Part 16

But if the afternoon wore away slowly to Peggie and Prue, it was a long-drawn torture to Lord Beachcombe, whose watch upon the house was never relaxed, notwithstanding the gibes of the gay throng as it passed in and out, marveling what kept Prue’s quondam lover hanging round Lady Drumloch’s door, and the rising murmurs of his followers, whose numbers had been reinforced by numerous loungers on the lookout for mischief or profit.

A constant stream of guests, arriving and departing, passed before him; still no one at all resembling Robin Freemantle appeared. Dainty ladies in brocade and jewels passed in and out of the door, their servants being obliged to force a way for them through the gathering crowd of idlers. Beaux as dainty and as gaily costumed, handed them into their equipages, lisping quaint oaths and shaking their jeweled canes in the faces of the overbold; still no Robin Freemantle. One after another the carriages rolled away, the chairmen trotted off with their fair burdens, the casual onlookers dispersed, and left the street to Lord Beachcombe and his noisy retinue.

At last he could control his impatience no longer. Hurriedly directing his men to keep vigilant watch for their quarry, he once more knocked for admittance and demanded a word with Lady Brooke. James, the imperturbable, would have conducted him up to the drawing-room, but he stalked haughtily to the library and abruptly opened the door—to find the room deserted.

Prue soon appeared, all smiles and artless witcheries, quite determined to see nothing strange in this untimely visit, and as ready to gossip as though she had nothing more serious on her mind than the latest epigram and the newest scandal. Lord Beachcombe, however, was in too deadly earnest to encourage her frivolity, and with very little circumlocution inquired for Captain Freemantle.

"Captain—Freemantle—?" she questioned, with a puzzled air. "Do you mean the highwayman? La! how should I know anything about him? You must be dreaming, Lord Beachcombe!"

"I am not dreaming, Viscountess," he said resentfully. "Nor was I dreaming a couple of hours ago, when, quite by accident, I saw him here," he indicated the spot by a motion of his hand, "in close—ahem—_conversation_ with your ladyship."

"With me?" she cried. "Oh! you are in error. The gentleman you spied upon—pardon, I mean accidentally interrupted—is your relative, Captain de Cliffe—"

"The difference is merely nominal," he interposed, with a sour smile. "It is of great importance that I should have a few words with that—_gentleman_."

"Oh! how unfortunate," she cried, with profound regret; "he went away hours ago—oh! ages ago!"

"Went away? Impossible! he could not have left this house without my knowledge," exclaimed Beachcombe, too thoroughly roused for dissimulation.

"Indeed!" said Prue, ominously gentle. "May I inquire since when you took upon yourself the right to observe the movements of my guests?"

He pulled himself together a little. "My dear Lady Brooke," he said, as suavely as he could, "can you not understand my anxiety about you? You surely are not surprised that I was reluctant to leave you unprotected in the power of a ruffian—an escaped convict—"

"Whose escape you procured, I am told," she replied, "for family reasons."

"The same reasons for which I am now anxious to meet him," retorted the earl. "I know not by what arts he has induced you to help him—or to conceal him, perhaps—under a mistaken compassion for a fugitive—"

"Would you wish to search the house, Lord Beachcombe?" said Prue, majestically rising. "If so, do not hesitate to make the minutest investigation. You will be quite as successful to-day as your emissaries were yesterday. Captain de Cliffe came into my grandmother’s house openly and without precaution and walked out of it two hours ago, just as you, Lord Beachcombe, will do when you have satisfied yourself of my veracity—and with as little prospect of ever returning!"

Lord Beachcombe stood dumfounded. Could this pale, proud woman, her azure eyes suddenly black with anger and her clear voice vibrant with passion, be the gay, frivolous creature, who had played with his heart for a few weeks and tossed it back to him with a gibe and a laugh; whom no one could anger, because nothing ever seemed worth being angry about, and whose deepest emotion had always been more volatile than the bubbles of champagne? What had happened to work such a transformation?

"I fear that you have misunderstood me, Lady Prudence," he said at last. "If I have unwittingly offended you, I beg to apologize most humbly."

Prue preserved a disdainful silence.

"Pray pardon my inadvertence," Beachcombe went on, still more abjectly. "I can not leave you again under sentence of banishment—at least permit me to withdraw—"

"What! without searching the house?" interrupted Prue trenchantly; "I should advise you not to miss an opportunity that may not recur."

Lord Beachcombe drew himself up with a grieved air. "I merely wished to withdraw any remark that might be displeasing to you, Viscountess. It would grieve me beyond expression to offend you. If, in my excitement, I appeared incredulous, it was not that I presumed to doubt your word, but that I found it hard to believe that Fate could have played me so scurvy a trick."

Prue accepted his apologies with a dignified coolness that left him no excuse for prolonging his visit, so he departed, much crestfallen, but far from being convinced. While he was dismissing his followers with a none too liberal douceur, an elderly man, attired with rich simplicity, saluted him unobtrusively. Beachcombe stared after him as he disappeared into the house, at first not recognizing the somewhat plebeian figure, then muttering, "What is that old Jew doing here?" drove away, pondering on the strangeness of Prue’s visitors and the atmosphere of mystery with which she had surrounded herself.

Could he have penetrated the actual motive of Mr. Aarons’ visit, his surprise would have grown into amazement, for surely no greater tribute to the versatility of Prue’s charms could be offered than the fact that they had brought Mr. Aarons to her feet. At least thirty of his fifty years had been spent in the exclusive pursuit of wealth. Pleasure he only knew by name. Love was to him merely a curious spell under which men became utterly reckless of consequences and unhesitatingly bartered their present possessions and future prospects for the means of dazzling a silly woman or purchasing a worthless one. That it brought easy prey into his net was the only thing he knew in its favor, and it must be acknowledged that his late proposal of marriage to the Viscountess Brooke was not prompted by any sentiments loftier than those he so contemptuously disparaged.

He knew her to be thoughtless and extravagant, for her visits to him had been the invariable result of losses at the card-table, or debts equally pressing and unprofitable. Such gossip about her as reached his ears, roused his derision, which her frequent matrimonial entanglements certainly did not abate. Yet he was no more capable of resisting her fascination than any butterfly of the court, and although his declaration had been to some extent unpremeditated, he was resolved, now he had offered his hand to the "Widow Brooke," to lose no time and spare no effort to win her acceptance.

He had waited a week, trusting that her necessities would drive her back to him, but hearing of her triumphant return to court, and her startling adventures later, decided to wait no longer. Therefore it was that, armed with what he believed to be an irresistible argument in his favor, he presented himself at Lady Drumloch’s door at the very moment of Lord Beachcombe’s hasty exit.

Prue and Peggie were in earnest consultation on no less important a subject than the imminent explanation with Lady Drumloch, who, after the revelations of the afternoon, would certainly require a prompt and thorough enlightenment. That she would be deeply scandalized by the truth, yet was too shrewd to be put off with any evasion, the cousins were quite aware, and their consultation was as to the form their confession should take, rather than any plan of concealment or prevarication.

When James announced that "Mr. Aarons" was below and besought an audience of the Viscountess Brooke, Prue was not quite sure whether this interruption was a welcome respite or a tiresome delay.

"Aarons!" exclaimed Peggie. "What brings him here?" Then, lowering her voice, "Can he be coming to pay his court to you, Prue?"

"I know not," returned Prue, shrugging her shoulders. "I should scarce have imagined that he would presume to present himself here. Well, bid Mr. Aarons come up, James; we will receive him here."

"We!" laughed Peggie, making for the door. "_I_ have no wish to see him, and I am sure he does not come here on my account." And she decamped without giving her cousin time to remonstrate.

Prue greeted the money-lender in her stateliest manner, and entrenching herself behind the little tea-table, requested him to be seated.

"This is indeed a surprise," she said. "I should never have supposed that the busy Mr. Aarons had time to spare for visiting."

"You are right, Viscountess. I never, in my life, made a visit without an object," he replied, "but the busiest of men may discover that there are other things in life besides business. I, for example, have discovered that youth, beauty and accomplishments—such as yours—may outvalue wealth and power—such as mine."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Aarons," said Prue, in a moralizing tone. "Youth is fleeting, beauty is but skin-deep and accomplishments—such as mine—are apt to lead their possessor into mischief of more kinds than you wot of."

"Most mischief can be repaired by money," said Aarons insinuatingly, "and what can not be achieved by youth, beauty and accomplishments with unlimited wealth to boot? You, dear Viscountess, have gone far without money. Think what you could aspire to with more than you could spend if you tried your hardest!"

"Why tantalize me with such visions?" cried Prue. Then suddenly recalling the motive of her last visit to the money-lender, she added maliciously, "Sir Geoffrey, according to you, will not be likely to test my extravagance so severely!"

"Sir Geoffrey!" he exclaimed, with a frown. "He is no match for your ladyship. You have but to wait a few weeks for the dissolution of Parliament to see him luxuriously lodged in his town mansion of the Queen’s Bench. Be warned by me, Viscountess, unless you wish to share his lodging."

"You mean that I, also, may be arrested for debt?" she retorted with disdain. "If I remember aright, you threatened me with the debtors’ prison t’other day."

"I threatened you, Lady Prudence!" cried Aarons, in a horrified tone. "Never, never! Besides, your debts to me are amply secured, and my confidence in your prospects is so great that I came to-day expressly," he drew a morocco case from his breast-pocket, "to restore the necklace you left in my care. Your court toilets must need diamonds to set them off, though _you_ do not, and it is a pity to keep this hidden any longer in my strong-box, where there are many—and still finer ones, waiting to adorn the loveliest of her sex."

As he spoke, he opened the case and displayed a necklace of fine diamonds, Prue’s wedding-gift from her father-in-law, the Earl of Overbridge. At this sight, her eyes sparkled more brightly than the gems, and her hand involuntarily stretched out toward the glittering thing.

Aarons watched her with a sardonic smile, in which triumph and admiration contended with his innate contempt for feminine weakness, and thrusting the casket into her hands, said, in a voice far less harsh than usual, "It is yours. Only let me have the pleasure of seeing you wear it."

The softening of his tone roused Prue with a sort of shock. The scorn and repulsion with which she had listened to Aarons’ first declaration revived, made sharper by an unfamiliar touch of shame, and she withdrew her hand as though the gift had stung her. Then, swift as thought, a bright glow and sparkle sprang into her face, and she darted from the room, leaving Aarons transfixed with amazement.

He was still in the same position—leaning forward with the open jewel-case in his outstretched hand—when she fluttered back, radiant and breathless, and dropped into her seat behind the table with a laugh of glee.

"Pardon my discourtesy, my good Mr. Aarons," she cried. "You took me somewhat by surprise; I was not prepared for so much forethought. Tell me, was it not two hundred guineas you lent me upon that necklace?"

"Yes—but—" began the usurer.

"One moment," Prue quickly interposed: "I am hopelessly stupid about such matters, but even I know that there is interest to pay for that loan. Please tell me how much? Another hundred pounds, perhaps, or—"

"I don’t know how much," Aarons interrupted bruskly. "This is not a matter of loan and interest."

"Oh! pardon me, I think it is," said Prue, drawing up her slender neck with a vast access of dignity. "I am charmed to have my diamonds once more—God he knows for how long!" and she took the jewel-case from Aarons’ unresisting hand. "And here, my good sir, are three hundred pounds; if I am still in your debt, let me know and I will pay you some other day."

She placed three of Robin’s bank-notes before him, and lifting the necklace from its velvet bed clasped it about her throat.

"There!" she cried, facing Aarons with a bewitching smile. "Now you can have your wish: I have put it on so that you can see me wear it!"

"It is a sight I shall always remember with admiration," said Aarons, recovering his self-command with the ease of long practice, "and I will leave it to your mirror’s reflection to remind you that I only await a word from you to place my fortune at your feet."

"Ah!" sighed Prue, "if it were only a question of your fortune! Must you go, Mr. Aarons?" for he had risen, and hat in hand, was already bowing himself out.

"Unfortunately, I am much pressed for time, Viscountess, so I am reluctantly compelled to take my leave; but I trust not for long. Fare you well." And he was gone, leaving the bank-notes where she had placed them on the table.

In the hall he found James engaged in an altercation with a red-faced person in shabby black of a quasi-clerical cut. This individual was not precisely drunk, but most evidently not very sober, and the voice in which he expressed his intention of seeing and speaking with the Viscountess Brooke—if he had to wait until midnight—was very husky and rather bellicose.

"If I can not see the Lady Brooke, I’ll wait and see Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert," he insisted, as James reiterated the utter impossibility of such a visitor to any member of the family.

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert does not live here," replied James loftily. "You had better call at his house."

The tipsy gentleman leered in a most impertinent fashion. "I’m a good deal more likely to find him at Lady Brooke’s house than his own," he observed confidentially.

A hand was placed on his arm, and turning with a nervous start, he found the harsh gaze of Mr. Aarons bent sternly upon him.

"Parson Goodridge! you here and in this condition?" exclaimed the money-lender.

"Me here? Well, so are you!" hiccoughed the reverend gentleman. "Who the devil would expect to find old ’shent-per-shent’ in a lady’s boudoir?"

"I am frequently in places where you would least expect to meet me," said Aarons, with a scowl at the other’s tipsy familiarity. "But this meeting is opportune; I want a few words with you, and as you will gain nothing by waiting here, you may as well come with me."

Goodridge hesitated and made an abortive attempt to wriggle out of the usurer’s firm grasp.

"You can’t do anything to me," he said at last, in a resigned tone. "I’m safe in the ’Rules,’ and all the creditors in London Town can not touch me."

However, he made no further resistance, and when they reached the street, Aarons’ manner changed completely. His hand slipped through the parson’s arm with a friendly pressure and his voice lost its grinding harshness.

"Is there no quiet place of entertainment near by, where we can have a little talk—on business?" he inquired. "Pleasant business, Parson; business that may fill your pockets with gold, mayhap; or, if not that, at least will give us a chance to crack a bottle of good wine together."

"You have come to the right man if you are thirsty," replied Goodridge solemnly. "I never drink between meals myself, but there are few places within the pale of civilization, where I can not help a fellow-creature to quench his thirst."

With which exordium, he turned into a narrow lane or mews, at the farther end of which a mean little inn advertised its attractions by a sign from which the device had long since disappeared.

"’Tis better inside than out," the reverend gentleman declared, and he was so far right that the unoccupied coffee-room was cleanly sanded and a bottle of not absolutely poisonous port was soon on the rough wooden table between the oddly assorted couple.

Aarons plied his guest discreetly, while he led up to the subject he wished to discuss. He praised the beauty and charms of Lady Prudence, and congratulated Goodridge on the friendship of a lady so high in the queen’s favor. No doubt her influence would obtain some fat preferment for his reverence? Goodridge winked with great unction, but was not to be drawn by any mere conversational bait.

"My interest in the viscountess is, of course, money," said Aarons, with an air of great frankness; "that is the only interest I have in any of these fine dames. They _will_ gamble at cards, and run into debt; until they get desperate and fly to me with their jewels, to stave off their creditors until luck turns or some wealthy relative leaves them a fortune. Many of them owe me money, and it is my business to see that they do not cheat me out of it. Sometimes it is worth my while to pay well for a little information."

"Sometimes it may pay better to keep a secret than sell it," said Goodridge, with latent boastfulness.

"Unless you are clever enough to make one pay you for keeping it and another for selling it," suggested Aarons. "Not that I want you to sell me any secret of the Viscountess Brooke’s. ’Tis easy for me to know all I want about her affairs. My interest is in her lover, Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."

Goodridge laughed and held out his glass for replenishment.

"Sir Geoffrey, I fear, is not worthy of this lady," said Aarons, passing the bottle over to his guest. "She might make a much better match if she could be prevented from marrying him. It would suit me better to have her marry a rich man who could pay her debts, you understand, than one such as Sir Geoffrey, who is himself only kept out of prison by being in Parliament. Now, it is more than likely that such a gay gallant has many a little entanglement or intrigue or what not, that it would be useful for me to know about, and any one who could serve me by discovering some such irregularity would do a true kindness to the lady and help himself at the same time."

Goodridge laughed again, and emptying his glass, refilled it and held it with an unsteady hand between his bleary eye and the dim window. Aarons watched him with a wry smile, patient and sardonic, looking for the psychological moment when his lips would unclose under the influence of the repeated bumpers.

"Boy," he called to the attendant, "another bottle; shall it be the same, Parson?"

"This is fair, but they’ve a better one," replied Goodridge, smacking his lips.

"Bring us a bottle of the best you have," Aarons ordered, and when it came, he filled both glasses and proposed the health of the beautiful viscountess, and a rich husband for her.

Again Goodridge laughed, and this time with such rapturous glee that Aarons was quite confounded.

"What a merry fellow you are, Parson," he grunted; "I’d give a guinea to know what you are laughing at."

"A guinea!" cried Goodridge. "You would give more than that, I’ll warrant. Why, I was thinking that there’s no more chance for Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert than there is—for—_you_, for example—or me!"

"You think not?" queried Aarons, passing over the personal application of the remark with a mental reservation.

"I _know_ it," said Goodridge, with tipsy solemnity. "I’ll take my oath on it."

"Your oath may be priceless," said Aarons, "but I can only _pay_ for proof."

"And what," said Goodridge, setting down his empty glass, "may you be willing to pay for proof that Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert can not marry the Lady Prudence?"

Aarons eyed him warily. "I have a judgment against you, Parson, for forty-three pounds and costs. I will vacate the judgment and give you—five guineas. ’Tis a liberal offer for—I know not what."

For answer, the reverend gentleman leaned across the table, and extending his right hand within a few inches of Aarons’ nose, snapped his fingers half-a-dozen times.

"That for your judgment!" he shouted truculently. "I’m in the Rules for life and you can neither keep me in nor let me out. Why, man, I’ve a score of judgments against me, and if you vacated yours, I should be no better off; nay, worse, for it might remind the creditors who have long since forgotten me. No, no, most excellent money-lender, my secret may be worth nothing or it may be worth much, but only cash can buy it—ready cash!"

Aarons, with a scowling brow, reflected. Was it worth a large sum to break off the match between those two headstrong young people? If Goodridge was to be believed the marriage was impossible, and no expenditure of his beloved gold was needed to prevent it. On the other hand, the triumph of proving to Prue some hidden treason of Sir Geoffrey’s allured him, and the possibility that she might avenge herself by taking another and wealthier husband, included the probability of that other husband being the one to enlighten her and offer himself as the ready instrument of retaliation.

"I will give you ten guineas, cash," he said, after a pause.

"When you know my secret, you will think it cheap at ten times ten guineas," said Goodridge.

Aarons rose and began to button his surtout. "I see," he said, "that we are not like to agree, and as my time is valuable you will excuse me if I leave you to finish the bottle alone." As he spoke, he allowed some loose coins to rattle in his pocket, and in paying the reckoning, pulled out a handful of golden guineas and tossed one to the waiter.

The sight of the money produced the effect he had expected. Goodridge’s moist eyes glistened and his lips pursed themselves greedily. "Sit down, Aarons," he said thickly, "and have a parting glass."

With an air of reserve and ill-humor, the usurer poured a small quantity of wine into his glass and without resuming his seat nodded to his guest, and muttering something that might have been either a toast or a malediction, sipped it with a deprecatory expression.

"Come now," said Goodridge, after waiting vainly for him to renew the negotiations; "what is it really worth to you to stop this marriage?"

"It may not be worth a great deal to me," said Aarons carelessly, but he sat down; "you never can account for women’s vagaries. If I get her out of this affair, she may do worse instead of better."

"She can’t do worse," chuckled Goodridge. But Aarons had not the key to his merriment and all his suspicions were centered on some unpardonable misdeed of the bridegroom elect.

"Were you going to tell her so when I met you at her house?" he inquired, smiling grimly. "What do you expect to get from her?"