Part 17

"That’s my business," he retorted. "But I wasn’t going to offer _her_ any secrets for sale. Oh! no, the Lady Prudence is my good friend, and if I need a few guineas, she’s too kind-hearted to refuse me."

Suddenly it dawned upon Aarons that there was something sinister in the situation; a woman like the Viscountess Brooke was not the friend of such a miserable wretch for mere kindliness. He felt that whatever the price, he must know the whole truth, if this man could be induced to tell it.

"Will you take twenty guineas for your fine secret?" he asked with a sneer.

"No, but I’ll take fifty and give you full value," said Goodridge. "I haven’t the proofs here, but I’ll tell you the secret for half the money and you shall give me the rest, when I give you the proofs. It’s a loss to me," he half-whimpered, "for if I kept the secret and used it right, I might live well on it as long as it remained a secret."

Aarons counted out twenty-five gold coins upon the table, and covered them with his hand. "Now," he said, "there is half your price, and if you can give me a satisfactory reason why Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert can not, by any possibility, marry Lady Prudence Brooke, that money is yours, and as much more when I have your proofs. But if you are deceiving me, beware! I am not a man to be trifled with."

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert can not marry Lady Prudence Brooke for the very good reason that she is already married," Goodridge whispered, leaning across the table with his mouth at Aarons’ ear.

The usurer started back and his face became black with fury. "Lady Prudence married!" he exclaimed.

"Sh-sh-sh!" Goodridge glanced round apprehensively; "don’t blurt it out for the whole town to hear. Yes, she is married. I myself performed the ceremony."

"You performed the ceremony!" muttered Aarons, with increasing anger and amazement. "Tell me the whole story; whom did she marry, and when?"

"Is it worth the money?" asked Goodridge, leering at his scowling face. Aarons pushed the twenty-five guineas across the table with quick impatience, and the other picked them up, counted them and stowed them in his pocket, before continuing.

"I married her less than a week ago," he then went on. "The wedding took place in Newgate Prison, and the bridegroom was Robin Freemantle, the highwayman. Now you know as much as I do."

"You lie, you damned scoundrel!" roared Aarons, beside himself with rage. "This is an invention to rob me. You think to get my money for a tissue of lies and then laugh at me for a credulous fool! A woman who could pick and choose among a dozen titles and fortunes many a felon in jail! If this is a joke, it is a dangerous one, Mister Parson, as you will find unless you return my money and make me a humble apology."

Goodridge had risen to his feet and, considerably sobered by this unexpected outburst, faced the infuriated man, pale beneath his vinous flush.

"Did you think to get such a secret as that from me and then rob me of the price?" he stuttered. "I swear by the Cross you accursed Jews despise, that I have told you the truth. Last Friday I married Prudence, widow of James Stuart Brooke," he sank his voice to a whisper, "to the highwayman, then under sentence to be hanged last Monday."

A gleam shot across Aarons’ face. "Hanged last Monday!" he exclaimed. "Why, then, she’s a widow again."

"That’s what she expected to be, I’ll be sworn," said Goodridge, with great significance. "But I said _under sentence_. That sentence was not carried out. He was reprieved and set at liberty, and my lady is still his wife."

A dark frown furrowed the usurer’s brow. Before his eyes rose the vision of the beautiful object of his desire, with the diamonds he had thought to buy her with around her milky throat and the banknotes he had refused in payment lying unregarded on the table. He ground his teeth in impotent fury to think how he had been the dupe of his own fatuity, and a savage longing rose in him for revenge upon the disdainful beauty, whose astounding caprice had placed her out of his reach.

Tipsy as Goodridge was, he had been crafty enough to hold his tongue about Sir Geoffrey’s part in the transaction, therefore it was not unnatural that Aarons’ thoughts should turn to his erstwhile rival as a fit instrument of Prue’s humiliation. To expose her, degrade her and, if possible, ruin her socially, he would spare neither money nor skill, but he felt himself unfit for the task; the blow from his hand might recoil upon himself and leave her unscathed. Besides, his ideas were, for the moment, too chaotic, and he was not the man to weaken his purpose by undue haste.

With a tremendous effort of his iron will, he subdued all outward expression of anger, and even called up a smile of grim amusement. Once more rising from the table, he bade his companion adieu without any further allusion to the twenty-five guineas, much to the reverend scamp’s relief.

"Take my advice, Parson, and keep a silent tongue in your head," he remarked. "_I_ will keep your secret, because it will not serve me to betray it, but if you take many more into your confidence, you may get into trouble."

With which he strode away, leaving Goodridge to the congenial society of the half-empty bottle.

*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 the _qui vive_.

There was no gathering of wits and beauties to-night, however. The room (which took its name from the mythological paintings with which the ceiling and walls were decorated) was brightly lighted, but unoccupied, and in the small conservatory opening out of it, at a little table set for two among the banks of blossoming plants and cages of bright-hued birds, sat Barbara coquetting with Robin Freemantle—highwayman and outlaw!—who was in the very act of raising her hand to his lips when the door opened to admit Prue.

"My dearest Prue—here you are at last—I had almost given up expecting you!" cried Barbara, greeting her with effusion.

"Did you really expect me?" asked Prue, with irrepressible irony. "Meeting you nowhere, I feared you might be indisposed, but I am vastly relieved to find that you reached home without mishap."

"Nothing could be more triumphantly successful than our escape," cried Barbara, gaily ignoring Prue’s loftiness; "and as you see, I am taking excellent care of my captive."

"Dearest Barbara, I know well what an incomparable hostess you are," she replied dryly, "and now that I have seen for myself that you are safe, and not too greatly incommoded by your exploit, I will take my leave, as I am positively sinking with fatigue."

And she made as though to withdraw without deigning a second glance toward Robin, who had risen, and stood there a veritable statue of amazement and mortification.

But Barbara caught her by both hands and drew her to the table. "Nonsense, Prue!" she laughed, "Do you think I am going to let you run off like that? Sinking with fatigue indeed! I’ll warrant you will flutter from ball-room to ball-room for the next two hours if I do not keep you here. Captain de Cliffe and I were about to bore each other to death over a tête-à-tête supper and you have come like a good fairy to preserve us from yawning in each other’s face—(Prue smiled satirically)—at least sup with me, dear Gossip; ’twill rest you more than going home to bed."

"My chair waits—" Prue began, though not without signs of hesitation.

"What matters that? It shall be dismissed and I will send you home in mine."

"The temptation of returning in such state as that is well-nigh irresistible," Prue conceded, feeling that she had been sufficiently coaxed to do what she particularly wanted to do without sacrificing her dignity. She began to unfasten the mantle in which she was enveloped, but when Robin sprang forward to assist her, she allowed it to drop to the floor and walked away, leaving him to pick it up if he pleased.

"You will stay, then," cried Barbara; "that is delightful. I will order another cover and a bottle of your favorite Chambertin, and we will have a little festival to wish your friend _bon voyage_."

And she rustled away; more out of compassion for Robin’s disconcerted aspect than the mere impulse of hospitality.

Prue seated herself behind a bank of flowering shrubs, as far away as the little conservatory would allow, and after a momentary hesitation, Robin followed.

"Have I been so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure, dearest?" he inquired anxiously.

"My displeasure, sir? Certainly not," she replied. "What can it matter to _me_ how many ladies’ hands you kiss?"

At this Robin (who, although a novice in love, was no fool,) was completely relieved. He was even quite elated over the little display of jealousy which proved that Prue was far from indifferent to him. "When I am not with you, dear Prue," he said in a tone of gentle reproach, "my heart is so full of you that it flows over with gratitude to any one who will but utter your name. If you had heard what Lady Barbara was saying about you, you would not have been surprised to see me embrace her feet instead of her hand."

"What did she say?" asked Prue, her curiosity overcoming her petulance.

"She said many things in praise of the dearest of women," said Robin, taking courage to seat himself beside her, "but, best of all, she assured me that not one of all your scores of suitors could boast of half the interest you had shown to-day in the poor outlaw. Do you wonder that I kissed her hand?"

"Barbara is very indiscreet," said Prue, smiling a little. "Besides, she has the most beautiful hands in the world!"

"Are they beautiful? I was thinking too much of her kind words to notice aught else. Yet she warned me that my love for you is hopeless, and indeed she is right. I must leave England in a few hours, perhaps for ever—"

"And what right has Barbara to think our love other than hopeless? She knows nothing about it! I have a good mind," cried Prue, "to tell her all and see what she says then! But no! she would think me a fool for throwing myself away upon a man who loves me so little that he can bear to talk of leaving me for a day, let alone for ever—"

"I love you more than my own life and soul," said Robin, "more than anything except honor and duty; but their call I dare not disobey. My life does not belong to myself, but to the cause of my king, and a felon’s death may end it at any moment. It would be infamous for me to hold you bound by such a marriage as ours—"

"Do you know me so little as to suppose that I would hold myself bound by it if I wished for freedom?" she retorted. "I did think you loved me, but I see it is not so; a man who loved me would fling discretion to the winds and busy himself with plans for keeping me whether I would or no. Out on such scruples! I will not be set free. If there is anything infamous about our marriage, the infamy is mine, and I take the consequences and glory in them. Leave me now, if honor and duty call you. We are young and who knows what may happen? The king who calls you away now, will bring you back in triumph some day, then, perhaps, it may be Beachcombe’s turn to be hunted and driven from his country." Then suddenly remembering the cause of Lord Beachcombe’s fierce pursuit, she brought out the little packet, somewhat crumpled, but otherwise intact. "I had almost forgotten to return this," she said; "I found it after you had escaped by the river on Tuesday and methinks ’tis for this he seeks you."

Robin took the packet and glanced at the superscription. "’Tis indeed this," he exclaimed. "By a miracle it fell into your hands instead of his. Prithee keep it, dear one; there is that in this envelope in exchange for which Beachcombe would give all his earthly possessions, and mayhap, some day when I am not here to protect you, it may be worth much to you to hold the secret that compelled him to take me out of Newgate, and has kept him thirsting for my life ever since."

"I am but a weak woman," said Prue, smiling archly, as she replaced the precious packet in her bosom. "Can you trust me with such a secret?"

"’Tis the secret of my birth," said Robin gravely, "and belongs as much to my wife as to me."

"I discovered that secret for myself this afternoon," Prue began, but Barbara, thinking she had given the lovers ample time to make up their quarrel, now came back on hospitable thoughts intent, and the trio, in a very pleasant mood, sat down to supper.

It was long past midnight, when Prue, after several fainthearted suggestions, at last rose resolutely and announced that she really must go home, and refusing Barbara’s urgent offer of her new sedan-chair, declared she would have Robin’s escort and walk the short distance to Lady Drumloch’s house.

"It will be safer for him to come away now, than to wait until daylight," she said.

"It would be safest, _I_ think, for him to stay here for a few days," Barbara proposed seriously. But the mutinous pout, and glance of arch defiance with which Prue received her suggestion, provoked her to hearty laughter, and she received Robin’s thanks for her protection and the farewells of both her guests with an air of such thorough comprehension, that Prue felt constrained to whisper in her ear, "I will come to confession to-morrow, dear Gossip," and blushingly hurried away on Robin’s arm.

Late as it was, they lingered on the way and managed to eke ten minutes’ walk into forty. Robin had so much to say—so many vows of eternal fidelity to pledge, and such repeated assurances to give of his swift return—that it was not until a near-by church-clock struck two, that Prue quickened her steps a little, and declared with a sigh that the parting moment had really come.

"You will be careful, dear Robin," she pleaded. "Do not run any risks, and if we can not meet again safely before you leave for France, write me by some sure hand, and I will do the same. Remember—I forbid you to attempt to visit me—but oh! I shall count the hours until I see you again."

With the prospect of a long and perhaps fatal parting, their farewells were not soon over; each last kiss was but an excuse for one more, until the tramp of the approaching night-watch warned them of the danger of delay, and Prue tore herself from his arms and without trusting herself to a backward glance, hurried into the house.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*A CONFESSION*

It was Peggie who, after some hours’ anxious watching, opened the door without waiting for Prue’s knock. She had long ago persuaded the sleepy and unreluctant James to retire to bed, and settling herself beside the dim lamp with a book, uncomplainingly resigned herself to a tedious and solitary vigil.

She had passed an evening not without excitement, for her grandmother’s searching and persistent inquiries into Prue’s mysterious behavior were not to be evaded, and some kind of explanation was inevitable. So, ingeniously substituting Captain de Cliffe, the emissary of King James, for Captain Freemantle, the highwayman, Peggie admitted that Prue and he had met "in the North," that after his arrest she had visited him in Newgate Prison, and that although now an outlaw and fugitive, steeped in Jacobite plots and charged with state secrets and compromising documents, he had played an important part in her recovery of the queen’s necklace. In fact, she had contrived, without desperately straining the truth, to surround Robin with an aura of heroism and loyalty that had enlisted the old countess’ sympathy for him, almost to the extent of preparing her to sanction Prue’s marriage.

Having skilfully wrought her up to this point. Peggie had retired, leaving her revelations to work upon Lady Drumloch’s long-dormant but far from extinct passion for the cause which had robbed her of husband, sons and worldly possessions, and left her nothing for the consolation of her declining years but unrecognized devotion to the most ungrateful of dynasties.

Too excited to think of bed, the cousins were still eagerly exchanging confidences, when Prue stopped abruptly and listened. Peggie was hurrying on with her story, but Prue checked her with a warning hand.

"Hark, Peggie, did you hear that? Was it not some one knocking at our door?"

Peggie listened, and the knocking was repeated. She threw open the window, and thrusting her head out, withdrew it after a brief investigation, with the announcement that there was a man in the street, looking up at their lighted window.

"Only one man?" queried Prue. "Can it be Robin?"

"I think not," said Peggie; "it does not seem tall enough—this man is—there is the knocking again—what shall we do?"

"Something has happened to Robin!" cried Prue, hastily throwing a cloak about her. "I must go down and see what is the matter."

"I’ll come with you," cried Peggie, impelled partly by curiosity, and partly by the impulse to protect her cousin. They ran down together, and at the door paused to take counsel. It was no uncommon thing in those days for the "Mohawks" to batter thus at quiet citizens’ doors and mistreat the person who answered their summons, or even, if a woman, to carry her off, shrieking and struggling.

"Who is there?" Prue demanded through the closed door.

"It is I, Steve Larkyn," a voice replied. "Oh! Mistress Brooke, I beseech you open the door; they have taken my master!"

Prue flung the door open, and there stood Steve, ghastly pale in the broad moonlight.

"They have taken your master? Then what are you doing here, alive and unhurt?" she cried passionately.

"Madam, what could one arm, and without a sword, avail against a dozen men, fully armed? The captain had but time to say to me, ’Fly—to Prudence!’—your pardon, but those were his words—when they surrounded him and made him prisoner without a chance to defend himself."

"Oh! dear God!" murmured Prue, covering her face with her trembling hands. "It is my fault; if I had left him with Barbara, he would now be safe. I brought him away to his death for a jealous whim! Where have they taken him?" she demanded, looking at Steve with widely distended eyes. "To Newgate? to the Tower? Tell me and I will go to him and share his prison."

"I don’t know what they mean to do with him," said Steve, "but they were taking him to Lord Beachcombe’s house—"