

"'Tis true," she murmured.  "I have often
assisted at such feasts of reason.  They are highly
entertaining, and every one is eager to add a dash
of spice or vinegar to the witches' broth.  And
there is nothing I can do to stop those busybodies."  She
glanced resentfully at Sir Geoffrey, yet there
was inquiry in her eye.

"Certainly there is something," he replied,
answering the unspoken question.  "You can give
them something else to talk about that will throw
the escapade of the necklace into the shade.  The
shade, do I say?  Rather into utter oblivion."  An
ironical smile began to dawn upon her face, but he
did not leave her time to speak.  "You can give
them a wedding to talk about, a subject that
eclipses every other; if you prefer it, an elopement;
indeed, I think that would be more dramatic.  Say
but the word, dearest, and in an hour, a post-chaise—"

"Oh!  Sir Geoffrey," she exclaimed, bursting into
a hearty laugh.  "Can you really seriously propose
such an absurdity to *me*?  An elopement? a
post-chaise?  Methinks I should be like a man who
jumps into a river to avoid being wetted by a
passing shower!  We should indeed give the town
something to talk about; and not only talk, but
laugh at."

"Let them laugh," said Sir Geoffrey doggedly.
"So can I; and he laughs longest who laughs last."

"With me for the butt of your hilarity?
Thanks, I am always pleased to have my friends—and
my enemies—laugh *with* me, but to have
them all laughing *at* me is scarcely to my taste.
Besides, for you, Sir Geoffrey, to suggest such a
thing to me—you who know that I am already
another man's wife and can not therefore legally
become yours—for you to make such an offer is
an insult—no less."

"My dearest Prue, spare me these reproaches.
I grant that yesterday, while this man lived, you
were—in a sort of way—his wife.  But why
should you, who were on the spot, pretend to be
ignorant of what the whole town knows this
morning, that Robin Freemantle was killed last night,
and that consequently you are, as you naturally
wish to be—his widow?  I congratulate you—and myself."

All Prue's forebodings revived at these words,
uttered with an air of triumphant security that
struck a chill to her heart.  "I—I do not
understand you—" she stammered, trying to appear
unconcerned.

"Oh!  I think you do," he replied, "only you
love to torment me by playing the inexorable prude.
You were at Robin's house and witnessed—nay,
possibly connived at his escape.  You were still
there when the soldiers overtook the boat in which
he and his band were attempting escape, and shot
the fugitives and sank their boat.  The news in
to-day's *Courant* can not but confirm your own hopes
of regaining the joys of freedom, with all the
advantages for which you married Captain—*de Cliffe*."

As she remained silent, he drew the *News* sheet
from his pocket and, with a great show of
searching out the item, handed it to her.  She waved it
away with a careless gesture and when he offered
to read it to her, she merely bent her head slightly,
never moving her eyes from his face.

.. vspace:: 2

"'At a time when the whole country is terrorized
by highwaymen and footpads, singly and in bands,
news of the extermination of the notorious gang
of robbers under the leadership of Robin
Freemantle (recently condemned to be hanged at
Tyburn for his crimes and later mysteriously released)
will be highly gratifying to the traveling public
who go in constant fear of their lives because of
the boldness of these marauders, who infest the
very streets of the metropolis.  No longer ago
than last Monday L—d B—ch—e was attacked by
these very miscreants, robbed and held in captivity
(doubtless for ransom) while Robin Freemantle,
disguised in his captive's domino, attended the
masquerade at Marlborough House and robbed the
duchess' guests—not even sparing, if rumor may
be credited, the queen's most sacred Majesty!!

"'But for this piece of shameless audacity, the
ruffians might still be at large and the hangman
still looking forward hopefully to his fees.  We
have it on unimpeachable authority that a certain
beautiful v-sc-t-ss, renowned equally for her lively
adventures and her incomparable charms,
determined to avenge this outrage upon her sovereign
mistress, and with undaunted courage and
marvelous shrewdness, tracked the robber to his lair
and actually recovered the stolen jewels!!!  Then,
at a preconcerted signal, soldiers surrounded the
house, and when the robber-band attempted to escape
by the river, sank the boat with all the fugitives on
board.  The exact number is not known, but must
assuredly have been large—probably a dozen or a
score.  One thing only is certain—none remained
in the house and none can possibly have escaped—'

.. vspace:: 2

"There is more about the affair, but nothing that
will interest you as much as that last paragraph,"
said Sir Geoffrey, folding the sheet.

"It is certainly most interesting to hear that
there were twenty miscreants in the house," cried
Prue, who had had time during the reading (which
was impressively deliberate and pompous) to recover
her self-command.  "My exploit is vastly enhanced
by the large number of human lions and tigers I
bearded in their den.  I begin to feel myself a
heroine indeed!"

"There could be but one opinion as to that," said
Sir Geoffrey, with a profound bow that scarcely
accorded with the cold irony of his smile.

"Pray keep my counsel, and do not tell any one
that I never saw any of the twenty robbers, and in
fact had no idea that there were any in the place,"
said Prue.  "You don't know how much I am
indebted to you, Sir Geoffrey, for all the
information you have given me about my little adventure!"

"I am indeed happy in being the first to assure
you of its fortunate ending," said Sir Geoffrey,
rising.  "Surely you will now permit me, dearest,
to urge my suit"—he dropped upon one knee before
her, and had pressed several passionate kisses
upon her hand before she made any attempt to repel him.

"That will do for the present, Sir Geoffrey,"
she said at last.  "Please get up and be rational.
You do not expect me, I presume, to send for a
parson and marry you offhand?  I *may* be a
widow again; but I must have surer proof of it
than a mere rumor, such as this, before I wed
again.  I have yet to be convinced that Captain de
Cliffe left that house—that he ever was in it!
'Tis strange you should insist upon that—methinks
that for a suitor so eager to press his own claims,
you are over-ready to accuse me of keeping tryst
with another—husband!"

"Accuse, sweet Prudence!  You mistake me altogether.
Too well, alas! do I know the coldness of
your heart and the inaccessible distance from which
your adorers are expected to admire you.  Surely,
you do not think me capable of a doubt?"

"You were capable of spying on me and following
me, by your own showing," she retorted sharply.

"For your own sake, dearest; merely to be ready
in case you needed a strong arm and a skilled
sword to defend you.  And all I ask now is that
you will accept that protection for life and give
me the right to silence every malicious tongue with
the public announcement of our approaching
marriage.  Who will dare," Sir Geoffrey went on, in
his most grandiloquent manner, "to defame the
lady of whom I am ready to say, 'This is my
promised wife; her honor is mine?'"

"A truce to your braggadocio, my good friend,"
laughed Prue; "your tragic tones and frowning
looks almost persuade me that I need protection!
Believe me, you are in a far worse case than I;
you stand greatly in need of a disinterested
adviser, who would counsel you to leave me before
too late, or at least take time—a year or two, we
will say—to think it over."

"Was there ever a lover that listened to such
counsel?  Not if he loved as I do, dear one.  So
far from waiting a year, I swear that a week is
too long, and that if you do not marry me to-morrow—"

He hesitated and Prue took him up sharply.
"What if I do not marry you to-morrow?  Pray
finish your threat, so that I may know what fate
awaits me, since I shall certainly not marry
to-morrow, neither next week, nor, perchance, next
year!"

"And does your ladyship imagine that I, Geoffrey
Beaudesert, will swell the ranks of those whom
the beautiful Viscountess Brooke has left
lamenting at the church-door?" demanded the suitor,
giving way at last to his long-suppressed fury.
"No, no, you can not play with me as you did with
Beachcombe, O'Keefe, Sutherland and a dozen
others.  To-day I love you to distraction; you
may bend me to your lightest caprice with a kind
word.  But scorn me, and to-morrow you will
have an enemy with the will, as well as the power,
to cover you with shame.  Aye, shame, Lady
Prudence Brooke!" as she sprang to her feet with
blazing eyes.  "Where will you hide your head when all
the world knows how and why you became the
wife of an outlaw and a felon—the thief who
stole the queen's necklace, for a nuptial gift to his
bride!  Ha, ha! that will be a feast indeed for the
scandal-mongers of London Town!"

"And Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—how will he
appear in the affair?" she retorted.  "This is not
the first time to-day that you have threatened me,
Sir Geoffrey, but I advise you to let it be the last,
for I warn you that if you drive me to do so, I
may tell the story myself; and my version of it
will not leave you entirely unscathed.  How could
I have done this thing—this *shameful, scandalous*
thing, as you truly call it—if you had not helped;
nay, pushed me into it?  Who bought the ring and
license, and hired the parson?  He was an ordained
Church-of-England clergyman, was he not?  If I
am not mistaken, it was you who ordered him to
make the marriage-service 'brief and binding,' and
bade him keep his own counsel until his evidence was
needed to prove me Captain de Cliffe's widow?
If the scandal-mongers of London Town feast at
my expense, they will certainly banquet at yours!
And if you talk of enemies—but no, we are not
silly children to wrangle over trifles, and scratch
and slap each other's face because we can not have
our own way all the time.  Let us forget this folly
and talk of pleasanter things."

"No subject is pleasant to me but one—yourself,"
said Sir Geoffrey, with an effort to resume
his ordinary manner.  "Believe me, however
impatient I may appear as a lover, as a husband you
will find me a pattern of indulgence.  But do not,
I entreat you, try my patience much longer."

"No doubt, Sir Geoffrey, I ought to be flattered
by your persistence," replied Prue petulantly, "but
if you have so little delicacy as to press one
husband upon me before the other is in his grave,
you surely are not anxious to inflict upon me the
possible fate of a bigamist?  If, perchance, one of
these twenty highwaymen escaped, and that one
proved to be the one you helped me to marry, your
hasty wooing might cause poor Prudence Brooke to
blossom on Tyburn Tree or, worse still, to end her
days on a cotton plantation.  'Tis strange how
much more anxious you are to wed me since I
became a wife, than you were when I was *really* a
widow!  Then I heard nothing about post-chaises
and elopements—"

"Because then, dear Prue, I had not known
the torture of Tantalus, the anguish of seeing you
within reach of my arms, yet held at an inaccessible
distance by the accursed phantom of a husband,
who was no husband and never could be one.
Pardon me if I am unable to restrain my jealous
ardor, and believe me, if you will but set a time
for rewarding my devotion, I will endeavor,
however difficult the task, not to offend again."

Prue reflected a few moments.  Then she rose,
with an air that left Sir Geoffrey no choice but to
follow her example.

"Sir Geoffrey," she said, "I am invited to
accompany the queen to Windsor, whither she
intends to go this week for a few days' rest, and
perchance to be out of hearing of the wrangling
of Whigs and Tories for a season.  When I
return, if you are still in the same mind, I promise
to be ready with an answer, with which I shall
hope to satisfy you.  In the meantime, I shall not
take it amiss if you reflect seriously upon the many
defects of my character and the great disadvantages
you will bring on yourself by marrying penniless
me, instead of seeking out some charming heiress—of
whom I could point out several, both maids
and widows—to whom your many noble qualities—and
your title—would be irresistible."

She made him the deepest of curtseys, preserving
all the time a countenance so grave and dignified
that he was completely silenced, and was withdrawing
without further remonstrance, when the door
was flung open, and James, in his most impressive;
manner, announced:

"Lord Beachcombe."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN AFFAIR OF FAMILY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN AFFAIR OF FAMILY

.. vspace:: 2

There was a momentary pause of embarrassment.
Lord Beachcombe's last visit to Lady
Drumloch's house had been under circumstances
that made the present one quite unforeseen.  Also
he had not met Sir Geoffrey since their hostile
encounter in Hyde Park, therefore a meeting in the
presence of the woman who had been so disturbing
an element in both their lives, was mutually
disconcerting.

Sir Geoffrey was the first to recover himself,
greeting the new arrival with exaggerated politeness
and inquiring after his health with a solicitude
that Lord Beachcombe did not attempt to reciprocate.
The wound he had received from Sir Geoffrey's
sword was slight enough to be patched up
with a few strips of court-plaster; the wound to his
vanity still gaped.  He looked on with a sardonic
smile while Sir Geoffrey, pressing several
impassioned kisses upon Prue's reluctant hand, bade her
"a brief adieu," and slowly backed himself to the door.

"I trust I am not driving Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert
away," said Beachcombe stiffly.

"By no means," cried Prue with alacrity.  "Sir
Geoffrey was taking his leave when you entered.
Sir Geoffrey, farewell.  No doubt we shall meet
at Lady Rialton's, or elsewhere, later in the day;
our world is so small, we can not get away from one
another even for an hour; don't you find it
sometimes grows monotonous, Lord Beachcombe?"

As the door closed upon the parting guest,
Beachcombe approached her with an air of distant
respect, bowing profoundly, with his hand upon his
breast.

"Pardon this intrusion, Lady Prudence, and
permit me to lay my homage at your feet," he said.

Prue curtsied again.  "Pray, my Lord, do not
wound me by apologizing for a friendly visit," she
returned, with a sweet smile.  "Be seated, and let
me offer you a cup of chocolate."

The little torment had jumped quickly to the
conclusion that some motive of strong personal
interest had brought her old lover to the house he had
never entered since, scarcely a year ago, their troth
had been broken with bitter words and thinly
veiled insults on both sides.  Her quick intuition
warned her that his visit might, very possibly, add
another snarl to the tangle in which she felt herself
becoming hopelessly enmeshed.  So she exerted all
her tact and skill to keep him on tenter-hooks, and
give herself time to gather her forces, while she
discussed frothy scandals and airy nothings,
pretending not to notice his lack of response and
ill-repressed impatience, until suddenly she turned full
upon him her clear and dazzling glance and changed
her tactics without a moment's warning.

"But I had forgotten," she said, "how little you
care about scandal and poetry, and I can scarcely
flatter myself that my frivolous conversation can be
very entertaining to you.  My tongue runs away
with me sadly, doesn't it?  I dare say you
remember of old what a chatterbox I am.  Well," with a
sudden change of tone, "now tell me what really
brought you to see me?"

Her abrupt question had the intended effect of
confusing her visitor and throwing him off his
guard, while her ingenuous smile disarmed him.

"Your conversation is delightful at all times,
Lady Prudence," he began hurriedly; "so much
information—such—ah—intimate knowledge of
society—and literature is as rare as it is agreeable.
Nothing should I enjoy so much, if I did not have
my head so full of a subject which—a—private
family affair—which—which—"

He trailed off helplessly, and she let him flounder
until his embarrassment ceased to amuse her.
Then she said quietly:

"How can *I* be of any assistance to you, Lord
Beachcombe, in a private family affair?  That
seems quite out of my province."

"Alas!  I am but too well aware that I have
forfeited all right to ask favors of you, Viscountess,"
he pleaded, "but I know your generous nature so
well that I am emboldened to cast myself upon your
mercy."

"You flatter me!" she cried, with her dazzling
smile.  "What can my generosity and mercy do
for Lord Beachcombe?"

"I scarcely know.  'Tis but an idea; a mere
catching at a straw.  Still, I have been credibly
informed that you were decoyed last night to the
den of Robin Freemantle, the highway-robber,
whence, with unparalleled courage, you rescued the
queen's necklace—"

"Surely," she interrupted, with some impatience,
"Her Majesty's necklace can not be your private
family affair?"

He laughed explosively.  "Is nothing sacred to
you, Lady Prudence?  I only wished to felicitate
you upon your most remarkable adventure, and its
brilliant result, and to implore you to tell me if you
found any papers or documents in the—the place
where the necklace was hidden."

"Was the necklace hidden anywhere?" she inquired,
in a tone of surprise.  "I did not find it;
it was given to me—"

"By Robin Freemantle—is it not so?" he
eagerly interrupted.

"Robin Freemantle!  What could make you
imagine that he gave it to me?" she cried, in an
accent of intense astonishment.

"My dear Viscountess, surely you are aware
that this rascal, disguised in my mask and domino,
followed you the whole evening of the masquerade-ball—"

"Is it possible?" cried Prue, with the prettiest
imaginable air of incredulity.  "La! what strange
things happen at a masquerade!"

"Possible?  'Tis a fact," replied Beachcombe;
"and 'tis easy to understand that having fallen
madly in love with you—"

"The outrageous monster!" shrieked Prue.

"Even monsters are human, dear Viscountess,
and who can wonder that the beauty that has
wrought such havoc in my—in our—-in all
beholders, should have smitten this fellow, who is
reported to have shadowed your footsteps all
Monday night, disguised in a red domino and mask.
That mask and domino were mine, and he robbed
me of them in the same house by the river-side
where you were taken last night.  A den of thieves,
Viscountess, from which your escape unharmed was
hardly less than a miracle."

"My escape?  Nobody attempted to detain me.
In fact I saw no one, and the only danger I escaped
was of being taken prisoner by the soldiers who
came to search for—rebels, I understood them to
say."

"Rebels!  Ha! ha! 'tis true, this jailbird has
the audacity to mix himself up with Jacobite plots
and claim that he only steals purses on the chance
of their containing papers of value to the
Pretender's cause!  Speaking of papers brings me back
to my own affairs.  When this villain stole my
domino, he also robbed me of a packet of papers.
He returned the domino—after putting it to the
use you wot of—but the papers, of great value,
he refused to give up.  Is it possible, dear Lady
Prudence, that while you were in this robber's den,
you saw such a packet?"

Prue shook her head.  "The soldiers took everything
they could find in the place," she said reflectively.
"If I were you, I would make inquiries of them."

"I have done so," he said; "but they brought
away no such packet."

"Perhaps it was opened and they have the contents."

"I have reason to think that unlikely," replied
Beachcombe, biting his lips and scowling.

"Or destroyed?" she suggested.

"No, indeed; if I could hope for that—!"

"What, hope for the destruction of valuable
private papers?  It is not to you, then, that they
are valuable?" she cried shrewdly.

He started and eyed her suspiciously for a
moment.  "To no one else," he replied emphatically;
"but you can surely understand, Lady Prudence,
that some family documents would be better
destroyed than in the hands of—an enemy."

"Was Rob—Captain Freemantle—your enemy?"
she asked ingenuously.  "It seems to me
that some one—who can it have been?—said he
was your relative.  He calls himself De Cliffe,
doesn't he?"

Lord Beachcombe looked at her again with
growing mistrust.  "Did he have the impudence to
call himself De Cliffe, when he addressed you at
the ball, Viscountess?" he demanded.

"La! no; and if he had—people can say anything
behind a mask, without fear of being believed,"
she retorted, laughing.  "I recollect now
that 'twas Barbara Sweeting, when she told us of the
loss of the queen's necklace.  She told us how you
had obtained his pardon when condemned to be
hanged, and afterward set the soldiers upon him—"

Beachcombe bent his sullen glance upon the carpet,
tracing out its faded pattern with his Malacca
cane.  "Every family has its painful secrets, Lady
Prudence," he began, "and this packet contains one
of the De Cliffe family secrets—a painful one, but
not important—oh—not at all important.  Had
the soldiers found it, it would have been an easy
matter to recover it—a few guineas at most—but
if it is still in his possession—"

"What like was it?" Prue inquired listlessly,
for she was growing weary of a subject that had
so little of personal interest for her.

"The packet?  Oh! a small thing, about the size
and appearance of a letter—a *billet-doux*"—he
forced a laugh—"sealed and addressed to
Mistress—Mistress—the name has escaped me for the
moment, but 'twas in care of the Hostess of the
*Fox and Grapes*."

A sudden glow of color swept across Prue's
face.  In her joy at finding that the source of many
a jealous pang was not Robin's after all, it is to
be feared that she quite overlooked the gravity of
Lord Beachcombe's accusation.  What did it
matter to her, whose letter it was—if it were not
Robin's—written to another woman?  She had an
impulse to return it, and her hand involuntarily
rose to the laces about her neck, where she had
kept it concealed except when she thrust it under
her pillow, where it lay all night pervading her
dreams.

She checked herself quickly, though not quite
unobserved.  Beachcombe, of course, did not
suspect anything so preposterous as that Prue could
be interested in the highwayman, beyond the fact
that he had made her the heroine of a successful
escapade, but her change of countenance, slight as
it was, and her gesture, though instantly diverted
to a readjustment of the rose at her breast, did not
escape his keen eye.

"You recognize the superscription?" he suggested
insinuatingly.  "You saw the packet in his
hands, perhaps?  If—so—"

"If so," she interrupted quickly, "you have little
chance of recovering it, since 'tis said he was
drowned last night."

"If I could only believe that true!" he exclaimed
fiercely.  "But no! he escaped; there can
be no doubt of that; in fact I have reason to
know—"

"To know that he is safe!" she cried, in a thrilling
accent of unmistakable joy.  "Oh!  Heaven—"
then suddenly she remembered that this man was
his enemy and desired his death.  She stopped
short and then went on hurriedly, conscious that
she had betrayed herself—"Is it possible that
this—this miscreant is still alive and at liberty?"

He looked at her dubiously, but although a growing
suspicion that she was acting a part disturbed
him, it did not yet enlighten him with any ray of
the truth.

"I am as sure of it, as I am that he pursued
you at the ball, under cover of my domino—and,
for his punishment, fell in love with you," he said
boldly.

"Fell in love with me!" cried Prue disdainfully.
"Again, sir?  How dare you suggest such presumption!"

"The fellow certainly does not lack presumption,"
replied Beachcombe, "and as to his having
fallen in love with you, did he not prove his
infatuation by surrendering his priceless booty for
the sake of seeing you once more, even at the peril
of his life?  Believe me, dear Viscountess, the
man who will risk so much, will risk still more; you
have not seen the last of Captain Freemantle."

"You think not?" cried Prue.  "What do you
suppose he will do next?"

"Probably he will repeat the tactics that he has
already pursued with such enviable success," said
the earl, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, "and
send one of his followers to your ladyship to
beseech another interview; or perhaps he will come
to you himself."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Prue.  "I trust he will
not attempt anything so—so audacious."

"On the contrary, my dear lady," replied Beachcombe
blandly, "if you will be guided by me, I
think we can turn this fellow's impudence to our
mutual advantage.  *I* most sincerely trust that he
will come or send to you, because now he has been
routed out of his house by the river-side, we no
longer know where he is in hiding.  He is not like
to return there, but gentlemen of his profession
have many haunts, and having induced your ladyship
to visit one of them, he will, no doubt, try
another."

"You seem to forget that there is only one
queen's necklace," she cried incautiously.  Then,
conscious of her indiscretion, she added with too
eager precipitation, "Besides, Robin Freemantle
had nothing to do with my visit to that house; I
was guided there—"

"By a messenger sent by him, as I understand,"
interrupted Beachcombe.  "'Tis no secret that your
ladyship was induced by means of a letter—"

"Secret!  I should think not!" she cried petulantly,
tossing the letter upon the table beside him.
"All the town seems talking about it, and all the
world may read it, for aught I care!  I defy the
most ingenious scandal-monger to make anything
out of it."

Lord Beachcombe took it up, and slowly unfolding
it, read it carefully, and then looked up with a
smile of triumph, that struck a sudden chill to
Prue's heart.  From his breast he drew a letter
addressed to "The Right Honorable Lord
Beachcombe.  At Rodney House, Saint James' Park,
London," and placing the two papers side by side,
contemplated them with vindictive satisfaction.

"There can be no further doubt," he said.
"See for yourself, Viscountess, the writing is
identical."

She looked, and had some difficulty in maintaining
her indifference.  Furious at herself for having
given Beachcombe an opportunity to confirm his
suspicions, she had just enough self-command left
to see that it was a case of *qui s'excuse s'accuse*,
and that any attempt at explanation would only
plunge her into an inextricable tangle of falsehood.
So she merely remarked, in as casual a tone as she
could assume, "La me! how curious!" and
stretched out her hand for her own document.

Beachcombe withheld it.  "Pray permit me to
retain this, Lady Prudence," he entreated.  "It is
an important piece of evidence."

"More important to me than to your lordship!"
she retorted sharply.  "Be good enough to return
it to me!" and as he still hesitated, she snatched
it from his grasp, exclaiming with an angry laugh,
"Evidently the liking for other people's 'private
papers' runs in the blood of the De Cliffes."

With a savage scowl, Lord Beachcombe half-rose
from his seat.  But Prue had already recovered
from her spurt of passion, and with the prettiest
deprecating gesture and the most alluring smile she
could call up at a moment's notice, she stemmed the
tide of his wrath.

"Oh! forgive me, Lord Beachcombe," she said
sweetly.  "I am not used to be so cross-questioned
and my temper, as you know well, is none of the
most patient.  Do not let us quarrel over such a
trifle as a fancied resemblance between two scraps
of writing."

"'Tis no fancied resemblance, Lady Prudence,
said Beachcombe doggedly.

"Then if it is a real one, would it not be better
for us to see how we can turn it to our mutual
advantage, than to wrangle over it?" she suggested.
Beachcombe's brow cleared at her conciliatory tone,
and his half-awakened suspicions melted under the
influence of a sweet and beaming smile.

"There is nothing easier than to turn it to our
advantage and his destruction, dear Viscountess, if
you will be guided by me," he said eagerly.  "If
Captain Freemantle should make another attempt
to see you—as I feel convinced he will—surely
woman's wit can manage to bring us face to face,
or at least to let me know where he is to be found.
I am convinced that I could show him excellent
reasons for giving up those papers, which would
prove dangerously compromising—to him—if
discovered in his possession.  You could secure
yourself from further molestation and promote the
ends of justice in this way, and place me under a
lifelong obligation."

"And how about Captain Freemantle?" suggested
Prue.  "Would his obligation to me also
be lifelong?"

"Why—no doubt," he replied, with a sinister smile.

"Well, Lord Beachcombe," said Prue, with a
charming smile, "I will give your message to this
Knight of the Road—*when* I see him—and I
doubt not he will wait upon your lordship to
receive the benefits you are so anxious to bestow
upon him.  Oh! you need not thank me" (he had
no intention of doing so); "I am always glad to
oblige an old friend.  And pray do not hurry away;
I hear the voice of my gossip, Barbara Sweeting,
and presently the rest of London will flock round
me to repeat what every one is saying about me, and
find out something new to tell in their turn.  You,
who have given me so much information, can help
me to entertain them."





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.. _`IN A CHAIRMAN'S LIVERY`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


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   IN A CHAIRMAN'S LIVERY

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Lady Barbara rustled into the room in the
most expansive of hoops and the loftiest of
heads of lace and feathers, the height, literally, of
the mode.

"Prue, you sly minx, I have come to give you
the scolding you deserve," she began, and
half-mirthful, half-reproachful, was about to embrace
her when her glance fell upon Lord Beachcombe.
She started back and turned her eyes from one to
the other with exaggerated disapproval, behind
which lurked the excitement of the keen hunter on
a promising trail.

Beachcombe's dark face flushed with an embarrassment
that he vainly attempted to conceal under
the elaborate politeness of his greeting, but Prue,
all innocent smiles, and thoroughly enjoying a
situation which put her inquisitor to confusion, flew into
her dear friend's arms.

"How are you, dearest Bab?" she cried.  "I am
simply perishing for a long, long talk with you.
Oh!  I have *so* much to tell you—"

"Not so much as you think, perhaps, wicked
one," retorted Barbara, still reproachfully, "but I
own I am dying for the key to your mysterious
adventures."

"Have you, too, come to cross-question me about
last night?" cried Prue petulantly.  "Before I was
out of my bed, the house was besieged.  Ah! here
is Peggie, who can tell you more about my
visitors than I can, for half of them came while
I was yet asleep."

"'Tis not your visitors I want to hear about,
Prue, but yourself.  To think, that with such a
frolic to the fore, my Prue should have left me
without a hint of what was happening!  How can
I ever forgive it?"

"Lady Brooke should be pardoned all things for
the sake of her heroism," said Beachcombe, with
cold irony.  "Yet it seems a pity that she should
have braved alone the dangers so many of her
friends would willingly have shared."

"You too?" cried Barbara, raising hands and
eyes appealingly to the offended heavens.  "Can
neither matrimony nor paternity cure the
Prue-fever?—nor even phlebotomy at the hands of so
skilful a chirurgeon as Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert?
Pray, if one may venture to inquire, what may be
your interest in the recovery of the queen's necklace,
since surely it can not be either friendship or love?"

The look he gave her certainly suggested neither
of these emotions, but his voice was under better
control.

"My interest, dear Lady Barbara, is so far selfish
that as the robbery was perpetrated under cover
of my domino, I should certainly have wished to
take part in the finding of the jewel—and the thief."

"La!" cried Barbara, smiling enigmatically.
"How unfortunate that the necklace has been
returned and the thief arrested without your
assistance!"

"Arrested!" her auditors exclaimed together,
but in very different tones.  Lord Beachcombe's
vibrated with gratified hatred, Prue's trembled
with dismay.  The color dropped from her cheek,
and but for Peggie's promptitude, her agitation
would have betrayed her beyond concealment.  She,
however, had been hovering on the threshold trying
to attract her cousin's attention, and now ran
forward with great vivacity, and by a torrent of
eager questions, drew attention to herself and gave
Prue time to recover from her perturbation, though
not before it had been observed with malicious
inference by Lord Beachcombe.

"Why, truly, I scarcely expected to bring news
to the fountain-head," Barbara ran on.  "Yet 'tis
a fact, my poor Prue, that your romance has a
very commonplace finale.  'Tis no dashing exploit
of a bold highwayman, after all, no hairbreadth
escape from a robber's den, but merely the outcome
of an intrigue between a chambermaid and a
scrivener's clerk; and a fit of vulgar jealousy has
pricked the bubble of your romance, my love!"

Greatly to the astonishment of both her visitors,
Prue's face, instead of falling in dismay, became
irradiated with the loveliest expression of joy.  Her
eyes, softly luminous, swam in a rapturous mist
and dimples played in the damask that suddenly
drove the pallor from her cheek.  Such a transformation
could hardly fail to astonish even those most
accustomed to the swift variations of this creature
of caprice.

"Tell us quickly, dear Barbara," she cried, with
a little tremolo of excitement in her voice.  "You
know 'twas near midnight when the duchess
brought me home, and I was so tired I slept until
noon—all my visitors this morning have come to
seek information—not to impart it.  Do, pray, tell
me what has happened."

"La!  Prue, I thought you would be mortified
to death at such a tame ending to your romantic
adventure, and you seem delighted," replied
Barbara, with pique.  "One of the serving-wenches
at Marlborough House, finding the royal tiring-room
for a moment unguarded, took her sweetheart
in, and not content with gazing, they must
needs carry their audacity to the point of fingering
Her Majesty's toilet-articles, and so came upon the
necklace in its case, which so dazzled them, I
presume, that they turned crazy, and hearing voices
at one door, ran out of another and found
themselves back in the servants' quarters with the
necklace in their possession.  The girl swears they did
not mean to steal it, but did not know how to get
it back unobserved, and finally the lover, in a panic,
fled from the house, carrying the perilous pelf with
him."

"A probable story, indeed!" cried Beachcombe
scoffingly.  "It might account for the disappearance
of the jewel, but scarcely for its restoration."

"Oh! that was a case of conscience, a thing
quite incomprehensible of course to an '*esprit fort*,'
such as your lordship," retorted Barbara.  "The
girl suffered tortures, it appears, during which she
was a dozen times on the point of confessing, but
hesitated for fear of incriminating her lover.
Then came the story of the return of the necklace,
which, by the time it reached the still-room, had
grown to the wildest of marvels.  After that, no
one seems to know exactly what happened, but
possibly, between fear of her own part in the affair
and rage at the treachery of her lover, the wretched
creature lost what few senses she had and actually
forced her way into the presence of the duchess,
where she groveled on the floor, confessing and
accusing and Lord knows what besides, and was
carried out raving and foaming at the mouth."

"And so she confessed that she and her lover
had stolen, or at any rate carried off the
necklace," commented Prue thoughtfully.

"Then how do you account for its restoration
by Robin Freemantle?" Beachcombe inquired, with
his stealthy eyes upon her.

"Do you persist, even now, in connecting him
with this affair?" she retorted, facing him
defiantly.  "For my part, I am now thoroughly
convinced that it was a very vulgar matter and that
I have been made a fool and a tool of by a pack
of low wretches.  Do not let any one who does not
wish to offend me, ever mention my part in it again."

"On the contrary—" Barbara was beginning,
when Peggie, from the window, uttered a cry of
admiration.

"Is that your new chair at the door, Barbara?"
she cried.  "Sure, 'tis the finest in town!"

"Ah!  I had for the moment forgotten—'twas
but to display it I came here this afternoon—to
show that and to scold Prue for a faithless
friend."

They all followed her to the window, and in the
street below stood a most superb sedan-chair, all
carving and gilding, lined and curtained with
crimson, and borne by four strapping footmen in liveries
to match.

"'Tis truly magnificent," cried Lord Beachcombe.
"All the world admires the taste of Lady
Barbara Sweeting, but this time she has given us
something to marvel at."

While he was speaking, Peggie plucked at Prue's
sleeve and murmured in 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.





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.. _`THE PARSON SELLS A SECRET`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII


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   THE PARSON SELLS A SECRET

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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."

"I threatened you, Lady Prudence!" cried
Aarons, in a horrified tone.  "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?"

.. _`"——Was it not two hundred guineas?"`:

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   :alt: "——Was it not two hundred guineas?"

   "——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.





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.. _`A SUPPER FOR THREE`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A SUPPER FOR THREE

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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."

"Nothing could be more triumphantly successful
than our escape," cried 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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A CONFESSION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A CONFESSION

.. vspace:: 2

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."

Beachcombe still hesitated.  His curiosity was
strongly roused.  He had 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!"





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.. _`PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY

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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?"

"Why, I must do the best I can," she replied
regretfully.  "This silver brocade can be fitted to
me in a couple of hours.  Mrs. Buckram has all
her women at work upon a couple of morning
frocks and a traveling dress, and with those I must
be content.  There will be no court at any rate for
a few days and I am not journeying into a desert.
London is not inaccessible, nor is there a better
milliner here than little Madame Prim on Tunbridge
High Street.  Yes, my post-chaise is ordered for
to-morrow morning, and I shall start at nine o'clock
if I have to go barefoot and bareheaded."

"Might I be permitted to offer you the use of
my chariot?  Posting is far from agreeable or safe
in a hired rattletrap."

She gave him an arch glance.  "A thousand
thanks!" she laughed, "but I am growing wise
in my old age, and I fear that there would be a
rare wagging of tongues should I be known to
travel in Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert's coach."

"I regret deeply that no service I can offer is
acceptable to you, my dear Lady Prudence," said Sir
Geoffrey, with grave dignity.  "Yet I pray you to
remember that should you find yourself in any
unpleasant predicament, there is a sword at your
service and a hand not unaccustomed to use it—*for
that purpose*."

Her eyes fell and he was gratified to observe a
passing embarrassment in her manner.  Taking the
propitious moment for his departure, he rose, and
while bending over her hand, murmured, "Have
you forgotten that you promised me a favorable
answer in a week?"

"If I mistake not I said that 'on my return,' I
would hope to be ready with my answer.  You see
for yourself that my return is uncertain; but when
it takes place I promise not to keep you in
suspense.  Do not forget that in the meantime you
are free to—"

"Free to blow my brains out, if you drive me
to despair," he interrupted, in a low, tense tone.
"But not until I have exhausted every other means
of bringing you to reason, dear Lady Prue.
Tunbridge is not at the other end of the world, and as
you may see me sooner than you expect, I will not
say farewell, but—Until our next happy meeting!"

Something in his manner restrained the petulant
rejoinder that rose to her lips, and she allowed him
to kiss her hand in silence.  He lingered a few
minutes beside Lady Drumloch, inquiring after her
health and condoling with her approaching loss of
Prue's delightful company, and then, with a few
passing compliments to Peggie and a brief skirmish
with Barbara, he bowed himself out with
consummate aplomb.

"Dear Gossip," said Barbara, when he was out
of hearing, "be on your guard; there goes one
who will not wear his willow submissively."

"He must wear it as he pleases," she replied,
"or not at all if he prefer.  I protest I'll not
contradict him, if it suits him to say he jilted me."

"Is his successor chosen?" queried Barbara
archly.  "Do I know him?—is he—"

"There is no successor," Prue interrupted hastily;
"no more lovers for me.  I am sick of courting
and compliments, sick to death of 'hearts at my
feet' and 'swords at my service,' and tongues more
false than the one and sharper than the other
ready and waiting to stab me in the back; or, worse
still, in the reputation!"





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.. _`A DIFFERENT HIGHWAYMAN`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


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   A DIFFERENT HIGHWAYMAN

.. vspace:: 2

After all, Prue's departure was by no means
as early as she had intended.  Quite a
number of little hindrances contributed to the delay.
An indispensable garment was not forthcoming
at the promised time, another must absolutely be
altered at the last minute.  Messengers were
despatched in hot haste for trifles unaccountably
forgotten, and lingered upon their errands in the most
provoking way.  And when, at last, the packing
was finished, Prue disappeared into her
grandmother's chamber and remained so long in
conference there, that Peggie, on guard to ward off
interruptions, at last ventured to knock at the door
and suggest that noon was swiftly approaching.

Receiving no reply, she gently opened the door,
and there was Prue, at Lady Drumloch's feet,
weeping bitterly, while the old lady comforted her
with caresses and tender words.

"I do not blame you, child," Peggie overheard
her say; "a brave man and a loyal soldier—what
better could any woman hope for?  Let him serve
his king first, and meanwhile your influence may,
perhaps, open the way for his return.  And
mayhap I may find a way to help you, though I am
very old and useless now.  Come in, Peggie; don't
stand there letting in the draft.  Is it time for Prue
to depart?  Is the post-chaise ready packed?"

Peggie exclaimed and ran out to find that the
post-chaise had not yet arrived.  Then there was
scurrying and scampering, and James, bareheaded
and bereft of his stately deliberation, hurried to the
livery-stable, and presently returned in the belated
vehicle.  The postboy, with many oaths and
strange-sounding asseverations, protested that his
master had mistaken the order for noon, and that
he had been loitering about the yard all morning,
waiting for the appointed time.  Another
explanation might have been afforded by Sir Geoffrey
Beaudesert, who could also have cleared up the
mysterious presence of two golden guineas in the
postboy's pocket.

Thus it was within an hour or so of noon, when
Prue, having received Lady Drumloch's blessing
and exchanged many kisses and last words with
Peggie (from whom she had rarely been parted
even for a week at a time), took her seat in the
post-chaise with her two substantial leather valises
strapped on the roof and her valuables in the
dressing-case under her feet.

She had often traveled the Tunbridge Road
before in attendance upon Queen Anne, whose
physicians were in the habit of recommending the
Tunbridge waters as a corrective to the royal
indulgence in the pleasures of the table.  So when
she had amused herself by observing the queer little
stalls on London Bridge, where the closely packed
throng compelled the chaise to proceed at a
foot-pace, and wondered why everybody and everything
looked so strange and different in Southwark, from
those on the more fashionable side of the river,
she soon grew tired of the squalid streets and dreary
country beyond and still more bored by having no
one to talk to, and composing herself in a corner
of the carriage, courted such uneasy slumber as the
rough road permitted.

During the earlier stages of the journey there
was no lack of company.  In those days travelers,
unless well armed or otherwise protected, were
greatly averse to solitude even in broad daylight,
and Prue, though far from timid, was not displeased
to find that the queen's visit to Tunbridge,
in the balmy springtime, was drawing thither quite
a rush of visitors.

Gallants on horseback, lumbering family-coaches
and dashing chariots followed one another in quick
succession, some forging ahead, only to be
overtaken, perhaps, in a ditch with a wheel off, or at
the post-house waiting for relays—a mishap that
kept Prue waiting a couple of hours at Seven
Oaks, to her great chagrin.  However, the inn was
hospitable and a good dinner compensated in some
measure for the delay, though the afternoon
shadows were perceptibly lengthening when the journey
was resumed.

The road was more lonely now, those lucky
folk who had secured the earliest relays having
hurried forward to make the most of the daylight,
and others, whose turn was yet to come, lingering
impatiently behind or resigning themselves to the
dire alternative of spending a night at the inn.

When Prue, after the first mile or so, put her
head out of the window and surveyed the long
stretch of road, with dense woods on one hand and
a desolate vastness of uncultivated common on the
other, she rather wished that she too had taken
the better part of valor and broken her journey
at Seven Oaks, instead of risking the worst part in
the declining day.  However, looking back, she
saw another carriage at no great distance, and the
sense of companionship relieved her fears so
thoroughly that she once more settled herself in her
corner and fell into a pleasant train of thought.

Planning how to exercise her most winning arts
upon the queen, who for a whole week of semi-invalidism
would be chiefly dependent upon her for
amusement, Prue mentally acted half-a-dozen
charming little scenes in which she would relate
Robin's adventures in so moving and pathetic a
fashion that the queen would be only too ready
to applaud the climax and bestow her sanction and
blessing upon the romantic pair.  Robin would be
recalled and pardoned, and perhaps his devotion,
combined with her own eloquence, would bring
about a reconciliation between the queen and her
half-brother, who, in gratitude, would shower
honors upon his loyal follower in the happy days when
King James the Third was come into his own.

Prue was roused out of these pleasant fancies
by the rough jolting of the chaise.  She looked out
on the desolate landscape, rendered still more
dreary by the rising mist that veiled the sinking
sun.  On one hand was a vast common, stretching
away into the vague distance, on the other rose a
steep incline, thickly wooded and already gloomy
with twilight shadows, though all else was still
bright.  No habitation was in sight, nor any sign
of life except the carriage she had previously
observed and which, she remarked with some
surprise, kept almost within hailing distance without
any apparent haste to overtake her.  She reflected
that perhaps the occupant was timid and even more
anxious for company than herself.

The jolting and rocking of the chaise increased
so much that at last Prue let down the front
window and remonstrated with the postboys.

"Pray drive a little less recklessly," she cried;
"I can not keep my seat and I fear you will land
me in a ditch."

"'Tis a bad piece of road, my Lady," replied the
senior, bringing his horses to a standstill.  "'Ere,
Jimmie," he added to his assistant; "'old the 'orses
while I looks to that near hind wheel; 'tain't none
too staunch and this cursed cross-road is enough
to shake the Lord Mayor's coach to splinters."

"Cross-road!" cried Prue.  "Have you left
the highway—? in the dusk—?" she was about
to descend, scarcely knowing what she did in her
sudden alarm.

"Keep your seat, Lady," the man replied; "'tis
but a bit of a short-cut I took, to save 'alf-an-hour
'cos it's growin' late."  He fumbled a little with
the hind wheel and then remounted his horse.

Meanwhile the carriage which had followed passed
and went ahead in leisurely fashion.

Prue's post-chaise resumed the journey, more
shaky and jerky than before, although scarcely
moving at a walking pace.  Very wide-awake now,
and extremely uneasy with vivid recollections of
postboys in league with robbers, and other perils
to unprotected females, Prue sat as quiet as the
rough jolting would allow and tried to comfort
herself with the assurance that the next post-house
could not be far distant, and that she could
certainly find means there to have the wheels looked
to or get another chaise if this one were unsafe.

But scarcely a hundred yards farther on there
was a crash and a shock and Prue was lying in
a heap in the overturned chaise.  The shouts of the
postboys, the trampling of the startled horses
mingled with her screams of pain and terror—then
other voices added to the tumult and in the midst
of it all the door was forced open and Prue lifted
out and gently deposited on the roadside.

"The lady has fainted," said a voice that
sounded familiar.  "Search for water, one of you
boys; is there no brook or stream near by?"

"Nothing nearer than the river that *I* knows of,
your Honor," said the man, "'less there's some in
yon ditch—"

"You need seek no ditch-water for me," said
Prue, sitting up and struggling with the wraps in
which her head was entangled.  "Since you are
there, Sir Geoffrey, you may as well lend me some
assistance."

"Good Gad!  Lady Prue!" cried the baronet,
with a vast show of astonishment.  "By what
happy chance am I fortunate enough to be of use
to you?  Methought you were safe in Tunbridge
hours ago."

"No doubt that is why you have been following
my carriage ever since I left Seven Oaks," she
retorted.  "'Tis strange you should also have taken
a short cut which seems to lead to nowhere in
particular!"

"It has led you into an awkward predicament,
my dearest Prudence," he replied gravely.  "I
shudder to think of the straits to which you would have
been reduced, had I not been—quite
providentially—passing at the critical moment."

"Well, as Providence has been kind enough to
send me a knight-errant, perhaps he will tell me
where I am and how far it is to the next
post-house," said Prue, not very graciously, for Sir
Geoffrey's presence was too opportune to appear
quite unpremeditated.

"The next post-house?" he reflected.  "Post-boy,
how far is the next post-house?"

"Four mile or thereabout, your Honor," the
man returned, beginning to unstrap the valises.

"Is there any inn or cottage near, where I can
wait while you take horse to the post-house and
fetch me another chaise?" inquired Prue.  The
man scratched his head doubtfully and looked at
Sir Geoffrey as if for instructions.

"Well, fellow, can not you answer the lady?
You surely know what houses of entertainment
there are on the road to Tunbridge," said Sir
Geoffrey.

"There's a pike a mile or so ahead," said the
man, "but 'tis no place for a lady to sit down
in—a bit of a wooden cabin, and the pike-keeper's a
rough blade."

Prue's dismay was unutterable.  A mile to walk
along a rugged country road in the dusk, and an
indefinite period of waiting in the hut of a
turnpike-keeper!  She was silent for sheer lack of words
to do justice to the situation.

"There is an alternative that will relieve you of
all embarrassment," said Sir Geoffrey, after a
sufficiently long pause to allow her to realize the horror
of her dilemma.  "My coach is not many yards
away, and if you will not honor me by accepting
my escort to Tunbridge, permit me, at least, to
carry you to the nearest post-house, where no doubt
you can obtain a conveyance for the rest of the
journey."

Prue looked down at her little feet in their
dainty, high-heeled slippers, and wondered how far
they would support her along that rough, uneven
road.  She rose from the grassy bank where Sir
Geoffrey had deposited her and a little cry escaped
her.  Though uninjured in the breakdown, she was
shaken and bruised, and would have fallen had not
Sir Geoffrey caught her in his arms, from which
she extricated herself with great promptness.
Drawing back a pace or two, she raised her lovely
eyes searchingly to his, and though, in their clear
depths he could read a hundred swift suspicions,
he met their scrutiny without flinching.

"Sir Geoffrey," she said, after a brief pause,
"I thank you for your offer, and accept your
escort as far as the post-house, on condition that if
we should pass any decent cottage, you will permit
me to seek its shelter until a chaise can be sent to me."

"Your lack of confidence wounds and astonishes
me, Lady Prudence," he replied, with bitterness.
"After my long devotion and the vows that have
been exchanged between us, it is strange that you
should impose restrictions upon me that would
sound injurious to a stranger.  But I submit—as
I have always done—to your lightest caprice."

"This is no caprice," she returned, with cold
reserve; "my circumstances are peculiar and I am
bound to beware of appearances."

He bowed low and taking her hand without
further resistance, led her to his chariot, upon which
the men were already loading her valises.  Her
jewel-box and the other contents of the chaise
having been safely bestowed, Sir Geoffrey took his
seat beside her, his valet returned to the rumble
and they drove off, leaving the postboys to patch
up the damaged vehicle and convey it, as best they
might, to the nearest inn.

Glancing back at them, Prue observed with
satisfaction that another carriage had come into
view, following the same road.  Greatly relieved
at this proof that the "short-cut" was not, as she
had feared, an unfrequented by-road, she relaxed
her austerity, and was soon chattering with her
natural vivacity.  Sir Geoffrey was not slow to
respond to her friendly mood, which he mistook
for a sign that her fears were allayed and that her
inveterate coquetry, momentarily under severe
restraint, was ready for fresh development.  His
tones soon became tender, and his eyes glowed with
a passion that he no longer attempted to moderate.
He seized her hands, and, regardless of her
struggles, pressed them over and over again to his lips.
Then growing bolder still, he attempted to draw her
closer and clasp her in his arms.

"Let me go, Sir Geoffrey, you are taking a
dastardly advantage of me!" she cried, repulsing him
with all her strength.  "Release me!  I insist upon
your setting me down instantly!  If I can not walk,
I can wait on the roadside for some honest passer-by—"

"Never, dearest angel; never shall you leave my
arms until you promise to put an end to my
tortures.  I have endured more from you than mortal
man can be expected to brook with patience!  You
are in my power, sweetest Prue!  A lucky chance
has given you to my arms, and if I were to let
you go now, I should deserve to lose you for ever."

"You lost me," cried Prue, "the day you gave
me to Robin Freemantle.  Now I belong to him;
before God and man I am his wife."

"Tush! a felon—a gallows-bird!" cried Sir
Geoffrey angrily.  "Let me hear no more of that
farce.  I believe the man is dead; but if not so
in fact, he is dead to the law, and you are free—free,
dearest, to make me happy and to be as happy
yourself as the truest, fondest lover woman ever
had can make you when he is your devoted
husband.  Come, my dear Prue, throw aside these coy
humors and be your own sweet self once
more—the adorable creature—"

"Oh! spare me these raptures!" protested Prue.
"Even one's own praises become wearisome by
repetition.  In very truth I am too tired to
enjoy your conversation this evening, Sir Geoffrey.
To-morrow, if you are in Tunbridge, and I am
rested after this wearisome journey, we will discuss
this matter and settle it finally.  For the present,
I beg of you not to disturb me until we reach the
post-house; my head is dizzy and I ache from head
to foot, and I fain would rest me."

"I grieve to discompose you, dearest, but
to-morrow will be too late to discuss our
marriage—though not, I hope, the happiness it will have
brought us.  I have a special license in my pocket
and there is no reason that I know of, why it should
not be used to-night."

Prue sat up so suddenly that Sir Geoffrey thought
she was going to jump out of the carriage and laid
a detaining hand upon her arm.  She attempted,
but unsuccessfully, to release herself.

"As to whether *we* go to Tunbridge to-morrow—that
will depend on you," he went on.  "At
present we are going, as fast as horses can take us,
in the opposite direction.  We shall arrive,
presently, at a little church, where we can be quietly
and quickly married, and can then, if you wish,
resume our journey; or, if you are of my way of
thinking, we can break it for a day or two, at a
charming rustic retreat which has been placed at
my disposal for the honeymoon.  What say you,
dearest?"

"I say that you must be mad to talk to me in
this way," said Prue haughtily.  "I insist that
you take me at once to a post-house where I can
get a chaise and proceed to Tunbridge.  We can
not be so very far out of the way."

"You are mistaken, love," he replied tranquilly.
"At Seven Oaks your postboy, instructed by me,
turned off the Tunbridge Road in the direction of
the secluded country house which our good friend
Aarons offered me the use of, for as long as you
wish to occupy it.  That is where we are going
now: it depends on you how long we remain there."

"In that case," she retorted promptly, "we will
not remain an hour—a minute—in fact, we will
not go there at all.  I protest that rather than go
another yard with you, I would walk back, barefoot,
to Seven Oaks, or even to Tunbridge."

"The choice is not yours, Prudence," said Sir
Geoffrey, his smooth voice in strong contrast to
the black frown, that shadowed his face at her
imperious tone and the indignant energy with which
she repulsed his advances.  "This time I will not
be balked; I am resolved to give you no further
opportunity of fooling me."

Prue laughed contemptuously.  "Do you think
you can marry me by force?" she cried.  "What
priest would marry us when I tell him the truth?"

"By the time you have been my guest for two
or three days you will, no doubt, prefer returning
to court as Lady Beaudesert, the heroine of a
romantic marriage, to braving the scandal of a
mysterious elopement as the frisky Widow Brooke."

"Villain!" she ejaculated.  "I would brave any
scandal rather than marry a wretch capable of such
treachery!"

"We shall see," returned her captor, at the same
time thrusting his head out of the window and
calling to the postilion, "Stop, fool, is not this the
ferry?  See the inn yonder and the boats."  The
coach came to a standstill and Sir Geoffrey's man
jumped down from the rumble.  "Go rouse the
landlord and call up the ferryman," said his
master; "bid him hasten if he would earn a guinea
for his services."

The moment the carriage stopped Prue began
to scream, "Help—oh! help—is there no one
here to help a poor woman in sore distress?"

"No one, dearest," replied Sir Geoffrey,
opening the door and alighting in the dusty highway,
"except your devoted lover and slave.  Will it
please you to descend?  We have but little farther
to go, and that by water."

Prue crouched back in the farthest corner of the
coach.  "I'll not leave this carriage until my cries
bring help.  Help—oh! help!"

"Call your loudest, pretty one; 'twill give me a
good excuse for smothering your cries with kisses.
An' if you force me to carry you, so much the
better for me: I shall enjoy the bliss of holding you
in my arms all the sooner."

"You think you can insult me because I am a
woman and unarmed," she cried, too indignant to
be alarmed, "but I have ten daggers at my
finger-tips to defend my honor."

"Your honor, dearest Prue, is in no jeopardy
from me.  I seek, on the contrary, to shield you
from the disgrace of being pointed at as a felon's
widow by making you the wife of an honorable
gentleman."

"How dare you call my husband a felon?" she
cried, "and his wife a widow?  He is not dead,
and if he were, I would not marry you."

"I swear to you that Robin Freemantle is dead,"
Sir Geoffrey asseverated.  A voice from the
shadow of the trees responded in sonorous and
tragic tones, "You lie!"





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.. _`THE DEAREST TREASURE`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DEAREST TREASURE

.. vspace:: 2

Somewhere about the time that Prue was
leaving Seven Oaks, Robin Freemantle, accompanied
by two friends and followed by the faithful
Steve, rode out of the stately gates of a country
mansion a few miles beyond St. Mary's Cray.

At a short distance they left the highroad and
plunged into a deep and narrow lane, showing few
signs of use and leading into others as neglected
and man-forsaken.  When the lanes were wide
enough the three rode abreast, with heads bent
together in earnest conference.  Papers were handed
to Robin which he concealed about his person, and
last instructions reiterated, to which he listened
attentively, but without enthusiasm.

"You think I am sure of finding a boat at
Hailing, Percival?" he inquired, when the others
became silent.

"We shall avoid Hailing and seek the ferry a
mile or so above," replied the younger of his
companions.  "The ferry is little used; indeed I do not
know how there comes to be one at all, for the road
is unfrequented and I know of no habitation but
the little inn where, however, there are always boats
for hire—built possibly by the ferryman himself.
The tide serves about nine o'clock and with a
favorable wind we should be below Rochester by
moonrise.  No one will be looking for you on the
Medway, Captain, and before morning you will be
safely past Sheerness and, I hope, on board the
*Petite Vierge*, while the spies of the government
are keeping strict watch for you between London
Bridge and Gravesend."

"I would give ten years of my life," said Robin
moodily, "for one more day in England."

"Your life is not your own to give, Captain de
Cliffe," said the third man, who, even in this
solitude, kept his wide-brimmed beaver slouched so as
completely to conceal his face.  "It belongs to
King James, and should you be arrested with these
documents upon you, hundreds of lives, besides
your own, may pay for the mischance."

"I do not need to be reminded of my duty, even
by your grace," said Robin proudly.

"I know it well," returned the other pacifically,
"and when you return with the king, in triumph—may
it be soon—His Majesty will know how
to reward you."

"Aye, that he will," muttered Steve, who was
close enough to catch some of the conversation, in
which he was greatly interested.  "'Virtue is its
own reward' is the motto of the Stuarts!"

"The highest reward King James can offer is to
send me back as fast as horse and ship can carry
me," cried Robin.  "Even now—"

"Even now, Captain," Steve broke in, "you
are lucky in getting away alive.  Don't forget there
is a price upon your head and the law's
protection—save the mark!—will be withdrawn in a few
hours.  After that your life is forfeit wherever the
flag of England flies."

"*My* life!  When has it not been forfeit?"
returned Robin carelessly.  "But your grace can be
at ease; I have given my word to carry these letters
safely to Paris and I will do so, God sparing me."

"Enough!  I should never have thought of
doubting you, had not mine own eyes seen you at
the masquerade with a certain fair sorceress whose
spells are far more dangerous than sword or bullet.
Right glad am I that Fate drives you from her
before we lose one of our most valued captains in
the same snare that has entangled the feet of all
heroes, ancient and modern.  Let us lose no time,
for the love of Heaven; your only safety lies in
swift flight!"

And with malicious laughter, in which the other
man heartily joined, he put spurs to his horse and
urged the cavalcade to such speed as the heavy
ground would permit.

In spite of their haste, the sun was sinking
behind the mists that rose from the river, before they
saw its shimmer through the trees.  The road upon
which they emerged from the bridle-path took a
sharp turn at this spot and passed close to a little
inn—a mere peasant's cottage, for all the
announcement on the creaking signboard of
entertainment for man and beast, and further information
as to the hire and sale of boats at the adjacent
ferry.

"Go forward, Steve, and see what folks are
about, and if there be a seaworthy boat to be had,
while we keep within this thicket out of sight of
passers-by," said the duke, backing his horse into
the wood, while Steve and Percival dismounted to
reconnoiter the premises.

Steve quickly returned alone.  "The ferry is
close at hand," he said, "but I can find neither
ferryman nor landlord.  However, there are boats
a-plenty at the landing, and if we press one for the
king's service, 'tis no more than a loyal subject
should rejoice to contribute to the cause!  The
wind is fair, the tide is on the turn, I can hoist a
sail and handle an oar, and 'twill be strange if we
leave not Sheerness in our wake at sunrise."

"You are sure there is no one spying about?"
the duke inquired nervously.  "How if they are
merely hiding?  Stay you here, Captain—I will
examine the inn for myself—it will not do for
you to fall into an ambush.  And it would be well
for Steve to stand sentinel at the bend of the road;
he can warn us in time of any approaching wayfarer,
for if I mistake not, the road over the waste
lands can be plainly seen for several miles."

Left alone, Robin dropped the mask of careless
gaiety under which he had hidden his dejection
from his companions.  About to leave the land that
contained Prue, on a mission whose risks he had
often braved without a thought except of audacious
delight in danger and reckless defiance of the law
from which he was an outcast, he was now beset
by a thousand apprehensions for which he could
have given no reason, but which chilled his loyal
ardor and hung like an incubus upon his soul.
How could he wish for his once-beloved Paris
while Prue was in England?  What cared he for
the safe asylum of the French court while Prue
in the English court was wooed by a score of
suitors and pressed by dangers and temptations
from which he was powerless to protect her?  The
setting sun seemed like an emblem of his own
fate—except that it would surely rise again on the
morrow, while he might sink for ever into
forgetfulness.  "Oh! my heart's joy, my only love, shall
we never meet again?" he murmured.  "Oh! for
one more look into those sweet eyes; one last kiss
from those beloved lips!  Must I go without a
farewell word; without sure hope that she will ever
bestow another thought on me?  Before God she
is my wife—yet the outlaw has no God—no
country—no wife—and how dare I hope that she
who took me for an hour's frolic, would not some
day gladly be rid of me for ever?"

Robin's reflections, painful and absorbing as they
were, did not prevent his keeping a close watch on
Steve, who now turned, and, with many signs of
caution, retraced his steps.  At the same time the
distant sound of wheels became audible.

"Conceal yourself, Captain, there are travelers
coming this way; we must withdraw until they have
passed," said Steve, pushing his way through the
bushes and preparing to lead his horse farther into
the wood.

"We are four," said Robin.  "It would ill become
us to turn tail without knowing what we fly from."

"Four!  Would you attempt to draw his grace
into a broil?"

"A broil!  Pshaw!" cried Robin impatiently.
"Some pursy citizen in a post-chaise, belike, or
passengers for the ferry."

"There's another carriage following the one you
hear," said Steve.  "Shall I warn the duke and
Mr. Percival?"

"No, no! let us play highwaymen once more and
frighten them away," laughed Robin, quickly
adjusting a black mask and handing one to Steve.
As he did so a hand was laid somewhat roughly on
his arm and the duke, in low but emphatic tones,
interrupted him:

"A truce to this headstrong folly; your rashness
will ruin everything."

"I'm in the right temper for a tussle," returned
Robin resignedly.  "Yet if these travelers do not
molest us they may pass on their way unchallenged
for me," and, reluctantly, he withdrew a few paces
farther into the thicket, just as a coach and four
rounded the bend in the road and drew up not many
paces away.

A man jumped out of the rumble, and hurrying
to the inn-door, battered and kicked at it, loudly
shouting, "Ferry—ho, Ferry—where is the
Ferryman?  Ho, Landlord, open your door quickly
and do not waste our time."

An upper window opened cautiously, just wide
enough to show a night-capped head within.

"Who calls for the ferry at this hour?"
demanded a quavering voice.

"Why, 'tis early yet," replied the man; "we are
travelers who would cross in hot haste."

"Your haste will have time to cool—the ferryman
beds t'other side the river and comes not over
unless he brings a fare," said the landlord.

"Is there no way of calling him?  He will be
well paid for his trouble; and you, too, Goodman,
may find it worth while to come down and serve
my noble master," cried the man.

"There's a horn chained to yon post; blow it,
if you will, an' if he hears you, mayhap he'll bring
his boat across.  If you want food and drink,
you'll find none fit for the quality nearer than
Hailing.  My wife is sick a-bed and I'm lame with the
rheumatics, but I'll come down and open if you'll
have patience."  And the head was withdrawn and
the casement shut.

In the meantime the carriage door was opened
and a man descended.  His figure, which a ray of
the setting sun brought into strong relief, was
immediately recognized by Robin, who muttered, "Sir
Geoffrey Beaudesert!  What brings him across my
path again?" and pushing forward a little, caught
the sound of his own name.

"I swear to you that Robin Freemantle is dead!"

"You lie!" shouted Robin.

Sir Geoffrey started and looked round.  "What
was that?" he exclaimed uneasily.

Prue instantly renewed her cries, "Help!  help!
If ye be true men, come to my rescue!"

Two masked and cloaked horsemen promptly
advanced, leveling their pistols at Sir Geoffrey's
head.

"Stand and deliver!" commanded the taller of
them, in deep, vibrant tones.

At the sound of that beloved voice, Prue, with
a cry of joy, sprang out of the carriage, and
rushing to Robin, who was already afoot, threw herself
into his arms.

"Oh! joy—oh!  Robin, dear, dear Robin,
Heaven has sent you to deliver me from this villain!"

At the sight of their meeting and the maddening
certainty of his own utter discomfiture, Sir Geoffrey
could not contain his fury, but drawing his sword,
would have hurled himself upon Robin had not
Prue stood between them with outstretched arms.

"Stand aside, woman!" he vociferated, beside
himself with rage.  "Must I kill you to get at
him?  Coward! are you going to shelter yourself
behind a woman?"

"Stand aside, Prue," said Robin, in a tone she
dared not disobey, and drawing his sword he placed
himself on the defensive.

Sir Geoffrey was an adroit swordsman and a
practised duellist, but he soon found he had no mean
antagonist in Robin.  It was a match between the
clever master of fence and the soldier accustomed
to fight with his life in his hand, regardless of
carte and tierce.  At pose and trick Sir Geoffrey
was the superior, but he was under the disadvantage
of a tempestuous fury that prevented his
making the best use of the dexterity that had brought
him out victor from numerous encounters, while
Robin's coolness more than compensated for lack
of finesse, and his skill as a swordsman soon proved
itself.  Sir Geoffrey, in spite of his passionate
onslaught, was gradually beaten off the roadside and
driven step by step to the door of the inn, where
Robin, calm as though they had been merely
fencing for amusement, goaded him into rashness
with an exaggerated display of caution, and taking
quick advantage of a wild lunge, disarmed him and
sent his sword flying a dozen paces away.

At the clash of weapons and sound of warfare,
the inn-door opened a few inches and a bald old
head peered cautiously out.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" piped a trembling
voice, "mine is a respectable house; pray you do
not get me into trouble.  I implore you, if there
is murder to be done, for Heaven's sake go a little
farther up the road; there is a quiet spot, not five
minutes' walk away, where no one will disturb you
while you kill each other."

"It is all over, good mine host; 'twas but a
friendly bout; no one is the worse for it by so much
as a cut finger," laughed Robin.  "Steve, pick up
Sir Geoffrey's sword and restore it to him.  Escort
him into the inn and treat him courteously until I
call for you."  As they disappeared, he turned to
Prue, who had watched the duel with mingled fear
and joy, and now hurried to his outstretched arms.

"Oh!  Robin; why didn't you kill him?" she cried.

"Why, 'twas a duel, dearest Prue, not an
assassination—" he began.

"He would have killed you if he could, I'll be
sworn," she protested.  "I saw murder in his eye
when he rushed upon us, and surely you would
avenge the treachery that brought me to this lonely
place with a man I detest, who desired to force or
shame me into marrying him?"

"I am almost grateful to him," murmured
Robin, with his lips to hers, "that he brought you
here and procured me the inestimable happiness of
seeing you once more and bidding you farewell."

"Is it indeed happiness for you to bid me
farewell?" pouted Prue reproachfully.

"Almost—compared to the unutterable anguish
of leaving you, perhaps for ever, without."

Prue drew herself away just far enough to look
into his eyes with bewitching tenderness.  "Does
it grieve you so much to leave me, Robin?" she
said softly.

"Can you ask, Heart of my heart?" he replied.
"You little know how sorely I am torn in twain
by the duty that separates me from you."

"Then why should we separate?" she cajoled,
nestling against him.

"Oh! tempt me not, Beloved!" he implored,
feeling himself melting like wax under her touch.
"Honor and loyalty call me to France—

"Then take me with you!" she cried, in ringing
tones.

A hand was laid on Robin's shoulder with no
gentle emphasis.  "What folly is this?" demanded
a harsh voice.  "De Cliffe, I have overheard the
wiles of this enchantress, and although I believe
your loyalty is beyond reproach, I can not allow her
to test your powers of resistance too far.  Can you
really believe that she wishes to accompany you?
Bah! 'tis but another coil to bind you more securely
and make your escape more difficult.  But it shall
not avail, I swear on the bones of St. Anthony!
Viscountess Brooke, do you wish to have this man's
death on your conscience?  If so, use your arts
on him and you will soon be gratified; for I
myself will run my sword through his heart, rather
than see him a traitor to his king."

"Your grace misjudges me," said Prue proudly.
"I come, as you should know, of right loyal stock,
and nothing is further from my wishes than to hinder
his departure.  I but claim the right to go wherever
he goes."

"The right!  What right?" sneered the duke.

"The right, in the sight of God and man, of a
wife to follow her husband," said Prue unflinchingly.

As she stood there so beautiful and undaunted,
the love-light in her glorious eyes seemed to
irradiate her whole face with indescribable tenderness
and dignity.  Even the angry duke dropped his
eyes, abashed, and his tone was sensibly lowered
when he exclaimed, "Wife?  Husband?  De
Cliffe, what is the meaning of this midsummer
madness?"

"Oh!  Prue," cried Robin, "you know not what
you say; how could you dream of sharing the
fortunes of an exile—an outlaw?"

She raised her eyes to his, brimming with tears.
"Because I love you, Robin," she sighed pathetically
but bravely, "and life without you is worthless
to me."  Then, with a sudden change to petulance,
"Oh! why do you leave me to do all the
love-making?  Is it not shame enough that I was a
petitioner for your hand, but that now I must come
as a beggar for your heart?  Sure, I did think you
loved me—a little," and she buried her face in her
hands.

"Sweetheart, it is because I love you so dearly
that I am loath to let you throw away your beauty
and sweetness on a poor soldier of fortune," said
Robin, scarcely less agitated than she.

"Who is apparently ready to ruin himself for
the idle caprice of a frivolous coquette!" interposed
the duke, with asperity.

The carriage which had followed Sir Geoffrey's
had arrived while the duel was in progress, and
drawn up unnoticed at the bend of the road.  Its
sole occupant alighted, and lingering in the shadow
of the trees, became an interested spectator, himself
unobserved.

"De Cliffe," continued the duke, "time presses
and you must not linger.  Think only of your duty
and be firm."

There was a brief silence, which Prue broke,
addressing her husband, "I will not force myself
upon you, Robin.  Tell me what you wish and I
will obey, even if it breaks my heart.  But if you
do not take me away, what will you do with me?
You can not escort me yourself—you can hardly
return me on Sir Geoffrey's hands!—Am I to
return to Tunbridge on foot and alone?"

"I will charge myself with your ladyship's safe
conduct," interposed the duke impatiently.

"A thousand thanks," returned Prue, sweeping
a profound curtsey.  "Your grace's courage
has not been overrated, yet methinks, if you reflect
upon what might happen when some one told your
charming duchess that you rode into Tunbridge at
break of day with the Widow Brooke on the pillion,
you will be grateful for my rejection of your
offer."  She turned to Robin with a submissive air that
made at least one onlooker smile, "I will plead no
more with you, Robin, but if I must leave you,
swear to return to me and I will be true to you if
I have to wait fifty years."

She threw her arms round his neck and drawing
his face down to her, kissed him with passionate
abandon, then bursting into tears, sobbed out, "If
you can leave me now, Robin, farewell!"

There is a limit to the powers of endurance of
the most resolute, and Robin could stand no more.
He clasped her in his arms and soothed her with
the tenderest caresses.  "I will never leave you,
my wife," he declared; "no one shall take you from
me.  You are mine and only Death shall rob me
of the dearest treasure on earth.  Say no more, my
lord Duke; it is settled.  My wife will go to France
with me.  The king will welcome the daughter of
his father's friend as the bride of his own faithful
servant."

"If your mind is made up I have no more
to say," returned the other, with a look of
deep annoyance, "except that if the Viscountess
Brooke—"

"Pardon me—the Lady Prudence de Cliffe,"
interposed a bland voice, and Lord Beachcombe
stepped out of the shadow, and taking Prue's
hand, pressed a respectful salute upon it.
"Permit me, Captain, to congratulate you on your
marriage and to welcome your fair bride into the family
of which I am the head.  I had reason, dear Lady
Prue, to fear that you might be molested on your
journey, so took the liberty of following Sir
Geoffrey's carriage, to be at hand in case the road to
Tunbridge might lead to—just such a breakdown
as you suffered a while ago, and just such a
romantic rescue as our gallant friend had prepared
for you.  I rejoice that I arrived in time to witness
the reunion of husband and wife—such a delightful
surprise for all of us!—and to wish them a
happy future—beyond the sea!"

At the approach of Lord Beachcombe, the duke
had pulled his hat lower over his face and drawn
his mantle more closely about him.  With a sign to
Robin, he glided away among the trees, and only
the sound of hoof-beats on the road marked his
retreat.  Percival, who had been too much
engrossed in hunting out a water-tight boat to take
notice of what was passing within a few yards of
him, now approached, but stopped short at the sight
of so many unexpected figures.

"This is my wife, Percival, who has decided at
the last moment, to accompany me to France," said
Robin.  "Is there room for her in that boat or
shall we need a bigger one?"

"Plenty of room," cried Percival, taking in the
scene with eyes bulging with bewilderment.  "But,
Lady Prudence! 'tis impossible for you to brave the
night in an open boat and the perils of crossing
the Channel in a fishing smack!"

"Why, there 'tis!" she laughed, with saucy
confidence; "if 'twere possible, 'twould scarcely be
worth the doing!  Steve, will you help Sir
Geoffrey's varlets carry my valises on board?  Within
the carriage you will find my jewel-box and other
trifles!  'Tis not much in the way of wedding-equipage
for a court-lady, but 'tis more than I had
when I was waylaid on Bleakmoor and the highwayman
could find nothing—at least, nothing
portable—to rob me of," and she threw Robin a glance
of irresistible drollery.

"This will indeed be a racy dish of scandal for
your friends, madam," said Sir Geoffrey, from the
inn-door.

"It will lose none of its spice in passing
through your hands, Sir Geoffrey," she retorted,
with asperity.  "Pray do not forget to give
yourself full credit for your share in the escapade."

"I will take good care of your reputation, Lady
Prudence, and also of Sir Geoffrey's," interposed
Beachcombe.  At his voice, Sir Geoffrey started
and turned livid.

"'Od's Death!'" he exclaimed.  "What brings
you here of all men?"

"Why, just a trifling wager; I think you'll own
I've won it fairly!" returned the earl, as Sir
Geoffrey strode away, and calling to his men with
curses, flung himself into his carriage and drove
off at a gallop.  Lord Beachcombe, scarcely
waiting to press a hurried kiss on Prue's hand and
wish her long life and happiness, followed him with
no less speed.

"The sail is hoisted and the baggage aboard,"
Steve announced.  "Will it please your ladyship to
hasten; we should be halfway to Rochester by now."

Robin carried his bride over the rough causeway
and made her as comfortable as circumstances
would permit, in the stern of the boat.  With his
ample cloak he covered her from the chill night
air, and taking his place beside her, gave the word
to push off.

Steve guided the boat into mid-stream, then set
himself to steer by the sail that pulled and strained
from the mast under a favoring wind.  Percival,
in the bow, kept a keen watch for any sign of
danger to his precious freight, and behind, in the
darkness, Prue lay in the arms of her lover-husband.

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   THE END

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