Part 9

"And no one stopped him? He passed through the constables unchallenged? It is collusion; they shall hang for it. Give me my hat, Perry—"

Samuel flew to obey, and after a brief search, emerged from beneath a table with a somewhat weather-beaten beaver, turned up with a silver buckle.

Beachcombe dashed it from his hand. "That is not mine!" he shouted; "that is the one that fellow wore when he came in. He has left it behind and taken mine; he has used it as a disguise, and those idiots have been taken in by it—" He flung out of the room, and the next minute was heard furiously cursing and berating the crestfallen constables, who, taking him for their long-awaited prey, sprang upon him as soon as he appeared, and but for the speedy interference of Mr. Perry, would have handled him roughly.

The men fell back in confusion as the situation dawned upon them. This the real lord? Then who was the haughty and self-important personage who had ridden away from them so coolly after issuing orders with such an air of authority?

"You shall sweat for this!" cried Beachcombe. "Where is my horse?"

No one seemed able to answer this question. The men glanced from one to another, and the mysterious crowd that springs up from the roadside when there is any excitement, began to collect. Some one suggested that a gentleman in a black hat and feather had been seen riding out of the Square, on a fine chestnut horse, and a murmur from the crowd confirmed the statement.

By this time, Lord Beachcombe had become speechless with rage. He signed to a passing chair, and getting in bareheaded, pulled the curtains close, and departed without a valedictory greeting.

After a visit to Bow Street which gave promise of a warm quarter of an hour to the constables on their return, Beachcombe hurried to his house, overlooking St. James’ Park, to await Samuel’s visit, and concoct plans by which Robin should not only be arrested, but brought to an ignominious and lingering death. Torture was supposed to have been abolished in those days, but treason was still punishable by drawing and quartering, and while the country was still astir with Jacobite plots, the charge of treason might easily be fastened on any man who could not readily account for his comings and goings.

The day passed slowly, for Lord Beachcombe, shut up in his study, gave orders that no visitor should be admitted except the lawyer’s clerk. Once possessor of the proofs—if proofs they were—of the shadow upon his birth, he could set his heel without fear upon the throat of this miscreant who claimed to be his brother. His brother—! his _elder_ brother—! The shrill cry of the baby-heir smote upon his ear, and goaded him to such a madness of impotent fury that if Samuel could have seen him then and known the cause of the furrow on his brow and the blood upon his bitten lip, he might have made his own terms and become rich for life.

In the afternoon, a groom came to say that his lordship’s horse had been brought to the stable by a ragged boy, who had made off before he could be questioned.

"What condition was he in? Had he been ridden fast or far?" Lord Beachcombe inquired eagerly.

"Hadn’t turned a hair, my Lord," was the reply; "might ’a’ been for a canter round the Park."

Beachcombe went to the stable himself to make inspection, but could discover no mark or sign to enlighten the most sharpsighted. "Oh! if you could speak!" he muttered, as he caressed the glossy coat and deer-like head of his favorite. "If you could tell me where you have been these three hours!"

But there was nothing to be learned; not so much as could be shown by a muddy fetlock. If the horse had been out of town, he had been carefully groomed on his return and every trace of travel removed. His master returned to the house, more morose and vengeful than ever, to while away the hours that slowly passed until it was time to dress for the great entertainment at Marlborough House.

When he descended from his wife’s apartments, where he had gone to display himself in his masquerade dress, he was certainly a magnificent and picturesque figure. His costume, of the period of Charles II., was of white satin, profusely trimmed with exquisite lace, and adorned with dazzling orders and jewels. A wig of long curls softened the harsh outline of his face, and a skilful touch of rouge relieved his swarthy pallor and lent a brilliancy to his dark eyes. His resemblance to Robin was remarkable enough then to have struck the most unobservant.

Over his arm he carried a voluminous domino of scarlet silk, and a mask to match dangled from his jeweled fingers.

He was stepping into his carriage, when a little black figure darted in front of him, and Samuel, bowing to the very ground before this gorgeous apparition, besought a word with him.

"Leave him alone," cried Beachcombe, as two or three serving-men stepped forward to sweep this insect from their master’s path. "Have you anything important to say to me?" he eagerly inquired.

"Most important, your worship—I mean your Lordship," replied Samuel. "I’ve got it; only just now, though, and I’ve run every step of the way," and he showed a corner of the letter hidden in his breast.

"Give it to me," said Beachcombe, in a low, concentrated voice, and held out his hand for it. But Samuel hung back.

"My Lord—my Lord—" he stammered, clutching the packet like a drowning man grasping a straw, "will you give me my hundred pounds?"

"What, now; before I see the papers? Besides, I’ve not so much about me," exclaimed Beachcombe. "Why, you imp of the devil, are you afraid to trust me? Here, take my purse and give me that packet. I must have it _now_, do you hear? And come to me to-morrow for your hundred guineas."

And before Samuel could make up his mind what to do, he found himself standing alone with a silken purse, full of golden guineas, in his hand, and the precious packet being whirled away from him in the earl’s chariot.

Lord Beachcombe, with the packet tightly clutched in his hand, gave way to a reverie so pleasant and absorbing that he did not notice a slight additional jar in the jolting of the carriage over the ill-paved street. The cause of the jar was the sudden accession of two outside passengers; one on the box beside the coachman, and the other beside the lackey behind. Each of these functionaries, at the same instant, felt the cold contact of a pistol against his ear, and before they could make any outcry, the carriage was going in a different direction.

A touch of the whip sent the horses forward at breakneck speed. "Keep quiet and you are safe," said the stranger on the box, and in a moment he slipped over the coachman’s head a bag that served both to gag and blindfold him. The same operation was performed simultaneously upon the footman. Very soon, they turned sharply under an archway, and a heavy gate was slammed behind them.

Leaving the coachman on the box, his captor got off and opened the carriage door.

"Descend here, Lord Beachcombe," he said, holding up a lantern, which revealed a tall man in a mask and behind him an open door.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" demanded Beachcombe, fumbling at his sword. The masked man, with very little ceremony, hauled him out of the carriage, and disregarding a strenuous resistance, conducted him into a small room, barely furnished and dimly lighted. He then saw that his assailant was almost as richly dressed as himself, and wore a jeweled star and other decorations of great splendor.

"What am I brought here for?" he asked, in a more subdued tone, for as his fear of robbery subsided in these surroundings, the fact that he had many and bitter enemies rose up before him.

"No harm unless you bring it upon yourself," replied the other. "At worst, an hour or two’s detention and solitude and the loan of your invitation to the duchess’ masquerade."

"Your voice sounds familiar to me," said Lord Beachcombe. "Will you not remove your mask, now that we are alone?" The other hesitated. "Is it worth while to keep up this mystery, Captain Freemantle? You see I recognize you."

"Since you know me, it is not worth while," replied Robin, unmasking. As he did so, Beachcombe whipped out his sword and rushed upon him. Robin had no time to arm himself, but dodging the onslaught with the agility of a cat, closed upon his assailant with a clever wrestling trick that threw him upon his back half-stunned, and before he could recover, had his hands securely tied behind his back with his gold-fringed sash.

"You _would_ have it!" said Robin. "Now I can—" his eye fell upon a packet that had fallen from Beachcombe’s hand, with the superscription upward:

"To Mistress Larkyn, "In care of Mine Hostess of "The Fox and Grapes."

He picked it up and turned it over, examining the unbroken seals, and glancing from time to time at his captive.

"So you found a traitor in the camp," he said, at last. "Let him beware—but, tush! I know who it is; it can be no other than Samuel. I need not interfere with him; he will find his own way to the gallows soon enough. I’m afraid I shall have to search you, my friend. You may as well take it quietly; you know I’m an expert at discovering hidden treasure."

Lord Beachcombe, however, would not submit quietly, so Robin bound him securely to a chair and instituted a rigorous search, which revealed nothing except the emblazoned note of invitation to the ball. So, warning his prisoner that any outcry would lead to rough treatment from those who were left in charge of him, Robin withdrew, taking with him the packet and the invitation, and also Beachcombe’s sword and the lamp, and leaving him to darkness and reflection.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A PAIR OF GLOVES*

When Robin Freemantle left Prue, she ran to the mirror and critically examined her reflection in it.

"What a fright I look!" she exclaimed, "with my hair plastered down and my nose red and swollen. Peggie, I should not be surprised if that man were as disappointed with his bargain as I am with mine."

"You don’t look much like yourself," Peggie admitted frankly. "But even as you are, you must be a great deal prettier than the sort of women a highwayman would be used to."

"Why, Peggie, do you think—do you suppose Robin has women-thieves for friends? Pick-pockets, perhaps—or Gipsies! Yet he looks like a gentleman. Highwaymen are sometimes brave and chivalrous—one hears of their doing generous things—they are not like common malefactors—"

"They get hanged, all the same," said Peggie unthinkingly.

"Oh! Peggie, you wicked, cruel creature; how dare you say such things!" cried Prue indignantly. "Robin hanged! Never, never! I would rather go to the queen and implore a pardon for him on my knees. Peggie, you saw him yourself. He is handsome, is he not, and dignified? He made me feel very much ashamed of myself; yet I hate him! I would I had never set eyes on him! Do you suppose he despises me, Peggie?"

"I shouldn’t think he would have the impudence!" exclaimed Peggie. "A common adventurer, if no worse."

"Adventurer, ’tis true, but which of us is not? Am I not an adventuress, Peggie? Aye, and not so very honest a one either. Say he will rob my Lord Bishop of his wig and my Lord Tomnoddy of his purse; what better do I when I buy what I can not pay for, and marry a man condemned to be hanged in order to cheat my creditors. Oh! my dear Peggie, there are many fine folk with their noses in the air, who can not glance into a mirror without seeing the reflection of an adventurer."

"Not a doubt of it," said Peggie philosophically. "but most people, when they look in a mirror, see nothing there but what they want to see."

"Well, what I see is just the reverse of that," said Prue, casting a dissatisfied glance at her own reflection, as she hurried away to rid herself of her somber dress and release her curls from their unaccustomed bonds. This was hardly accomplished to her satisfaction, when Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert arrived, in a state of great excitement.

"Good morning, fair ladies," he cried, saluting them with less ceremony than usual. "No need to ask whether you have seen this morning’s _Courant_."

"Why not?" inquired Prue innocently.

"Because you look too happy and unconcerned to have heard the disastrous news," he said, with a portentous air. "I grieve to be a harbinger of misfortune."

"You alarm us," cried Prue. "What has happened? Speak!"

"Calm yourself, dearest Prudence, and remember that _I_ will not suffer any harm to come to you." Sir Geoffrey lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper, "The highwayman you wot of has escaped!"

"Is that all?" said Prue, with a shrug; "I thought you had news for us. We knew that an hour ago."

"You knew it? How? Has the villain dared—"

"How did we know it?" Peggie interrupted quickly, to prevent a retort from her cousin. "Why, the same way you did," and she displayed the printed sheet that, adorned with a rude cut of a gallows, gave a minute account of the morning’s executions, adding that the queen’s clemency had been extended to Robin Freemantle, through the influence of powerful friends in _certain quarters_, and that he had left Newgate with _great secrecy_ late Sunday evening.

Sir Geoffrey was greatly vexed at having his surprise discounted. "I’m glad to find you taking it so unconcernedly," he observed, looking anything but glad. "I feared that you would be crushed by such a calamity."

"Did you, indeed, think us bloodthirsty enough to regret the saving of a fellow-creature’s life?" said Prue, with grave reproof. "I hoped that you had a better opinion of our humanity."

"Humanity," echoed the baronet, with ill-dissembled irritation. "Such angelic sentiments well become the cruel beauty whose path is strewn with bleeding hearts. But has my dear Prudence no pity to spare for the unhappy swain, condemned to worse than death by Robin, the highwayman’s, unexpected good luck?"

"On the contrary," laughed Prue, "she congratulates you on your escape; believe me, a far greater piece of luck than Robin’s."

"Do not jest, dear one, I implore you," said Sir Geoffrey seriously. "You certainly have not considered the position this miscarriage of justice has placed you in. Let me lay before you the consequences—"

"Pray, do not," interrupted Prue pettishly. "If I am resigned to the will of Heaven, why persecute me with reasons for rebellion?"

Sir Geoffrey, with his hand upon his heart, bowed to the ground.

"Before such piety, I am dumb," he said. "Is it permitted to ask if you are reconciled to your creditors as well as to the means you took to rid yourself of them?"

"It is not," replied Prue with overpowering dignity. "That is my private affair and I do not care to discuss it, even with Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert. By the by, Sir Geoffrey"—with an entire change of tone and manner—"you always know the latest news; do tell us why Mrs. Tewkesbury has gone home to her father, and whether her husband is going to fight a duel or will merely horsewhip her hair-dresser?"

The conversation drifted into safer channels, and Prue was soon her own bright, frivolous, enchanting self. Other guests dropped in; fashion, scandal, and the duchess’ masquerade were discussed, and Prue had a saucy answer for every compliment and a ready laugh for every jest, and beneath her dainty bodice such a tumult of fear and shame and sharp sense of defeat, and withal such strange, swift stabs of something that was not pain, and yet hurt her more than all the other emotions that quickened her pulse and sent the blood surging through her brain.

It was late in the afternoon, and Prue’s guests were making their adieux, when Robin’s messenger came—a rustic-looking youth with a ruddy complexion and a shock of tow-colored hair. He was dressed like the footboy of a prosperous tradesman, and carried an oilskin covered basket—and of a surety bore no resemblance to the crippled beggar who had followed Robin so persistently on his way to the conference in Lincoln’s Inn.

Yet it was the same man.

With an air of dense stupidity, he evaded such questions as James deigned to put to him, and reiterated his petition for a personal interview with Lady Prudence Brooke, for whom he had a message that was to be delivered to her, and to her alone. James, scenting a discreet but persistent dun, bade him wait in the library, and conveyed his request to Prue with the same air of respectful condolence with which he would have announced any other calamity. Although he disapproved of her youth and frivolity, James would have yielded to none in admiration of his beautiful young mistress, whom he had carried in his arms as a baby and conspired with every other member of Lady Drumloch’s household to indulge, spoil and flatter from the first hour that her blue eyes had opened on a world full of her adorers.

"A young man is waiting below, my Lady. He has a message for you which he will not send up. I told him you were engaged, but he said he would wait until you were at leisure."

"What sort of a young man, James? Does he look as if he came for money?" Prue asked. "You know most of my duns better than I do."

"He is a stranger to me, my Lady, but it is likely he may be a lawyer’s clerk in disguise."

"I will see him, James; bring him up here," she interrupted.

"The hair-dresser is here; shall I tell him to wait?" inquired James.

"No; send him up-stairs. Peggie, go and have your hair dressed first, and by that time I will be ready."

She was alone when the young man was shown in. "You want to see me?" she said, as soon as the door was shut. "You come to fetch something, do you not?"

"The captain told me—" he began, then stopped and stared mutely at her.

"Well, what did the captain tell you?" she demanded impatiently.

"He told me I should see the most beautiful lady in the whole world, and that I should know her for the Lady Prudence Brooke, without asking her name," said the lad.

"Your captain is a fool!" cried Prue. But, try as hard as she might to look indignant, she blushed divinely and a furtive smile played hide-and-seek among her dimples. Of all Prue’s many charms there was none to equal her smile. It was, perhaps, on that account that she smiled often and so maintained a reputation for good-nature that lured many an unsuspecting victim into disaster.

"That he is!" cried the messenger heartily. "For he said he’d done this beautiful lady a great injury, but for all that he would trust his life—and more than that—in her hands. Can any man be a worse fool than to trust a woman so far as that?"

"Said he that, in very truth?" asked Prue, turning very pale.

"Aye, and other things just as foolish," said the man, with the same stupid air of rusticity. "Will it please your ladyship to give me what the captain left with you?"

She brought out the white silken packet from its hiding-place among the laces of her bodice, and held it out to him. "Tell your captain from me," she said disdainfully, "that I scarce know which is the greater fool—he or his messenger."

The man laughed very heartily, and having bestowed the packet safely, opened his basket and took out a parcel and a letter. "The captain bade me present these to your ladyship," he said, and was bowing himself out, when she stopped him hurriedly.

"I forget the captain’s address," she said; "I might want to—to send a message to him."

"Any time your ladyship wants to send to him, a word to Steve Larkyn, at Pip’s Coffee-house, Essex Street, Strand, will find your ladyship’s humble servant, who will be most honored by any commands you lay upon him," said the man. And before she could speak again, had disappeared.

Prue opened the parcel, which contained a long, narrow box of perfumed wood, lined with pink sarsenet. The next moment, she was flying up-stairs, two at a time, in her haste to display the contents to her cousin.

"Look, Peggie, did you ever see anything half so lovely?" she cried, holding out for her inspection a pair of long silk gloves as filmy as a cobweb and exquisitely embroidered with seed-pearls.

Peggie dared not move her head, for the coiffeur was busy with his tongs, but she rolled her eyes round until she saw the gloves, and then rolled them up as far as they would go to emphasize her one word of admiration, "Incomparable!"

Prue drew on one of the gloves. It was so elastic, and yet so clinging, that it clasped her slender fingers like another skin, giving them even a more tapering and delicate appearance than usual. She did not open her letter until she was alone in her own room, and then, tearing off the cover with more eagerness than she would have cared to own, found nothing inside but ten crisp, new Bank of England notes for one hundred pounds each.

She dropped them as though they had been so many adders, and a flush of anger rose to her cheek. "I suppose he has been waylaying and robbing some one!" she said half-aloud, "and hugs himself to think he can buy me with stolen money! Oh! he is just as base as the rest—"

There was a movement in the other room, so Prue snatched up the bank-notes and crumpled them into her jewel-box. Not even to Peggie did she wish to confide this fresh instance of Robin’s turpitude.

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE RED DOMINO*

Fashionable hours were early in the days of Queen Anne, and it was a well-known fact that the imperious Sarah Churchill did not easily pardon the slight of unpunctuality at her entertainments. So by nine o’clock the gorgeous drawing-rooms were well-filled and the steady stream of rank and beauty poured up the great staircase as fast as chariots and chairs could discharge their glittering loads.

The sight was a dazzling one; every nationality, every celebrity was represented. Cardinals paid court to Gipsies, Charlemagne and Henry the Eighth contended for the favor of Helen of Troy, and in front of the dais upon which the duchess stood unmasked, to receive her guests, an endless procession passed, of monks and devils, kings and clowns, swashbucklers, nuns, fairies, princesses, allegorical and mythological personages—a veritable phantasmagoria, in which the mask and domino afforded just as much concealment as the wearer desired, but no more.

A ripple of laughter or a murmur of admiration at frequent intervals announced the arrival of some specially brilliant or humorous masker, and when the crowd was at its densest, a couple approached the dais, followed by a stream of hilarious compliments.

Foremost came Prue, dressed as a shepherdess. Over a skirt of her grandmother’s priceless lace, she wore a Watteau dress of white silk, brocaded with bunches of rosebuds and forget-me-nots, and coquettishly perched upon her luxuriant curls was a little straw hat, adorned with a wreath of roses and a flowing knot of blue ribbon. The pearl-embroidered gloves covered her hands, in one of which she carried a crook all laced with fluttering ribbons, and in the other a silken cord, by which she led Peggie, admirably disguised as a lamb; of gigantic growth, to be sure, but delightfully and gracefully grotesque as she ambled and pranced beside the little shepherdess, who at every other step, stopped to caress and encourage her.

The little procession was so irresistibly funny that the duchess, at first rather disturbed by the rising tide of laughter and applause, as soon as she set eyes upon the cause of it, joined in with the utmost heartiness, and even the queen, who sat beside her in a chair of state, vouchsafed a smile of genuine amusement, rare enough upon the face of that woman of few emotions.

Dancing was going on in the great ball-room, but Prue refused to dance. "I dare not leave my lamb at the mercy of all these wolves," she declared, in a falsetto voice that deceived no one. "Is there no grassy nook where I can repose, while my pet frolics round me?"