Part 13

Prue unfolded the paper, now soiled and crumpled from frequent handling, and read:

"MISTRESS BROOKE:

"Follow the bearer and you will find the queen’s diamond necklace."

The duchess started up and seized her arms convulsively. "Is this true, Prue?" she demanded tragically. "Then why did you not go at once without coming to make terms with me first?"

Prue was too well acquainted with the suspicious and selfish nature of the woman to take any offense. "I thought you would be interested," she replied sweetly. "Have a moment’s patience and I will tell you how, reckless of consequences, I ordered the chairmen to follow this unknown leader, who took us through narrow by-streets, where I momentarily expected to be waylaid and perhaps murdered. But my desire to serve your grace was stronger than my fears; besides, as you are well aware, I am not very timid, especially when there is an adventure to the fore—"

"Yes, yes, I know how reckless you are, but where did you find the necklace?" the duchess broke in.

"I am coming to that. The chair stopped at last and I descended in a dark and muddy street, where I followed my conductor afoot to a lonely house, apparently uninhabited."

"Prudence—you reckless girl—you ventured into such a place alone and unprotected!" exclaimed the duchess, excited to such a pitch by the story that she absolutely forgot its reference to herself. "What madness!"

"Oh! that is nothing to what I would have done, if necessary, for—for your grace’s sake," cried Prue. "But I confess that all my devotion was needed to keep up my courage. Inside the house my situation was even more terrifying. All was dark and empty—it seemed the very place for secret deeds of horror—yet no attempt was made to harm me; not a living creature appeared except the person who wrote this message and who, without any ado, placed this in my hand and begged me to take it away."

Having now arrived at the climax of her story, Prue drew forth the emblazoned casket and displayed the diamond necklace.

The duchess snatched it from her and gazed at it with entranced eyes. She flung her arms about Prue, calling her a heroine and a marvel, and the truest friend woman ever had.

"Any one but you would have gone straight to the queen and left me to my fate. There are those about that ungrateful woman who would have paid mighty high for such a chance of humiliating me. What reward did the robber demand, and how did you satisfy him?"

"There was no robber; only an old woman," said Prue, whipping out her carefully planned lie without a tremor. "I know not how she came by it, but she asked for no reward and only seemed to wish to be rid of it. Indeed, there was no time for me to ask an explanation, if she had one to give, for at the very moment when the casket was in my hands, there arose a hubbub in the street outside and the house was surrounded by soldiers. The old woman disappeared as if by magic, and when the soldiers broke into the room I was alone; nor could they find any trace of her, though they battered the place to pieces."

"She shall be found and compelled to give up her accomplice," cried the duchess furiously. "Soldiers surrounded the house, and yet the miscreant escaped! Pretty soldiers, forsooth!"

"Yes, truly," cried Prue; "and more than that—they arrested poor little me—because I was all alone there with the queen’s diamonds; think of that! I had a narrow escape of spending the night in jail! However, my tears and entreaties prevailed upon them to bring me here, and all that remains to be done is to dismiss my captors, and permit me to take my leave of your grace."

"Not so fast, Prue; you have still something to do for me," said the duchess. "I must hasten to the queen and you must go with me, and repeat what you have just told me. Marie!—Alice!—leave off chattering and tire me with all despatch. I must see the queen without a moment’s loss of time."

"Surely, ’tis too late to-night," remonstrated Prue, who was sinking with fatigue. "Her Majesty will have retired."

"That’s no matter," retorted the duchess arrogantly; "I am still Mistress of the Robes, and by virtue of my office entitled to enter the queen’s bed-chamber at all hours of day or night. You must accompany me, and repeat your story, else I might be discredited by the reptiles who are for ever at the royal ear, poisoning _poor, faithful Mrs. Morley’s_ mind against her once beloved _Mrs. Freeman_. Come, I am ready."

As they descended by a private staircase to take the carriage, the Groom of the Chambers approached, and deferentially inquired what was to be done with the Viscountess Brooke’s military escort.

"Faith, ’tis the honest soldier who wanted to hale me off to jail," cried Prue in reply to the duchess’ look of surprised inquiry. "He came prepared to arrest a houseful of robbers or conspirators—he seemed uncertain just which—and finding me alone, with the queen’s necklace in my hand, would have taken me to prison if I had not coaxed him to bring me to you first. If I might venture to suggest that your grace bid him attend us, he can corroborate my story, if needful."

"Let him come," the duchess commanded. "I would I had a hundred witnesses that it was not found in Marlborough House."

*CHAPTER XX*

*A THREAT AND A PROMISE*

When Prue reached home, about midnight, Peggie, who had been watching at the window during several anxious hours, met her at the door and almost carried her up-stairs in a strenuous embrace.

"Was that the Marlborough carriage?" she demanded eagerly.

"Yes; the duchess insisted on bringing me home."

"Then all is well; you have no idea how uneasy I have been. About ten o’clock, Sir Geoffrey came to see you; on a matter of the utmost importance, he declared, and the mysterious hints he threw out about the danger your rashness and love of adventure had led you into, positively drove me distracted."

"I am deeply indebted to him for his solicitude," said Prue disdainfully, "but the worst danger my rashness ever brought me near—that of marrying Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—is happily averted. ’Tis true I have committed other follies—one of which has snatched me from the jaws of that peril, only to plunge me into a host of others, from which I know not how I shall extricate myself. Alack! my dearest Peg, methinks poor Prue is but a sorry fool after all’s said."

Peggie’s countenance fell into an expression of deep concern. For Prue to express a doubt of her own ready wit, was to utter heresy against the first article of Peggie’s faith in her.

"Why, what has happened?" Peggie asked, almost tearfully.

"Oh! nothing but good: indeed, the Fates have showered me with good luck until I am afraid I shall be buried alive under it."

"Come, there are worse ways of being buried than that," cried Peggie, brightening up. "A fig for Sir Geoffrey’s croaking, if there be nothing else to fear. Now tell me where you have been all the evening; with the duchess, of course, as she brought you home?"

"Not all the time. First I found the necklace. Then I took it to the duchess and together we returned it to the queen. And now, Peggie, bring down your eyebrows out of your hair and don’t open your mouth wide enough to engulf me, and I’ll tell you everything that has happened to me, if you will undress me, for I am too tired to move a finger."

Peggie most gladly set to work and had her cousin unlaced and unpinned and comfortably tucked in bed, long before the history of the evening’s events had been expounded. From her, Prue hid nothing; in fact she was craving to pour her confidence into that kindly ear and receive such ungrudging sympathy and shrewd advice as the circumstances prompted.

When Peggie had exhausted the vocabulary of astonishment, admiration, congratulation and anticipation—had shuddered at Prue’s danger, laughed at her wily devices, marveled incredulously at her passionate avowal of love, and rejected all possibility of fear for Robin’s safety, she withdrew reluctantly, declaring that she should not close an eye that night—and was fast asleep almost before her head reached the pillow.

Prue was less fortunate, and for an hour or two tossed and turned, vainly trying every soothing device to calm her racked nerves and woo repose.

While Peggie the optimistic was beside her, Robin’s escape appeared more than probable; she could almost persuade herself that it was an accomplished fact. But it looked less certain, now her blood ran cool, and her high spirit flagged in the darkness and silence of night. Her faith in his courage and resource could not entirely resist the paralyzing touch of fear, and even her confidence in the value of the pledge she had extracted from the duchess was shaken by the unmistakable coolness of the queen, who had listened in silence to the explanations of her former favorite and reserved all her praises and expressions of satisfaction for Prue, to whom she had been cordiality itself.

Toward morning she slept so long and heavily, that Peggie came and went a dozen times before the long lashes lifted and the sweet blue eyes smiled drowsily up at her. And even when she woke she was loath to rise, and fain to rest more than once during the tedious process of her toilet, interrupted as it was by an obsequious procession of mercers and modistes, eager to make their peace with the restored favorite by the most pressing and disinterested services.

But a curious change had come over the wilful beauty, and instead of throwing herself heart and soul into the entrancing discussions of hoops and pouffes, sarsenet and tabbinet, plumes and perfumes, she declined the counsel of this one and the coaxing of that one, and sent the sycophant crowd away wondering what had happened to turn the most extravagant of court butterflies niggardly. The most bewitching "head," the richest farthingale, won but a passing glance and a word of careless criticism, and when Peggie, almost as dissatisfied as the rejected tradesfolk, remonstrated against such a blind neglect of opportunity, Prue lay back wearily in her chair and dropping her arms loosely at her side, said impatiently:

"Cousin, Cousin—I am sick to death of it all!"

"All of what?" cried Peggie briskly. "All you have lost for a whole year and won back in less than a week?"

"Aye, all that and more; sick of court and courtiers, sick of idle men and vapid women, sick of myself most of all—"

Then she sprang to her feet and burst out laughing. "What a fool I am, Peg, and what a fool you look standing there, open-mouthed, drinking in my vaporings as though you never had heard me grumble before! Did you think I was in earnest? Why, I was never so happy in my life. Did not the queen kiss me on the cheek, and the duchess swear to give me whatever I might ask of her; even the first choice of the places she has no longer to dispose of and the royal favors that she can no longer influence? Am I not invited to Windsor as lady-in-waiting on probation and lauded to the skies as a heroine by—"

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert wishes to know if your ladyship will receive him."

The voice of James at the door produced a silence so profound that after a short pause he repeated his message in a louder tone. "Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert is below, my Lady, and wishes to see your ladyship most particularly."

"You had better see him," said Peggie, in response to Prue’s startled and questioning glance.

"I will see Sir Geoffrey," said Prue. "Tell him I will be down immediately."

"Shall I come with you?" asked Peggie.

"Oh, no, no. I can play my little comedy better to an audience of one; besides, _you_ know the truth!" she cried, and ran to the mirror to see if the battery of her charms was in order for the fray.

Sir Geoffrey, his face set in a mechanical smile, met her with a deep bow and pressed a ceremonious kiss upon her extended hand.

"Permit your slave to offer his humble congratulations, my dear Prudence," he said; "I hear that you have distinguished yourself with even more than your usual brilliancy."

"You allude to the fortunate accident that enabled me to return the lost necklace to Her Majesty, I presume?" Prue replied, seating herself and negligently pointing with her fan to a sufficiently distant chair. "I assure you I deem myself most happy in rendering a service, which has been only too highly appreciated, but I can not lay claim to brilliancy, for I was but a passive instrument."

"The brilliancy I refer to, dear Viscountess, was not so much the ’fortunate accident’ as the ready wit by which you turned so compromising an adventure to such good account," said Sir Geoffrey significantly.

The challenge of his tone and words was unmistakable and Prue responded with more spirit than wisdom.

"You must speak more plainly if you wish to be understood," she answered. "Compromising adventures, you know very well, are not rare in my experience—or yours"—she laughed rather maliciously—"but I seldom turn them to good account. Now, the accident that gave the queen’s necklace into my hands—"

"Was the happy result of a little visit to Newgate," interposed Sir Geoffrey, with veiled insolence. "Why beat about the bush with me, dearest girl? I know who gave you the necklace—when he was warned, by you, of the danger of keeping it! and how it came about that he was lucky enough to escape before the soldiers arrived to arrest him."

"What in the world are you talking about, Sir Geoffrey?" she cried, with rather over-acted bewilderment.

"What is every one talking about to-day, but the madcap viscountess, who coaxed the highwayman out of the stolen necklace, and being caught in the trap that was limed for Robin Freemantle, circumvented the soldiers, cozened the Duchess of Marlborough and beguiled the Queen’s Majesty. Am I not right in congratulating you on such a brilliant series of achievements?"

"My dear Sir Geoffrey, you have mistaken your vocation," she laughed. "With such an imagination you ought to have been, not a member of Parliament, but a poet! I am quite interested in this romance; surely there is more of it?"

"Considerably more," he went on, lowering his voice and drawing his chair closer to her. "There are those who saw the beautiful shepherdess in close conversation with a masker in red, at the ball; and who now know that he was no other than Robin Freemantle in the borrowed plumes of Beachcombe. You have enemies, fair Prudence—men you have jilted and women you have excelled in wit and beauty—and by some of these you were seen, in company with the Red Domino, very near the queen’s tiring-room, from which the necklace was stolen. Can you wonder that when a story is bruited about that Lady Prudence Brooke, in dead of night, was discovered with the necklace in her possession, in the place where Robin Freemantle was looked for, these good people should compare notes about her ladyship’s latest exploit, and place their own construction upon it?"

"And you, Sir Geoffrey?" she asked, her thoughtful eyes upon his, "what construction do you place upon this curious rodomontade?"

"Oh!" he laughed softly; "I hold all the clews, so it seems less of a rodomontade to me than, perhaps, to others. I alone know of the little ceremony in Newgate, which explains all."

"Oh! it explains all, does it?" she repeated reflectively. "I should be glad to hear the explanation, now you have propounded the conundrum."

"’Tis simple enough. When Barbara Sweeting told the story of the necklace, you instantly jumped at the same conclusion as the rest of us—namely, that Robin Freemantle, secure in his disguise, had made the use of his opportunity that a robber naturally would, and had stolen the most valuable thing he could lay his hands on—"

"Oh! then you don’t give me the credit of the robbery?" she exclaimed with a pout. "It would have added so much to the interest of the romance if I—"

"You? Oh! Lady Prudence, can you ask me such a question?" he interrupted, in a tone of vehement reproach. "I only give you credit for hastening to warn your—_husband_ of his danger and carrying away the incriminating proof of his guilt; and I admire your courage and generosity though I deplore its object."

"Have you quite finished this romantic story, Sir Geoffrey?" queried Prue, dismissing his personal opinion with a disdainful toss of her fan.

"The preface only, but the rest will wait," he replied, with a sinister smile.

"Then perhaps you would like to hear what really happened? It would be useless for me to deny—even if I wished—that I spoke with Captain Freemantle, at the ball—"

"Quite so," Sir Geoffrey agreed blandly.

"Not that I wish to deny it," she went on petulantly; "at a masquerade everything is permitted, and you, my dear Sir Geoffrey, know better than any one else, this gentleman’s claim upon my attention. Still, I fail to see any connection between Captain Freemantle’s presence at the ball and the disappearance of the necklace—about which, you must acknowledge, that I know more than any one else, since I found—and restored it."

Sir Geoffrey bowed his acquiescence, but his smile was not reassuring.

"We all know what an admirable _raconteuse_ Barbara is, and I was naturally much worked up by her story of the lost necklace; in fact I could scarcely restrain my impatience to hear a more authentic account," Prue proceeded, recovering her self-confidence, which for a moment had wavered under Sir Geoffrey’s attack. "So the moment my visitors left me, I sent for a chair and started for Marlborough House, to get my information at first hand. At a short distance, however, I was interrupted by a person who thrust this paper into my hand."

She drew from her bosom the crumpled document which had already played an important part in her version of the affair, and handed it to him.

Sir Geoffrey read it carefully, refolded it, and meeting her eye, bowed gravely, as though to intimate that he was too much interested to break the thread of the narrative, even by a word.

"You know my love of adventure too well to doubt that I instantly decided to risk everything and follow this clue. It took me to a dismal old house—empty, I believe, except for an old hag, who, keeping her face concealed, thrust the casket into my hands and at the first sound of the soldiers’ approach, disappeared."

Sir Geoffrey softly clapped his hands, as though in applause.

"Capital! excellent!" he cried. "My dear Prue, with shame I confess that I never before have done justice to the vast resources of your wit. I actually dared to wonder how you had managed to forestall suspicion and snatch safety out of the jaws of peril. You have surpassed yourself! To plan so subtly; to execute so promptly! To omit nothing—even the written proof—and to crown it all with a guileless frankness that might disarm the most captious, and certainly would have deceived me, if I had not been close beside you from the moment you emerged from your own door until that of Robin Freemantle hid you from my jealous eyes!"

Then suddenly, without giving her time to disguise the startled dismay that sprang to her eyes, he bent forward and seized her two hands in his.

"Why treat your faithful lover so harshly, sweet Prue?" he went on passionately. "Have I not proven my love again and again in the defense of your reputation and in unquestioning submission to your caprices? Have I not endured your coldness and yielded my just claims before the scruple that prompted you to deny your future husband the smallest favor, while the phantom of a vow linked you to a felon? And am I to have no reward, not even enough of your confidence to enable me to give the lie to your traducers?"

"My traducers!" she cried impatiently. "Who are they? At present the only person who has dared to cast a doubt on my veracity is—Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!"

"And how long do you expect to escape the pack of ’damned good-natured friends’ who have been accustomed to feed upon the choice morsels of scandal you have liberally provided for them?" he demanded. "Before to-night every gossip in town will be in possession of the story of your adventures, and each one who recounts it will put his own construction upon it."

"’Tis true," she murmured. "I have often assisted at such feasts of reason. They are highly entertaining, and every one is eager to add a dash of spice or vinegar to the witches’ broth. And there is nothing I can do to stop those busybodies." She glanced resentfully at Sir Geoffrey, yet there was inquiry in her eye.

"Certainly there is something," he replied, answering the unspoken question. "You can give them something else to talk about that will throw the escapade of the necklace into the shade. The shade, do I say? Rather into utter oblivion." An ironical smile began to dawn upon her face, but he did not leave her time to speak. "You can give them a wedding to talk about, a subject that eclipses every other; if you prefer it, an elopement; indeed, I think that would be more dramatic. Say but the word, dearest, and in an hour, a post-chaise—"

"Oh! Sir Geoffrey," she exclaimed, bursting into a hearty laugh. "Can you really seriously propose such an absurdity to _me_? An elopement? a post-chaise? Methinks I should be like a man who jumps into a river to avoid being wetted by a passing shower! We should indeed give the town something to talk about; and not only talk, but laugh at."

"Let them laugh," said Sir Geoffrey doggedly. "So can I; and he laughs longest who laughs last."

"With me for the butt of your hilarity? Thanks, I am always pleased to have my friends—and my enemies—laugh _with_ me, but to have them all laughing _at_ me is scarcely to my taste. Besides, for you, Sir Geoffrey, to suggest such a thing to me—you who know that I am already another man’s wife and can not therefore legally become yours—for you to make such an offer is an insult—no less."

"My dearest Prue, spare me these reproaches. I grant that yesterday, while this man lived, you were—in a sort of way—his wife. But why should you, who were on the spot, pretend to be ignorant of what the whole town knows this morning, that Robin Freemantle was killed last night, and that consequently you are, as you naturally wish to be—his widow? I congratulate you—and myself."

All Prue’s forebodings revived at these words, uttered with an air of triumphant security that struck a chill to her heart. "I—I do not understand you—" she stammered, trying to appear unconcerned.

"Oh! I think you do," he replied, "only you love to torment me by playing the inexorable prude. You were at Robin’s house and witnessed—nay, possibly connived at his escape. You were still there when the soldiers overtook the boat in which he and his band were attempting escape, and shot the fugitives and sank their boat. The news in to-day’s _Courant_ can not but confirm your own hopes of regaining the joys of freedom, with all the advantages for which you married Captain—_de Cliffe_."

As she remained silent, he drew the _News_ sheet from his pocket and, with a great show of searching out the item, handed it to her. She waved it away with a careless gesture and when he offered to read it to her, she merely bent her head slightly, never moving her eyes from his face.