CHAPTER XXIIITHE PARSON SELLS A SECRETAs 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—conversationwith 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. "Ihave 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, thoughyoudo 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?"[image]"——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. Theywillgamble 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."Iknowit," said Goodridge, with tipsy solemnity. "I'll take my oath on it.""Your oath may be priceless," said Aarons, "but I can onlypayfor 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 offerherany 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 saidunder 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. "Iwill keep your secret, because it will not serve me to betray it, but if you take many more into your confidence, you may get into trouble."With which he strode away, leaving Goodridge to the congenial society of the half-empty bottle.CHAPTER XXIVA SUPPER FOR THREEPrue'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 thequi 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 friendbon 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 tomehow 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,Ithink, for him to stay here for a few days," Barbara proposed seriously. But the mutinous pout, and glance of arch defiance with which Prue received her suggestion, provoked her to hearty laughter, and she received Robin's thanks for her protection and the farewells of both her guests with an air of such thorough comprehension, that Prue felt constrained to whisper in her ear, "I will come to confession to-morrow, dear Gossip," and blushingly hurried away on Robin's arm.Late as it was, they lingered on the way and managed to eke ten minutes' walk into forty. Robin had so much to say—so many vows of eternal fidelity to pledge, and such repeated assurances to give of his swift return—that it was not until a near-by church-clock struck two, that Prue quickened her steps a little, and declared with a sigh that the parting moment had really come."You will be careful, dear Robin," she pleaded. "Do not run any risks, and if we can not meet again safely before you leave for France, write me by some sure hand, and I will do the same. Remember—I forbid you to attempt to visit me—but oh! I shall count the hours until I see you again."With the prospect of a long and perhaps fatal parting, their farewells were not soon over; each last kiss was but an excuse for one more, until the tramp of the approaching night-watch warned them of the danger of delay, and Prue tore herself from his arms and without trusting herself to a backward glance, hurried into the house.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PARSON SELLS A SECRET
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—conversationwith 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. "Ihave 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, thoughyoudo 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?"
[image]"——Was it not two hundred guineas?"
[image]
[image]
"——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. Theywillgamble 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.
"Iknowit," said Goodridge, with tipsy solemnity. "I'll take my oath on it."
"Your oath may be priceless," said Aarons, "but I can onlypayfor 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 offerherany 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 saidunder 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. "Iwill keep your secret, because it will not serve me to betray it, but if you take many more into your confidence, you may get into trouble."
With which he strode away, leaving Goodridge to the congenial society of the half-empty bottle.
CHAPTER XXIV
A SUPPER FOR THREE
Prue's delight at the restoration of her necklace was so great that she forgot her fatigue, and Peggie found her dancing before a mirror and trying a variety of coquettish poses to show off the sparkling jewel and the fair throat it adorned. At first she could not resist the temptation of teasing Peggie by feigning to take Mr. Aarons' proposal seriously.
"Fancy, dear coz," she cried; "this Croesus tells me his strong-box literally bursts with diamonds only awaiting my acceptance. He promises me the finest of town-houses, with equipages and retinue to turn the grandest of our duchesses green with envy—the purse of Fortunatus, which will only be the fuller the more I spend! How pleased grannie will be to own Lady Prudence Aarons for a granddaughter!"
Peggie broke into smiles. "Lady Prudence Aarons! Picture grannie's face when you present the new grandson-elect to her ladyship."
"But seriously, Peg," Prue went on more soberly, "this man aspires to marry me, and would have bestowed my own necklace upon me as a gift, had I not insisted upon paying him."
"Paying him!" cried Peggie, in accents of the most profound astonishment. At the same moment her eye fell upon the little table and she pounced upon the neglected bank-notes with amazement too intense for words.
"He left the money!" exclaimed Prue, gazing at the notes as Peggie wildly fluttered them before her. "I have done Aarons injustice. He must be really in love with me."
"Prue! where on earth did this come from?" demanded Peggie, utterly mystified.
"Not from Aarons," replied Prue, a tender smile creeping over her lips as she took the notes with an almost caressing touch. "Don't be afraid; I am not yet sold to the devil. But come, Peggie, we have no time to waste. We must dress for Lady Rialton's dinner and I must show myself at half-a-dozen routs and balls before I can even spare time to think. Oh! I wonder where Barbara is going to-night!"
"You are bound to meet her somewhere," said Peggie consolingly, "and if not, you may be sure she'll take good care of your Robin, so don't be uneasy."
Prue gave her a half-comical, half-reproachful glance. "I never saw Barbara look as charming as she did to-day," she pouted. "Those tall lace heads are certainly very becoming to her kind of figure—they make her look quite slender—and the touch of hair-powder gave an extra sparkle to her eyes."
"'Twas not the powder on her hair, but the rouge on her cheeks that made her eyes sparkle," quoth Peggie, who was a trifle jealous of Barbara's influence.
"Do you think so? Would a little rouge improve me, do you think? I am sure I look faded." Prue peered anxiously into a mirror, but the sight that greeted her eye was reassuring. "I wish I had kept him here; we could have hidden him somewhere," she said, with a regretful sigh.
"Where?" cried Peggie trenchantly. "Under grannie's bed, belike! Any other place might have been searched if Lord Beachcombe had brought a constable with a warrant!"
"He is capable of that, even now," Prue agreed. "Barbara's coquetry is more dangerous to me, perhaps, but safer for Robin."
Poor Prue was doomed to a good many heart-pangs that evening, and without even the accustomed support of Peggie's sympathy. After Lady Rialton's dinner the cousins separated. Peggie returned home, and Prue, with less heartiness than usual, pursued the round of social functions. Her first inquiry at every house was for Barbara Sweeting. No one was surprised at that, because the two were known to be the closest allies; but she had not been seen anywhere, a circumstance that caused some remark in so pious a pilgrim of pleasure. Various reasons were suggested, such as an attack of vapors, the return of General Sweeting's gout, or chagrin at not having been invited to take part in the amateur theatricals at Marlborough House, none of which satisfied Prue, who, perhaps for the first time in her life, felt the serpent-tooth of jealousy.
But if Barbara's absence disturbed her, she was goaded almost beyond endurance by the persistence of Lord Beachcombe, who followed her like a shadow, ignoring alike her snubs and the gibes of those who fancied themselves on the trail of a renovated infatuation. In self-defense she kept Sir Geoffrey in close attendance, reckless of significant glances from curious eyes that were swift to mark his air of triumphant proprietorship, until at last, worn out with disappointment and fatigue, she begged him to call her chair, as she was dying to go home and get to bed.
"And do, I implore you, leave me to go away alone, Sir Geoffrey," she entreated, in most pathetic tones. "I am too weary to entertain any one; you must see for yourself that I am almost too tired to speak."
It was impossible to contradict her, for her pale face and clouded eyes betrayed intense nervous strain. Sir Geoffrey contented himself with obtaining permission to inquire after her health at an early hour next day, and repaired to his club, where he speedily found distraction at the card-table.
But Prue, tired as she was, had no intention of going home without one more attempt to see Barbara, to whose mansion in Park Lane she was forthwith conveyed. Her friend was at home and the servants, aware of the intimate relations between the two ladies, did not hesitate to admit Prue, and inform her that supper was then being served in the Painted Room, a charming apartment, where Barbara was in the habit of holding high revelry with her closest intimates, and giving gay supper-parties at which gambling for high stakes, charades imitated from the entertainments of the French court, and similar amusements kept gossip on thequi 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 friendbon 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 tomehow 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,Ithink, 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.