Part 6

Robin mechanically took up the papers the parson had laid on the table, and read out the names from the marriage license. "Robert Gregory de Cliffe," he nodded approval and glanced further down. "Prue, widow of James Stuart Brooke and daughter of Reginald Wynne and Anne Drumloch, his wife." All the titles had been eliminated, and there was nothing to show that the bride was not of plebeian origin. Robin smiled slightly. Was it worth while to be mysterious with a man virtually dead? He recalled that Peggie had made him promise to keep his marriage with "my lady" a secret, but it was apparent that he was not to be trusted with more of the secret than was absolutely necessary.

"It is quite correct," he said, laying the paper down.

"Then let us proceed to business. Master Goodridge, pray do your office quickly. Let us have no homilies on the duties and pleasures of matrimony"—Sir Geoffrey laughed maliciously—"but make the ceremony brief and binding. We will not intrude on your privacy," he added, turning to Robin, "any longer than is necessary."

"I am ready," said Robin curtly.

The ceremony was quickly performed. Robert Gregory and Prudence duly accepted each other as man and wife for all the vicissitudes of their mortal life, severally vowed love, honor and all the rest of it, pledged themselves by the giving and receiving of a ring, to share each other’s worldly goods, and finally received the blessing of the church, borne on the gin-flavored breath of Parson Goodridge.

A short ten minutes having sufficed to make the Viscount Brooke’s widow the highwayman, Robin Freemantle’s, wife, the parson pocketed his dog-eared book, also a generous fee from the bridegroom, and took his departure.

"Do not forget to keep your own counsel," Sir Geoffrey warned him. "This has been a good morning’s work for you, Master Goodridge, and there is better to come when your testimony is wanted, if the secret be well kept."

"I shall keep it, never fear; I shall keep it," mumbled the degraded creature, already drunk in anticipation of the glorious possibilities of a pocket so unusually well lined. "A secret is the only thing I have ever learned to keep."

And he disappeared, chuckling at his own wit.

"Now," said Sir Geoffrey, turning to Prudence with a smile, "all that remains is the pleasant ceremony of congratulating the bridegroom and saluting the bride, and then we had better be going."

Prue was standing a little apart, with down-cast eyes and a certain trouble in her pensive face, that almost foretokened tears. She drew back a step at Sir Geoffrey’s words, and put up her hand, palm-outward.

"Let us have no more mockery," she said coldly. "We have made ourselves quite contemptible enough, without further buffoonery. So far from congratulating the bridegroom, we should do better to apologize to him." She stamped her foot slightly but positively, as he seemed disposed to persist. "As to the bride, sir, for once she is in no humor for folly. Be kind enough to take my cousin out and find a chair for her; then you can return and see me to my carriage."

"And leave you here?" he exclaimed.

"Where else would you leave me?" she retorted, in a jeering tone. "Are you afraid to leave me with my _husband_?"

Sir Geoffrey would still have lingered to remonstrate, but Peggie, whose ready sympathy divined her cousin’s motive, placed her hand within his arm, and drawing her veil closely over her face, announced herself ready for departure.

"The gentleman is not _my_ husband," she remarked demurely. "It would scarcely be proper to leave _me_ alone with him, and you can not escort us both at once."

But when they were alone, the words of extenuation Prue intended to speak, seemed hard of utterance. There was a little lump in her throat, and she could think of no commonplace form of excuse that seemed to fit the occasion. Robin gazed at her as though he wished to fill his whole soul with her image. Yet, although they were scarcely twenty inches apart, he made no attempt to touch her.

"_Morituri te salutant_," he said, with a curious mingling of irony and tenderness in his voice. "Accept the blessing of a dying man."

"Oh! poor soul—must thou really die?" sighed Prue, at last raising her eyes, filled with tears.

At the sight of those sweet, dewy eyes, the newly made husband thrilled in every nerve. "If those tears are for me, sweet Prudence," he said, "death is not so hard to bear."

"’Tis sad; indeed, I would I could do aught to comfort thee!" she murmured, half turned away, yet lingering.

A dark flush swept his cheek. "I could tell you, if I dared, how to make me forget everything but—yourself," he said.

"If you dared!" She flashed an arch glance at him. "On Bleakmoor, you were not so—so ceremonious, Sir Highwayman. Ask me for what you please. My powers are limited, but I will gladly do what I can to console you."

"An’ thou wouldst really comfort me, kiss me once, as though I were thy real husband and thou lovedst me." He held out his arms to her, with such prayer and such insistence in his eyes, that Prue, startled, hung back an instant, and then, half involuntarily, drooped toward him, and permitted herself to be clasped in his passionate embrace.

When she drew herself away, her cheeks were rosy-red and her eyes cast down. But Robin, transferring his lips to her hand, fell on his knees before her.

"Oh!" he softly uttered, "I can bear to die now. Death itself can not rob me of your kiss."

"Then you forgive me for—marrying you?" she said.

"Forgive you! Oh! if you had killed me, I could have blessed you, but would not have presumed to think of pardon," he passionately breathed, "and now—" Words failed, and his lips finished the invocation on her hand.

She placed her other hand gently on his bowed head, and pressing it back, stooped and kissed him on the forehead. It was as pure and tender a caress as a mother could have bestowed on her sleeping babe, but it touched both hearts as the most passionate embrace of love could not have done. It was a farewell benediction.

Not another word was spoken, and when Sir Geoffrey returned, Prue allowed him to wrap her in her cloak and hood and lead her away, without even a backward glance at Robin, who, as soon as the door had closed behind them, threw himself on the floor where she had stood, and gave way to an ecstasy of recollection, none the less delicious because there was no future to discount its bliss.

When at last he rose to his feet, he gathered up the manuscript at which he had worked since daylight, and tore it into fragments.

"Since my death will benefit her, I will not attempt to live," he exclaimed. "She has paid for my life in full and with interest, and I’ll not cheat her of her bargain."

He sat down, and on his last remaining sheet of paper, wrote a short letter.

"FRIEND STEVE:

"As soon as I am dead and according to your promise (in which I have all confidence), buried, as we agreed together, you will take the iron box you wot of and convey it to Mistress Prudence Brooke, to whom I bequeath it, to do whatever she will with the contents. I do not know where this lady lives, but you can easily discover her, as she is of the court and a lady of title, being besides of a beauty so incomparable, that by it alone you can trace her.

"Do not grieve after me. We must all die, and I have ridden so often with Death on the pillion, that we are old comrades. Besides, I have reasons that you wot not of for welcoming him as a benefactor to others besides

"Your friend, "ROBIN FREEMANTLE."

He was sealing this missive, when the cell-door opened, and a man of grave and imposing appearance was ushered in.

"I am Lord Beachcombe’s attorney," he announced himself, "and at his command, I come to confer with you about the strange statement you made to him yesterday. He has given me his full confidence, and empowered me to make terms with you, if I find it advisable."

*CHAPTER X*

*THE FOLLY OF YESTERDAY*

Prue came home late that afternoon, in the wildest of spirits. Her return to society had been a genuine triumph, and even her enemies and detractors, who had been successful in ousting her from royal favor and keeping her in disgrace for a year or more, had been compelled to join in the chorus of welcome and feign, if they did not feel, a decent pleasure in her reinstatement.

Lady Drumloch, who was still unable to leave her room, as soon as she heard Prue’s voice, despatched Lowton with a message, commanding her granddaughter to repair instantly to her and give a full account of the day’s adventures.

"Can you picture the effect, if we obeyed her to the letter?" whispered Peggie. "I wonder how she would take the announcement of your—" Prue clapped her hand quickly over her mouth, at which Peggie indulged in a convulsion of silent laughter, indicating by signs and gestures the triumphant sense of power conferred on her, by the knowledge of her cousin’s tremendous secret.

Checking her exuberance by an imperious glance, Prue followed Lowton into the sick-room, where the old lady reclined on a couch, near a bright fire. A look of real delight sparkled in the old lady’s eyes when they fell upon Prue’s graceful figure and animated face.

"Come hither, child," she cried; "kiss me and let me bless thee. Truly, Prudence, thou dost often vex my pride with thy follies, but thou dost always charm my eyes. What said the duchess to you? Did she chide?"

"No such thing, dear Grandmother. I have heard no word to-day but dear Prue this; sweet Lady Prue that. Her grace kissed me on the cheek and cried out how pleasant it was, for once, to be able to kiss a face fresh from nature, without having to pick out a spot where the paint and powder were not thick enough to poison one. And I’m not surprised, for half the women there were plastered so thick, ’twas like a frescoed wall, and one looked to see it crack when they smiled. The duchess was not much better herself; but she was all smiles and affability, and all my intimate enemies took the cue and overwhelmed me with flatteries, and Lord Ripworth lisped out, ’Gad, Viscountess, nothing happier than your return has occurred in three months. We have been so dull, that we have taken to religion as a diversion; now your ladyship has come back to court, we shall, at least, have something to talk about."

"The varlet! His mother was a chambermaid, and if people did not talk about her, it was because anything that could be said was too gross for utterance. I trust you set him down thoroughly."

"Oh! no; I was bent on showing how amiable I had grown in the country. I only remarked that whatever he might talk about, I had never heard him accused of saying anything of consequence. There was a large party to dinner, and I heard all the gossip. First, Lady Beachcombe has presented her spouse with a son and heir."

"’Tis your own fault, Prudence, that such an event is naught but gossip to you," said Lady Drumloch severely.

"Oh! la, la! no one can accuse me of an envious disposition," laughed Prue. "Lady Beachcombe is welcome to all the honors of her position. I would not have changed places with her this afternoon for a dukedom, to say nothing of the privilege of nursing Lord Beachcombe’s heir."

"Perhaps ’tis all for the best," the old lady conceded. "The present earl is a turn-coat, like his father, who came of a loyal stock, and was so devoted to the throne that he offered his allegiance to every successive usurper of it. I would rather see you married to an honorable Jacobite, who could use your influence at court for the cause of King James the Third."

"The De Cliffes are all _mauvais sujets_, are they not?" queried Margaret innocently.

"No, child, there have been De Cliffes as loyal as the Drumlochs and Wynnes; De Cliffes who were worthy to aspire to the hand of a woman whose forefathers laid down their lives for Charles the Martyr. Unfortunately, of late generations, the scum has risen to the top in more families than the Beachcombes."

"Well, dear Grannie, as you think so ill of Lord Beachcombe, ’tis as well, perhaps, that circumstances prevented my marrying him, and left me free for at least one more season to enjoy life," said Prue; "and truly, never had I better reason to value my freedom than to-day."

"You have not told us yet what you did this afternoon," cried Peggie, to whom her cousin’s triumphs always gave intense and unselfish enjoyment.

"After dinner, the duchess dismissed her guests, and accompanied by Lady Limerick and myself, drove to Kensington Palace, where we had audience of the queen. Her Majesty was extremely gracious, and appeared to have forgotten all my peccadilloes. She inquired if I still played the guitar, and when I sang one or two ballads composed by Herr Haendel—whose music is now quite the rage—was pleased to observe that I must come to Windsor in the summer, and sing to her in the twilight. After that we played basset. ’Twas a dull finish to the day, for the queen fell asleep and nobody dared waken her, so the game was not very lively."

"If you go to Windsor, ’twill be as lady-in-waiting, surely," said Peggie.

"The duchess will do her utmost for me, but she is less powerful than formerly. Mrs. Masham, whom she placed about the queen’s person to further her interests, has completely secured the queen’s confidence, and means to use it to her own profit. I think the duchess would like to use me to check Mrs. Masham."

"Sarah Churchill would scarcely be so gracious to any one she did not expect to serve her in some fashion," said Lady Drumloch. "Well, my dear, I wish thee good fortune. Be wise this time, and do not let thy wild spirits wrong thee."

Prue became suddenly pale as death. "’Tis late in the day for me to become wise," she said, in a low, wild voice. "Oh! Grannie, Grannie, I’m afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble, and the worst of me is yet to come!"

The old lady raised herself on her arm, and gazed with a look of terror into Prue’s disturbed face. "What have you done, child? Let me hear the worst at once!"

"’Tis nothing," interposed Peggie, putting her arm round her cousin, and drawing her gently but forcibly away. "She is excited and overwrought, and methinks she has quarreled with Sir Geoffrey—"

"Is that all?" ejaculated Lady Drumloch, sinking back with a laugh that ended in a groan of pain. "I’ll forgive that easily enough; he is no choice of mine, and now Prudence is back at court, ’tis odd if she can not do better than marry a bankrupt baronet."

"Better or worse," cried Prue passionately, "I’ll never marry him; I’d rather marry a—a highwayman."

Peggie gave her arm a vicious pinch, but the comparison was so monstrously improbable, that Lady Drumloch did not deign to take any notice of it.

"You were very much in love with Sir Geoffrey a week ago," she remarked austerely, "but your fickleness appears to have no limit."

"Dear Grandmother!" exclaimed Prue, recovering her self-control, "’tis not fickleness, but simply the result of sound reasoning. I love certain qualities, and while I believed Sir Geoffrey possessed them, I loved him for their sake. I am still faithful to the thing I love; but, unfortunately, Sir Geoffrey has it not, at least, not enough of it for me. But let us not despair; the Duchess of Marlborough is determined to marry me off, and has been graciously pleased to select a husband for me."

"Indeed, and who may he be?"

"I know not; his name is still a secret. I have, indeed, a suspicion that it may be Lord Beachcombe’s new-born heir, for she remarked that by the time her choice was ready for presentation to me, I might perhaps be settled down, and sobered sufficiently to make a tolerable wife-of-sorts!"

Peggie, watching her cousin closely, came to the conclusion that she was talking nonsense to keep herself from thinking, and at the first opportunity, coaxed her out of the room and away from the danger of betraying herself to Lady Drumloch, whose keen wits and close observation were the more to be dreaded, the less she displayed them.

As a result of the report of Prue’s return to court, and her flattering welcome there, the shabby little drawing-rooms of her grandmother’s house were crowded that evening and all next day, by those who hastened to offer congratulations and make excuses for neglect that she was too thorough a woman of the world to resent. The throng of courtiers found her, indeed, most accessible. She had a jest and a compliment and a friendly word for every one. Arch glances and enchanting smiles fell alike on friend and foe; perhaps more especially on the latter, as Prue, for once, attempted to follow her grandmother’s instructions, and be wise!

Long after midnight, the tired girls performed the last sweeping curtseys to their parting guests, and leaving the yawning James to extinguish the lights, crawled wearily up the long, narrow stairway to their attic bedrooms. Peggie, bursting with long-suppressed curiosity, offered her services to unlace her cousin from the stiff prison of whalebone and buckram in which her slender form had been encased for so many hours, and unpin the luxuriant curls and puffs from the cushion upon which the hair-dresser had disposed them early in the morning. Prue sighed with relief as Peggie, regardless of her own fatigue, removed the monstrously high-heeled shoes and filmy silken hose, and rubbed her cramped feet until they ceased to tingle and smart with the restored circulation, but vowed she was too tired to talk, and, moreover, had nothing to tell but what Peggie already knew.

"What said Robin, when we left you alone?" Peggie whispered. "Did I keep Sir Geoffrey long enough finding me a chair? I sent three away before I could be satisfied that the chair was clean and the chairman sober."

"Long enough for all we had to say," said Prue pettishly. "Do you suppose we were exchanging vows of eternal fidelity, or arranging for our next meeting?" Then, pathetically, "If you were as tired as I am, Peggie, you would rather be in bed than gossiping, and to-morrow we are going to Lady Limerick’s drum, and the play afterward, and want to look our prettiest; so kiss me, dear coz, and get thee to bed."

Nor was she more communicative the next day. From early morning, the house was besieged by a procession of apologetic tradesfolk, eager to explain away their threatening letters and dunning messages, and placing themselves and their wares at the disposal of the reinstated favorite. No talk now of the Fleet and the sponging-house—no more writs and suits—nothing but dapper tailors and coquettish milliners’ assistants, suave jewelers and mysterious, ill-shaven foreigners with dirty parcels from which they extracted, under vows of secrecy, laces from France or Flanders, or embroideries from the distant Indies, such as might have tempted the most austere of Eve’s daughters to break at least one of the ten commandments.

And in the midst of all this excitement, Lady Prue flitted, bubbling over with mirth and triumph. Her bright presence lighted up the sick-room, and under its influence, Lady Drumloch declared she would be carried down-stairs on Sunday to receive callers, and that before a week was over, she would be strong enough to drive to Kensington Palace and pay her respects at the queen’s next drawing-room. She bade Peggie fetch her jewel-casket and try the effect of her antiquated diadems and brooches upon herself and Prue, and spent an hour or two deciding which of them the emeralds would best become, and which one ought to have the amethysts. Finally, however, the matter was left undecided, and except that she bestowed the promised pearls upon Prue and a filagree bracelet upon Margaret, the casket was relentlessly restored intact to its hiding-place.

All day long, Peggie watched her cousin, without being able to detect the faintest sign of compunction, or even recollection of the folly of yesterday and the tragedy that would crown it in a few hours. At Lady Limerick’s drum, she led the scandal and laughter, as of old, and at the play, sat in her modest little box with Margaret beside her, and an ever-changing crowd of beaux behind her chair. Sir Geoffrey came late, and had scarcely time to greet her, when a message called her to the Duchess of Marlborough, in whose box she spent the rest of the evening.

He did not venture to follow there, uninvited, so it was not until the play was over that he found an opportunity to address her. He was waiting at the carriage door to hand her in, and without giving her time to object, followed and took his seat beside her.

"Do you not see my cousin sitting with her back to the horses?" inquired Prue, in the most freezing tone, as she drew herself as far as possible from him.

"Pardon my inadvertence, Miss Moffat!" he exclaimed, in a tone less gracious than his words, and bouncing over to the other seat in a great hurry.

"Never mind me," said Peggie, stifling a laugh. "I prefer the front seat."

"So much the better for me," remarked Prue, coolly spreading out her voluminous skirts. "Did you see the _Spectator_ to-day, Sir Geoffrey? No? You must read it; the article about Lady Beachcombe and the new heir will make you die of laughing. You were too late, I think, to see the beginning of Mr. Congreve’s new play; how do you like the end? Very sentimental, isn’t it?"

"I can not say I noticed it," said Sir Geoffrey sulkily; "I was thinking of other things."

"Then why come to the play to think of other things?" she inquired innocently. "’Tis an ill compliment to Mr. Congreve."

"When Lady Prudence Brooke is present, Mr. Congreve can not expect to attract much attention," said Sir Geoffrey, with an effort to recover his customary gallant bearing. "Do not blame me too severely if I am unable to keep my thoughts from you, even at the play, dearest Prue."

As they arrived in Mayfair at this moment, Prue was spared the effort of a retort. Peggie, alighting first, ran into the house, leaving Sir Geoffrey to escort her cousin, but at the door of the drawing-room Prue stopped.

"I am very tired, Sir Geoffrey," she said, attempting to withdraw her hand from his clasp, "and must beg you to excuse me this evening. My cousin Margaret will entertain you."

"She will do nothing of the sort," said a laughing voice from above; "Cousin Margaret is on her way to bed!"

"Then I will ask you to excuse me, Sir Geoffrey, if I follow Peggie’s example. I have lost the habits of gay London life, and two days of it have made me almost sick with fatigue."

"Give me but five minutes," he entreated, "and I swear I’ll detain you no longer." He opened the door as he spoke and led her into the room, in which a single lamp, turned low, emphasized the darkness.

She stood facing him without a word. Suddenly he tried to take her in his arms, but she repulsed him with a gesture almost of horror. "You forget, Sir Geoffrey," she said, "that I am the wife of another man."

He laughed ironically. "Is it possible that you are taking this farce seriously? I feared I had had the misfortune to offend you, and am relieved to find that nothing worse has come between us than Robin Freemantle."

"That is enough for the present," she said. "While one man can call me wife, all other men must keep their distance."

"Even your betrothed lover, Prudence?" he pleaded reproachfully.

"You more than any one," she replied resolutely. "Without you, I could not have married this unfortunate man, and you should, at least, respect the wife you helped him to."

"Heaven give me patience!" he cried, exasperated. "Do you really look upon yourself as the wife of this gallows-bird? Pray, do you propose to don widow’s weeds on Monday?"