"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"Your friend,"ROBIN FREEMANTLE."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."CHAPTER XTHE FOLLY OF YESTERDAYPrue 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 allmauvais 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 theSpectatorto-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.CHAPTER XITHE MORROW'S WAKENINGBefore 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.""Youcongratulateme!" 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 forme?" 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 theNewssheet 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. "Ishould, 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.CHAPTER XIITHE PRICE OF A BIRTHRIGHTRobin 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.""Whenthey 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, butIhaven'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"To Mistress Larkyn,"In care of Mine Hostess of"The Fox and Grapes."
"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
"ROBIN FREEMANTLE."
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."
CHAPTER X
THE FOLLY OF YESTERDAY
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 allmauvais 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 theSpectatorto-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.
CHAPTER XI
THE MORROW'S WAKENING
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."
"Youcongratulateme!" 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 forme?" 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 theNewssheet 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. "Ishould, 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.
CHAPTER XII
THE PRICE OF A BIRTHRIGHT
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."
"Whenthey 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, butIhaven'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
"The Fox and Grapes."