The Imprudence of Prue

"Permit your slave——" Page [220].

The Imprudence
of Prue

By SOPHIE FISHER

With Four Illustrations
By HERMAN PFEIFER

A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT 1911
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I [The Price of a Kiss]
II [Lady Drumloch]
III [Sir Geoffrey's Arrival]
IV [The Money-Lender Intervenes]
V [A Widow on Monday]
VI [A Matter of Title]
VII [A Wedding-Ring for a Kiss]
VIII [An Order for a Parson]
IX [The Wedding]
X [The Folly of Yesterday]
XI [The Morrow's Wakening]
XII [The Price of a Birthright]
XIII [The Sealed Packet]
XIV [A Pair of Gloves]
XV [The Red Domino]
XVI [At the Unmasking]
XVII [Lady Barbara's News]
XVIII [The Den of the Highwayman]
XIX [In the Duchess' Apartments]
XX [A Threat and a Promise]
XXI [An Affair of Family]
XXII [In A Chairman's Livery]
XXIII [The Parson Sells a Secret]
XXIV [A Supper for Three]
XXV [A Confession]
XXVI [Preparations for a Journey]
XXVII [A Different Highwayman]
XXVIII [The Dearest Treasure]

THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRUE

CHAPTER I

THE PRICE OF A KISS

"Stand and deliver!"

The words rang out in the gathering darkness of the February evening. The jaded horses, exhausted with dragging a cumbrous chariot through the miry lanes and rugged by-roads of the rough moorland, obeyed the command with promptitude, disregarding the lash of the postboy and the valiant oaths of a couple of serving-men in the rumble.

"Keep still, unless you wish me to blow out what you are pleased to consider your brains," said the highwayman. "My pistols have an awkward habit of going off of their own accord when I am not instantly obeyed—so don't provoke them."

The postilion became as still as a statue and the footmen, under cover of the self-acting pistols, descended, grumbling but unresisting, yielded up their rusty blunderbusses with a transparent show of reluctance and withdrew to a respectful distance, while the highwayman dismounted, opened the carriage door and throwing the light of a lantern within, revealed the shrinking forms of two women muffled in cloaks and hoods.

One of them uttered a shriek of terror when the door was opened and incoherently besought the highwayman to spare two lone, defenseless women.

The highwayman thrust his head in and peered round eagerly, as though in search of other passengers. Then, pulling off his slouch-brimmed hat, he revealed a pair of dark eyes that gleamed fiercely from behind a mask, and as much of a bronzed and weather-beaten face as it left uncovered. Black hair, loosely gathered in a ribbon and much disordered by wind and rain, added considerably to the wildness of his aspect, and the uncertain light of the lantern flickered upon several weapons besides the pistols he carried so carelessly.

"I shall not hurt you, Madam," he exclaimed impatiently. "Your money and jewels are all I seek. I expected to find a very different booty here and must hasten elsewhere lest I miss it altogether by this confounded mishap. So let me advise you to waste neither my time nor your own breath in useless lamentations, but hasten to hand out your purses and diamonds."

"We have neither, Mr. Highwayman," said the other lady in a clear, musical voice, quite free from tremor. "I am a poor widow without a penny in the world, flying from my creditors to take refuge with a relative almost as poor as myself. This is my companion—alack for her! The wage I owe her might make her passing rich if ever 'twere paid—but it never will be."

"Do poor widows travel in coach and four with serving-men and maids?" demanded the highwayman with an incredulous laugh. "Come, ladies, I am well used to these excuses. Do not put me to the disagreeable necessity of setting you down in the mud while I search your carriage and—mayhap—your fair selves."

The lady threw back her hooded cloak, revealing a face and form of rare beauty, and extended two white hands and arms, bare to the elbow and entirely devoid of ornament. In one hand she held a little purse through whose silken meshes glittered a few pieces of money.

"This is all the money I have in the wide world," she said, in a voice of pathetic sweetness. "Take it, if you will, and search for more if you think it worth while—and if you find anything, prithee, share it with me!"

But the highwayman scarcely heard her. Through his mask his eyes were fixed upon her beautiful face with a devouring admiration of which she was quite unconscious. Not that such an expression would have seemed at all extraordinary to her, or otherwise than the natural tribute of any masculine creature to the beauty she valued at its full worth.

"Keep your purse, Madam," he said, and his voice had lost its harshness; "I will take but one thing from you—something you will not miss, but that a monarch might prize—a kiss from those lovely lips."

"A kiss, rascal! Do you know what you ask?" she exclaimed, her sweetness vanishing in haughty anger. "Something I shall not miss, forsooth! What can—"

"Oh! kiss him, Prue; kiss him and let us be gone!" implored her companion. "We shall miss the mail-coach at the cross-roads, and then what will become of us?"

The highwayman leaned against the open carriage-door and watched the struggling emotions flickering over the face of the widow. Anger and disgust were succeeded by scornful mirth, and at last, with a gesture of indescribably haughty grace, she extended her hand, palm downward.

"My hand, Sir Highwayman," she said loftily, "has been deemed not unworthy of royal kisses!"

"My plebeian lips would not venture where a king's have feasted," was the mocking retort. "But whoever in future may kiss your lips must come after Robin Freemantle, the Highwayman. So, sweet one, by your leave." He bent suddenly over her and kissed her boldly on the scarlet blossom of her mouth.

She drew back, gasping with anger and amazement. "How dare you?" she almost screamed.

He stood a moment as if half-dazed by his own audacity, then closed the carriage-door and replaced his beaver on his head.

"Good night, Ladies," he cried in a tone of reckless gaiety. "A pleasant journey to London and a merry time at court, and as 'tis ill junketing on an empty purse, accept mine in exchange for yours."

With which he flung a heavy wallet into the carriage and snatching the little silken trifle from Prue's hand, sprang on his horse and was quickly lost in the gloom of night.

"Insolent varlet!" cried Prue passionately. "Would I were a man to beat him to death!" And she burst into a flood of angry tears.

"Console yourself, sweet cousin," said her companion coaxingly. "You have saved our jewels for the second time to-day—first by outwitting a sheriff and now by cajoling a highwayman. After all, what is a kiss? You have just as many left for Sir Geoffrey as you had before you were robbed of that one."

"That is all very well," cried Prue, half laughing and half tearful, "but how would you have liked it if it had happened to you?"

"Faith, I'm not sure I should have made such a fuss! After thirty one may well be grateful for the kisses of a handsome young gallant—for I could see he was young, and I'll warrant me he was comely too—even if he is Robin Freemantle, the highwayman."

"For shame, Cousin Peggie, an' if you love me, never remind me of this," replied Prue, with a touch of irritation. "I would far rather have lost my few last jewels than have suffered such an insult."

"So would not I," laughed the incorrigible cousin. "What with play and the haberdasher all I have left in the world is contained in the little box under my feet, and I should count that cheaply saved at the price of a kiss."

"You were not asked to pay the price," said Prue coldly. Then, thrusting her head out of the window, she relieved her pent-up feelings by soundly berating the cowardly serving-men who had yielded without a blow to a force so inferior and were now wasting precious time hunting for their useless weapons instead of hastening to the near-by crossroads to meet the mail-coach in which the two ladies proposed traveling from Yorkshire to London.

The two men clambered back into the rumble, somewhat shamefaced, and each striving by muttered disclaimers to reject the charge of cowardice in favor of the other. The postilion, suddenly galvanized into activity, roused the horses with strange oaths and cries and fierce cracklings of the whip. Prudence closed the window and retired into the voluminous shelter of her cloak, and the interrupted journey was resumed.

CHAPTER II

LADY DRUMLOCH

No further adventures overtook the two ladies. The mail-coach picked them up at the crossroads and carried them to London in course of time, where they were soon safely housed with their grandmother, Lady Drumloch.

My Lady Drumloch was, as all the world knows, a very great lady, and back in the days of King Charles the Second had been a beauty and a toast. The daughter of a duke and the wife of an earl, she had queened it in two courts, had gone into exile with King James, intrigued and plotted with the Jacobites, and finally, having lost husband and son and fortune in her devotion to a hopeless cause, had made her peace with Queen Anne and returned to England to eke out her last years in the soul-crushing poverty of the great.

But as with her she brought her two granddaughters, the Honorable Margaret Moffat and Lady Prudence Wynne, her meager little house on the outskirts of May fair soon became not only the Mecca of other Jacobites as aristocratic and as poor as herself, but of many who were neither Jacobites nor in reduced circumstances. Among both classes the Lady Prudence, though but fifteen, soon found courtiers to pick and choose from. The saucy child with her skin of milk and roses, her tangle of dark curling locks and her wonderful blue eyes, was already possessed of that mysterious charm of femininity by which the world has been swayed since the days of Eve.

To gratify her grandmother's ambition, and at the same time emancipate herself from the restrictions of the school-room, she married the Viscount Brooke, heir of the Earl of Overbridge. But the marriage resulted disastrously. The viscount had long before exhausted his private means, and although his father, hoping that marriage would sober and settle him, made a sufficiently liberal allowance to the young couple, a few months of reckless extravagance and gaiety plunged them in an ocean of debt, from which the viscount, in a fit of delirium, extricated himself by means of a bullet in his brain, leaving Prue a widow at sixteen with no home but her grandmother's little house in Mayfair, and not a penny beyond the grudging bounty of her father-in-law.

Still, it was delightful to be a widow, and, consequently, free from all authority. Having curtailed her mourning within the scantiest limits, she returned to society with renewed ardor, where her youth and beauty, enhanced by her widowhood, secured her a flattering welcome. She played the hostess in Lady Drumloch's shabby drawing-rooms, filling them with laughter, scandal and love-making. She chaperoned Margaret Moffat, who was ten years her senior and who loved her with the infatuation one sometimes, if rarely, observes in a very plain woman for a very beautiful one.

Poor as she notoriously was, the oft-repeated rumors of Prue's engagement to one or another of her wealthy admirers enabled her to run into debt time and again for such necessaries of existence as fashionable dresses and costly jewels, for which she certainly never expected to pay out of her own pocket. Nay, even money-lenders, beguiled by her bright eyes and her unquestionably promising matrimonial prospects, had furnished the sinews of war (for which her future husband would have to pay right royally), and this despite the fact that the Lady Prudence Brooke, widowed at sixteen, was still a widow at two-and-twenty.

Lady Drumloch's granddaughters were not expected at her town-house, and when the hired cabriolet in which they arrived drew up at her door, the ancient butler was divided between joy at the sight of the two bright young faces, and trepidation as to the welcome they might expect from the higher powers. Mrs. Lowton, my lady's waiting-woman, was troubled by no such complex emotions. She made little attempt to conceal her own dissatisfaction or to disguise the fact that the old countess was in no humor for gay company.

"My lady has had an awful attack of gout," she averred, "and the doctors have ordered the strictest quiet. The least agitation might be fatal."

"We will be as quiet as mice, Lowton," said Lady Prudence, ostentatiously tiptoeing across the narrow hall and up the steep stairs. "James, pay the coachman and let me know how much I owe you."

The butler obeyed, though with no great alacrity. "Her ladyship ain't long getting back to her old tricks," he muttered with rather a wry smile, as he hunted through his pockets for the coach-hire. "I gave the man two shillings—and sixpence for himself," he said, coming back promptly. "I suppose your ladyship has not forgotten that before you went to Yorkshire—"

"Oh! never mind that, James," she interrupted hastily. "Let bygones be bygones, and when I come into my fortune you will see whether I forget anything. Come, Peggie, let us get to bed. I am fainting for want of sleep."

"I am fainting, too," retorted Miss Moffat, "but more with hunger than sleep. Lowton, for the love of Heaven, order some breakfast, and that speedily."

"I'll see what I can do, Miss Margaret," said Lowton, without enthusiasm, "but her ladyship keeps us closer than ever, and I doubt if there's anything for breakfast but milk and bread."

The cousins crept softly up to the little room on the top floor, where their dismantled beds and the bare floors gave so much evidence of disuse and so little promise of hospitality that the most courageous hearts might have sunk a little.

"We were better off at Bleakmoor, even with the bailiffs in attendance," said Prue piteously.

"Mayhap—but there we were out of help's way, and here, if we will—or rather if you will—there is succor at hand," said the undaunted Peggie—"and even while I speak of rescue, here comes my dear old Lowton with food for the starving and sheets and blankets for the weary. Come, coz, eat and sleep, and when you wake you will be ready for any emergency."

It was evening before the tired travelers rose, and, ransacking wardrobes and closets for the wherewithal to replace their soiled and dusty traveling attire, made themselves presentable for the inevitable visit of ceremony to their grandmother.

Quiet as they had been, the old lady had become aware of their arrival long before the faithful Lowton ventured, in lugubrious whispers, to communicate the news.

"There is no necessity, my good Lowton, for you to apologize for my granddaughters," Lady Drumloch had interrupted, almost before the first word was uttered. "No doubt I shall have to listen to half-a-dozen different stories before I get at the true cause of this visit, so you may as well spare yourself the trouble of inventing excuses for you know not what. Let me know when the travelers rise, and I will receive them and hear what they have to say for themselves."

The venerable countess lay in a huge four-poster bed, propped high with pillows scarcely whiter than her waxen face, upon which still lingered some of the beauty and all of the indomitable hauteur of the belle of half-a-century ago. Her scant and snowy locks were concealed under a cap of priceless lace and ruffles of the same fell over her small ivory-white hands. At the ceremonious announcement of the Viscountess Brooke and the Honorable Miss Moffat, she slightly moved her head on the pillow and turned her bright, dark eyes from one to the other.

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, my lady Viscountess?" she inquired dryly.

"Partly, dear Grandmother, to our anxiety about your ladyship's health," said Prudence, sweeping so deep a curtsey that she seemed to be falling on her knees, "and partly because a whole long year in the wilds of Yorkshire hath made us homesick."

"A whole long year in your brother-in-law's house, gaming, dancing and—unless I am misinformed—play-acting and fox-hunting, has still left you with an appetite for the follies of the court. I doubt not," said Lady Drumloch. "Does your ladyship return to Yorkshire to-day? or to-morrow? I understand that you traveled without escort or baggage and by the public conveyance!"

"Do not be angry with us, dear Grandmother," pleaded Prue, her bright eyes filling with tears (the minx always had a supply at her command). "You do not want us to go back to-morrow, do you? Are you not a little tired of the excellent Lowton's conversation, and do you not weary for your little Prue to read you Mr. Pope's latest poem and Mr. Steele's new play? and make you die of laughing over her adventures with the Yorkshire squires?"

"And not only the squires," put in Peggie, who had been standing rather in the background, eagerly awaiting a chance to bring herself into notice. "Prue has had adventures with gallants more romantic than Yorkshire squires!"

"Ah! is that Margaret Moffat?" cried the old lady. "'Tis sure where Prudence is, her shadow can not be far away! And, pray, what have your adventures been? Have not even bumpkin squires fallen to your charms? Surely Prudence has not carried off all the honors there as well as here?"

This was a hard thrust, for Peggie was as plain as her cousin was fair, and had entered her fourth decade without one serious assault upon her maiden heart. Devoted to Prue, she was too loyal to think that this was partly the fault of the youthful widow's all-devouring coquetry, but she was very human, and it wounded her to be forced into acknowledging the contrast.

"Alack, Peggie made short work of their hearts," cried Prue, coming to the rescue. "I only turned their heads. 'Tis strange how foolish men will always be about a widow."

"Foolish enough to marry one widow after being jilted by another," acquiesced the grandmother dryly. "I hear thy erstwhile lover, Lord Beachcombe, has married the Widow Curzon. The baker's daughter hath a second chance of wearing strawberry-leaves."

"She may have them for aught I care—along with the meanest, ugliest, most disagreeable man that ever decked his empty head withal," cried Prudence. "I am going to marry the finest gentleman in England—the bravest and handsomest—and the cleverest, too. When a man of parts is in Parliament, 'tis his own fault if he be not in the Cabinet—and once in the Cabinet there are garters and coronets to be had for the trouble of reaching after them."

"A politician, too!" sneered the countess. "Pray, which of our worthy statesmen has had his head turned by the widow?"

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert," replied Prue, and having got so far she stopped, and the blood rushed in a torrent to her face, crimsoning even her forehead and neck.

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!" the old lady repeated slowly, while her dark, brilliant eyes seemed to burn down into Prue's inmost soul. "The same that fought the duel with Colonel O'Keefe?"

"Surely," murmured Prue, "I could do no better than give myself to the man who killed my traducer. If Colonel O'Keefe misunderstood or misinterpreted a piece of girlish bravado—was I to blame? And if he dared to comment disparagingly upon what he did not understand, and make a public jest of a woman who had only played a harmless joke upon him—you, dear Grandmother, would be the last to reproach the gentleman who drew sword in her vindication."

"Thereby leading every one to suppose that there was something to vindicate," retorted Lady Drumloch. "If the marriage really takes place, it will put a complete quietus upon ill-natured tongues, but bethink you how they will wag if this should prove another of your affaires manquées!"

"I am glad that you approve, Madam," said Prue, with an air of the deepest respect, as she again sank gracefully down in a most profound curtsey.

"I said nothing about approval," replied her grandmother sternly. "I know your Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—a Whig—a renegade, whose father was a good Catholic and a 'King's man.' The son would have made a fitting husband for your father's daughter if he had been loyal to his father's king—but you know well that I would rather see you the wife of the least of Jacobites than the greatest of Whigs. Go your own wilful way and do not pretend to ask my approval."

"I am not married to him yet," said Prue, who had not been unprepared for a vigorous protest from her ancestress, and for obvious reasons desired to placate her. "Nor would I contemplate such a step until my dear grandmother's recovery set me free from anxiety. And now, if your ladyship will permit us to kiss your hand, we will withdraw, as we grieve to hear that your physician has forbidden you all excitement."

During the whole interview the two girls had remained standing—not being invited to seat themselves, nor venturing to do so without permission. As they withdrew after saluting the tapering, ivory fingers of the invalid, she called after them, with more graciousness than she had yet shown, "You may return in the evening and read me Mr. Pope's poem. I have had it these three weeks and could not bring myself to let Lowton stumble through it. 'Twill give me something to think of besides an old woman's gout and gruel."

CHAPTER III

SIR GEOFFREY'S ARRIVAL

Lady Drumloch was not really half so ill as she fancied herself, and no better medicine could have been prescribed to hasten her convalescence than the gaiety and cheerfulness that her two granddaughters infused into the atmosphere of the little house in Mayfair, as soon as they had recovered from the fatigues of their journey.

Instead of lying in bed grumbling at the length of the lonely days and pain-weary nights, her ladyship allowed herself to be cajoled into rising and reclining on a couch, which was then wheeled into the adjoining room by James and the faithful Lowton. At first this was only for an hour or two a day, and the invalid, refusing to admit that she could be, in any way, benefited by the lively gossip of her granddaughters, had insisted that the reading of sermons and other pious works suited better with her age and infirmities than plays and poetry. But by the end of the week she had abandoned Atterbury and Taylor for the Tatler and the latest works of Pope and Prior, and was thirsting for yet more exciting entertainment, which she knew to be tantalizingly near at hand.

As soon as the return of the cousins became known, their numerous friends, who had contented themselves with polite inquiries after the invalid, while Lowton was the sole dispenser of news, displayed a touching solicitude about her condition. Every afternoon Lady Prue held quite a little levee—at which the sickness of the old countess up-stairs did not interfere greatly with the gaiety below. Day by day these cheerful sounds grew more and more exasperating to Lady Drumloch, whose passion for scandal was only whetted by the comments of the two girls, and who chafed rebelliously under the restrictions of the doctor, and led the devoted Lowton the life of a dog.

"Did I hear voices and laughter this afternoon?" she demanded, one evening, when her granddaughters came to bid her a dutiful good night.

"'Twas but Mary Warburton and Lady Limerick, who came to inquire after the health of their beloved cousin," said Prue demurely.

"No one else? It seemed to me that a dozen times, at least, the door was thundered at as though a queen's messenger demanded entrance."

"In very truth, your ladyship's penetration is marvelous!" cried Prue eagerly. "Her Majesty most graciously bade Lady Limerick inquire the latest news of 'the dear countess' gout'—and also, if my duties at your bedside left me leisure to attend the court."

"And, pray, what answer did you make?" Lady Drumloch inquired suspiciously.

"In good faith, I was put to it for excuses, since I had admitted the favorable change in your symptoms, and received the congratulations of many anxious friends," returned Prue pathetically. "'Tis true I have no heart for frivolous pleasures while my dear grandmother is ill—but the court is another thing, and people begin to wonder at my absence."

"Well, what is the matter? Why make excuses at all? I am not aware that I have imposed any restrictions upon you," said the old lady crisply. "Lowton has taken very good care of me for a year, and you may still venture to trust me to her for a few hours. 'Tis news to me that you should be so averse to 'frivolous pleasures' that you need make me an excuse for giving them up."

"Indeed, dear Grandmother, it was no vain excuse—'twas the truth," Prue protested. "Yet not the whole truth, for my baggage is still at Bleakmoor, whence we fled in such a hurry that we brought naught away with us but what we traveled in!"

"Well? Are there no milliners and mantua-makers in London?" inquired the countess, with an air of surprise.

"Several hundred, I should think—and every one of them threatening me with the law's worst penalties for debt! The wretches! they were eager enough to fling their wares under my feet, when they believed me rich—or likely to be. But now—never a mercer or tailor will trust me for a gown!"

"What! not with the prospect of a husband in Parliament?" cried her grandmother, laughing maliciously.

"Indeed no, Grannie," sighed Prue piteously; "not unless I pay, at least, for what I order now."

"They have learned wisdom at last," retorted Lady Drumloch coldly, "and that is more than can be said of you, who during four or five years of widowhood have jilted half the peerage, made yourself the byword of the court, and now go in fear of the debtors' prison!"

"There was no talk of a debtors' prison for me when I was Queen Anne's favorite lady-in-waiting," said Prue, with a touch of arrogance, "but now they only remember that I was banished from court—"

"And that the rich lovers you jilted have married other women, while you are still 'the Widow Brooke,'" Lady Drumloch interrupted.

"But they will change their tone when they find that the queen has forgiven me," said Prue, ignoring her grandmother's last thrust, "and now she has sent me such a gracious message by Lady Limerick—but, alack the day!—what am I saying? How can I present myself before Her Majesty without a decent gown to my back? Oh, Grandmother—" She fell on her knees, and would have clasped the pale, slender hand that lay on the coverlet. But Lady Drumloch drew back out of her reach and regarded her with resentful eyes.

"Well?" she queried in her driest voice. "What do you propose to do? You have a plan, no doubt, to accomplish what you have set your heart upon."

"No—I have no plan," cried Prudence despairingly, "but surely you, dear Grandmother, will not let your little Prue lose her last chance of winning back the queen's favor, for lack of a few guineas to buy a gown!" and once more she tried to get possession of the reluctant hand.

But Lady Drumloch pushed her away with such force, in her anger, that she almost overturned her on the floor. "I thought I should soon come at the cause of all your pretty speeches, you false jade!" she shrieked. "Is it not enough that I give you shelter in the home you have disgraced with your reckless follies, that I have to admit your wanton companions—only Mary Warburton and Lady Limerick, forsooth! Do you think I am so deaf as not to have heard the voices of half a dozen men, and your dear friend, Barbara Sweeting, sharer and inspirer of half the mad frolics that have made you notorious?—but I must pay your debts and give you money, when I'm so poor I can only afford one woman to wait on me, and can not go out for an airing because a carriage is too great a luxury for me—even a hired one! C'est honteux—c'est infame"—and the angry old woman, who seldom lapsed into French, except in moments of great agitation, burst into hysteric cries and weeping, at which Lowton hurried in, and the girls, with scared faces, fled.

"She is much worse than she used to be," whispered Peggie. "Formerly, when you asked for money, she used to tell you to go to the devil, and scold you roundly—but she gave it after all. And now—I do not think she will."

"If she waits until I ask her, she certainly never will," said Prudence proudly. "To-morrow I will go to old Aarons—though I vowed the last time should be the very last."

The girls were still lingering upon the staircase, listening to the soothing murmurs of Mrs. Lowton and the outcries of the invalid, gradually sinking into whimpers, when a loud knocking announced the arrival of a visitor of importance, and James presently came up with a petition from Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert for a few words with the Lady Prudence, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour.

"The lateness of the hour! Why, 'tis barely nine o'clock," cried Prue, blushing and sparkling with delight. "Go, James, and tell Sir Geoffrey I will be with him immediately. Come, Peggie."

And away she flew to reassure herself, by a glance at her mirror, that her scene with Lady Drumloch had not dishevelled her luxuriant curls, and to disguise the shabbiness of her gown with a lace kerchief and a knot of ribbon.

"A plague on all milliners and tailors," she pouted; "to think that I should have to receive my betrothed after three weeks' separation, looking more like my lady's scullery-maid than her granddaughter."

"Sir Geoffrey will never know what you wear, if you sit away from the lamp, where he can just see your eyes by the firelight," counseled Margaret. "No man cares to look at your gown, who can see your face."

"Flatterer!" cried Prue; but she kissed her cousin on both cheeks, and certainly gave no sign of doubting her veracity.

Sir Geoffrey was impatiently waiting in the dim drawing-room, where James had reluctantly lighted a pair of candles in an ancient silver sconce that Benvenuto Cellini himself may have chiseled. The two ladies swept the most ceremonious of curtseys, but at the sight of Prue's radiant loveliness, her visitor dropped on one knee, and taking both her little hands in his, kissed first one and then the other with unaffected ardor.

"How have I lived all these centuries?" he cried—"they can not have been merely weeks—without my Goddess, my Star—" and so on, after the highflown fashion of the days of Pope and Dryden. To which Prue was well accustomed, and did not find any too fantastic for her highly cultivated vanity.

"Rise, Sir Geoffrey," she said very graciously, and when he obeyed, offered him her glowing cheek, upon which, one may be sure, he made haste to imprint more than one or two impassioned kisses. Then Margaret, who at first kept discreetly in the background, came forward and presented her hand, contenting herself with a salute of a more perfunctory nature.

"When did you return to town, Sir Geoffrey?" Prue inquired.

"Can you ask?" he said reproachfully. "You may be sure I have only waited to shake off the dust of travel, before hastening to throw myself at your feet."

"And how did you leave Bleakmoor?" she went on, "and have you seen our host and his friends since we left them?"

"Bleakmoor, deprived of the sunshine," said Sir Geoffrey, including the two girls in a low bow, "has by now been given over to the bats and owls. Brooke hath betaken himself to Malvern, and his friends are scattered to their own homes. The hunting is better since the thaw, but I have lost all taste for the field when Prue no longer leads the hunt."

"We scarcely expected that you would follow us so soon," remarked Peggie.

"Was I in too great haste?" he demanded. "Had I been warned of your sudden journey, I might, perhaps, have offended by offering my escort."

"You would have had a chance of playing the knight-errant," said Prue, "and coming to the rescue of two forlorn damsels set upon by footpads and forced to resort to all kinds of feminine wiles to protect their jewels."

The baronet rapped out an oath. "The fellows attacked you and I was not there to make mincemeat of them!" he exclaimed. "By Jove, these rascals become more and more audacious every day. A band of them attacked Will Battersea and myself on the North Road, where we had the good fortune to capture the ringleader and hand him over to the officers of justice."

"Bravo!" cried Margaret, clapping her hands. "Tell us all about it, Sir Geoffrey."

"Oh! 'twas the usual thing," he began. "We were on a lonely road, not far from Willesden—Will and I riding in front, with our fellows close behind—when several masked horsemen appeared from behind a clump of bushes, and covering us with their firearms, demanded our money or our lives—"

("Stand and deliver—" murmured Peggie, with a covert glance at her cousin.)—"We proceeded to argue the matter," Sir Geoffrey continued, "and either by accident or to intimidate us, one of the rascals let fly and hit my man Brown in the shoulder. Instantly, there was a mêlée, in the midst of which approaching shouts were heard and the highwaymen, at the word of command, dashed off, pursued by Will Battersea and myself. A parting shot, fired at random, brought down the horse of one of the highwaymen, who threw his rider into a ditch and rolled over him. There we found him with a broken collarbone, and handed him over to the mounted constabulary, who had arrived so opportunely."

"I shudder to think what might have happened," said Prue gravely, "had their arrival been less well-timed."

"Spare your tremors, my dearest," replied Sir Geoffrey, rather nettled by her tone. "You surely do not think that Will and I were in any peril from half-a-dozen highwaymen? To say nothing of our men, who were both sturdy rustics and had served in the West-Riding Yeomanry. I vow I was disappointed at the interruption, and would rather have taken Robin Freemantle with my pistol at his ear, than pulled him out of a ditch with the help of a constable."

"Robin Freemantle!" the two ladies exclaimed simultaneously. Then the blood rushed so tumultuously to Prue's face, that she was thankful for the dim light that hid her confusion.

"What! was it he that assailed you on Bleakmoor? The fellow is ubiquitous!" cried Sir Geoffrey. "I will not forget to add this to his other crimes, when I am witness on his trial. The man who has dared to attack the fairest lady in England—the protégée of her Grace of Marlborough—should be drawn and quartered; hanging is too good for him."

"Sir Geoffrey! I forbid you to mention my name!" she exclaimed, in a great flutter. "It may not be the same man—besides, he took nothing from us, did he, Peggie? Nothing, that is to say of any—any—"

"My dear Prudence—the mere fact of his attacking you would rouse the country," cried her lover, rather pompously. "It would have more effect upon the jury than a dozen ordinary highway robberies—"

"I do not wish to rouse the country," interrupted Prue. "What! am I to be discussed by lawyers and jurymen, and lampooned, forsooth, in the Flying Post! My grandmother would never forgive it—"

"Dearest Prue, pardon me for suggesting anything that could for one moment distress you; it was but my eagerness to punish the scoundrel for his crimes. Let us relegate him to oblivion. Such subjects are not for the lips and ears of Beauty. Tell me, sweet Prue, when may I hope to see Lady Drumloch and implore her sanction to my suit?"

"I have already broken the matter to her," replied Prue, "but, as we anticipated, without any great success, at present. She is, as you know, an ardent Jacobite and can not be expected to approve your politics, which are considerably more important to her than my happiness. Mayhap, when she becomes acquainted with you she may blame me less. You must exercise your eloquence on her as you did on me," she added, with a coquettish smile, "and then I think I can safely leave our cause in your hands. My prayers shall accompany you, and if necessary we will kneel side by side and implore the ancestral benediction."

CHAPTER IV

THE MONEY-LENDER INTERVENES

Either her hysterics or her gout kept my Lady Drumloch in her chamber long enough to try the brief patience of Prudence Brooke. Sir Geoffrey, secure of his bride, was less impatient, for after all, the grandmother's consent was a mere matter of form, although he had reasons—upon which he did not care to dilate—for wishing to propitiate the old lady, and secure her good graces.

He came to Mayfair as frequently as his parliamentary duties permitted, and never without sending up to the sick-room the most sympathetic messages, accompanied by bouquets of rare flowers, baskets of hothouse fruit and dainty porcelain or enameled boxes of French bonbons, and his gifts to Lowton were as lavish, though of a different character.

Finding no abatement in her grandmother's austerity, about a week after Sir Geoffrey's arrival, Lady Prudence ordered a chair, and concealing as many of her charms as could be hidden by a cloak and hood, made a pilgrimage to the city.

Almost under the shadow of Aldgate Church, at the entrance of a narrow court, of quiet appearance but sinister reputation, lived a certain Mr. Moses Aarons, reputed fabulously wealthy. Few were the gay inheritors of paternal acres to whom the little office in Aldgate was unfamiliar, and in the safes and deed-boxes that encumbered the upper floors of the dingy house many a bond and mortgage told a history of vast estates held by a hair, and noble fortunes of which little remained but the name.

Mr. Aarons was a man of unpretending appearance, with very little about him to suggest the Jew money-lender. Immaculately dressed, in a suit of fine plum-colored cloth, with silk stockings of the same hue, and wearing his own iron-gray hair slightly powdered, and gathered in a black ribbon, he might have passed for a respectable lawyer or merchant, had not some suggestion of power in his smooth voice and heavy-lidded eye, belied the modesty of his appearance.

The chair of a fine lady was no unaccustomed object at his door—nor, indeed, was the Viscountess Brooke a stranger. When his clerk bowed the lady into Mr. Aarons' sanctum, he rose to greet her, and returned her sweeping curtsey with a bow as ceremonious.

"My Lady Brooke! This is, indeed, a condescension," he said. "My poor place is not adapted for the entertainment of such fashion and beauty."

"Most excellent Aarons," cried Prue, a little haughtily, "a truce to your compliments, which are only meant in ridicule, I fear." She threw back her hood, however, not disdaining to try the full effect of her charms upon this Jew, from whom she had come to cajole a few hundred pounds, if possible, without security.

"Your ladyship's long absence from London hath surely been to some magic spring," said the usurer, with an exaggerated deference that bordered on insolence. "We heard you were breaking squires' hearts in Yorkshire, but sure 'twas some southern sun that has been ripening the peaches on your cheeks."

Prue burst out laughing. "Are you turning poet, Mr. Aarons?" she inquired flippantly. "Take my advice, and keep to your own trade; no one will ever read the verse of Shakespeare or Milton with half as much interest as the magic prose that can turn a scrap of dirty paper into golden guineas."

"Your ladyship is tired of poetry, and wishes for a little prose by way of change, no doubt," suggested the money-lender.

"Change, forsooth! That is just what I am perishing for," cried Prue. "Fate has been dealing me the scurviest tricks, and now the chance of my life has come, and I tremble lest I lose it for want of a few pounds. The queen has bidden me to court, and I hope the best from Her Majesty's condescension. But, alas! I can not make a fitting appearance at court, for I am—as usual—penniless. You must help me out of my troubles, good Mr. Aarons, and this time I shall pay you principal and interest, and recover the diamond necklace that has been so long in your care."

"If the security you offer is no better than last time, my lady Viscountess—" the money-lender began.

"Alack! this time I have nothing at all to offer as security," she interrupted. "You know where most of my jewels are, and on my way from Yorkshire, I was set upon by Robin Freemantle, the highwayman, and robbed of everything he could lay his hands on!"

"The outrageous villain! Did your ladyship lose much?" asked the Jew, with ill-concealed sarcasm.

"I scarce remember how much, but he left me with nothing but a few worthless trinkets I had concealed in my cousin's jewel-casket, which fortunately escaped. So I arrived in London destitute. My grandmother is too ill to think of aught but prayers and potions, and I am most anxious to return to the court, where, doubtless, her Grace of Marlborough will do something for me—she loves me like a daughter—but I can not wait on her grace without a gown and a carriage."

"The milliner will, no doubt, be enchanted to provide the one, and the liveryman the other," said Aarons suavely.

"True, but every one knows I was banished from court, and nothing will satisfy them that I am in favor again but to see my name in the Court News' account of the queen's levee. I can not get there without money, and for that I look to you, who have stood my friend before. Now listen," she went on quickly, laying her little dimpled hand on his arm, in her eagerness to interrupt the impending expostulation. "I am going to be married—oh, yes, I know what you would say—'tis not the first time by several, and I am still the Widow Brooke! This time, however, you may consider it final; within a month, I wed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."

The money-lender started. "Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!" he exclaimed. "Your creditors, my lady Viscountess, will scarce be pleased at this hearing, and may find cause to remind you that there are lodgings for ladies in the Fleet and Queen's Bench. Sir Geoffrey is a member of Parliament, and can not be arrested for his own debts, let alone his wife's."

"Arrested! Do you mean to suggest that Sir Geoffrey can not, or will not, pay my debts?" she cried angrily.

"He may be willing; indeed, who could doubt that any man would esteem it an honor to pay the debts of Lady Prudence Brooke? But that he is able, is quite another matter, and you may take my word for it, that Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert couldn't pay his own debts, if every acre he owned was free, instead of mortgaged, lock, stock and barrel."

"You are maligning a gentleman, sir!" she exclaimed, losing all control of her temper. "I will tell him how you have lied to me, and he will have his servants beat you within an inch of your life! Sir Geoffrey a bankrupt!—his estates mortgaged!—was ever such a slander? He is a man of substance, I tell you. I have visited him in his ancestral domain, where he entertained me royally. He is lord of the manor, and has the retinue of a duke—no man in Yorkshire is more highly respected—he is M.F.H. and might be Sheriff of his Riding an' he chose!" She began to subside a little, though still angry, and looking, it must be owned, transcendently lovely in her excitement, with cheeks like damask roses, and flashing sapphire eyes. "Good Mr. Aarons, why did you give me such a scare?" she went on, with a ring of almost entreaty in her tone. "Tell me you were joking. What can you know about Sir Geoffrey's estate? He hath borrowed of you, mayhap; who has not? But since he has come into his patrimony—"

"His patrimony, Lady Prudence? His father was one of King James' most devoted followers, and one of the most lavish while a guinea could be raised to prove his loyalty. Sir Geoffrey can not cut a tree in his 'ancestral domain,' and you may be sure there was a bailiff or two wearing his livery among the ducal retinue that dazzled your ladyship."

"Mr. Aarons, you must be mistaken," she persisted stubbornly. "If his fortunes are so low, why does he seek to join them to those of a portionless widow? Sure, there are heiresses a-plenty who would gladly buy his title with their dowries!"

"Oh! your ladyship has but to look in your mirror to answer that question," cried the usurer, with a low bow and a look of open admiration. "There are also men of wealth and substance who would gladly pay the debts of Lady Prudence Brooke, and settle such a fortune upon her as would keep her busy in the spending."

"No doubt, no doubt," said Lady Prudence hastily, "but I am betrothed to Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, and these benevolent persons do not greatly interest me. Let us quit the subject of the fortunes Sir Geoffrey and I are throwing away, and return to business."

"Yet believe me, Lady Prudence," he insisted, "you will never wed Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."

She rose with great haughtiness. "I decline to dispute the subject with you, Mr. Aarons—" she began.

"You will not marry Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert," he repeated. "If you do not refuse the match, he will find some way to release himself; 'tis his misfortune more than his fault. Mark me, Lady Prudence, and do not let him place you in a false position. You want to be a rich woman as well as a great lady. You can marry a man who will give you the finest house in town, the most splendid establishment, the choice of a dozen country seats, and more money to spend than you have ever dreamed of, and who asks nothing in return but to see you queen it at his expense."

She smiled a little, and met his glance with a most deceptive air of innocent curiosity.

"And who is the gentleman, Mr. Aarons?" she inquired, in her sweetest tone, with but the hint of an emphasis.

"Can you not guess?" he replied more boldly.

"Faith, I came hither seeking a money-broker, and was not prepared to find a marriage-broker instead!" she said, shrugging her pretty shoulders. "Do not keep me in suspense, good Aarons; I am dying to know the name of the admirable creature who desires to rescue me from poverty—and Sir Geoffrey—and confer so many benefits upon my unworthiness."

He placed his hand upon his breast, and bowed deeply.

"You see him here, fair Lady Prudence," he said. "The humblest of slaves, the most ardent of admirers and, if you will, the most devoted and indulgent of husbands."

She burst into a peal of laughter, but the faint note of bitterness that permeated the charming music was not lost upon the money-lender's sharp ear.

"Truly, Mr. Aarons, your jest is subtle and well-conceived, and a fitting rebuke to my silly vanity," she began. But he interrupted her, "In truth, Madam, 'tis no jest, but a serious offer. I have always admired your ladyship, and a year ago, endeavored to give fitting expression—"

A knock on the door interrupted his flow of eloquence, and the clerk, from without, announced that Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert's chariot had just driven to the door, and that "his Ludship" was in the act of alighting.

"Great Heaven!" cried Prue, turning scarlet and then pale. "How shall I escape? I would not be found here by him for a thousand pounds! Do not admit him, good Mr. Aarons, I beseech you—"

"Take Sir Geoffrey up-stairs, Jacob, and tell him I am engaged, but will wait on him anon," said the Jew. Then turning to his fair client with an insinuating smile, he added, "Now, if your ladyship chooses, you may have an opportunity of judging between my statement of this gentleman's finances and his own—"

He indicated, by a gesture, a door in an obscure corner of the room.

"What! play the spy upon my betrothed husband? Never, never!" exclaimed Prue indignantly. Yet she did not go away, and her pliant form seemed to sway toward the little dark door, as though a stronger will than her own controlled her muscles.

"'Tis no harm," said the Jew, in his silkiest tones, as he opened the door leading into a room scarcely bigger than a closet, but light, and furnished with a single chair, and a table littered with papers and thick with dust.

Half-involuntarily, Prue yielded, and the door closed upon her. "I need not listen," she said, half-apologizing to herself for an action she disdained. But the room was small, and that, perhaps, was why she did not think it worth while to move away from the door.

The blood rushed to her head when she heard Sir Geoffrey's voice, and for some moments she was conscious of nothing but a confused murmur, out of which, at last, her own name rang sharp and clear.

"The Lady Prudence Brooke has honored me by accepting my hand," she heard Sir Geoffrey say, in a tone that was evidently intended to discourage adverse comment.

"I congratulate your Honor," said Aarons politely. "The lady's charms do credit to your choice. But such luxuries are costly, and I am not surprised that you need money. It is unfortunate that times are so hard and money so scarce. I have just suffered a terrible loss. The death of Lord Boscommon, whose father survives him, has turned ten thousand pounds' worth of post-obits into waste paper, and the failure of Johnson and—but this does not interest your Honor. Beset as I am, I shall be able to accommodate an old and valued client like yourself, no doubt, if the security is satisfactory. You have good security to offer, of course?"

"Oh! it is no use beating about the bush with you, Aarons. I have no fresh security, but you can surely let me have a couple of thousand more on the Yorkshire estate."

"Not a stiver," said the money-lender firmly. "Even the entailed property is encumbered beyond its utmost value. Had you come to announce your marriage with Miss Cheeseman, the Alderman's daughter, or Mrs. Goldthwaite, the banker's widow, I do not say I would have refused the necessary funds for the courtship and wedding on your note-of-hand. But the Viscountess Brooke is dowerless—over head and ears in debt, and without a penny of expectations."

"Miserable little Jew," muttered the fair dame he so pitilessly anatomized; "Geoffrey will kill him."

"Dowerless, yes; over head and ears in debt, possibly; but not without expectations," said Sir Geoffrey, displaying none of the anticipated fury. "You overlook the fact that she is the favorite granddaughter of Lady Drumloch, who, for all her miserly ways, I am credibly informed, is enormously wealthy."

"Oho!" cried the Jew, maliciously enjoying this display of a motive not altogether flattering to the unsuspected listener. "Your Honor is not quite so simple as I began to fear."

"Did you really think I was fool enough to leap before looking?" retorted Sir Geoffrey, with a fatuous laugh that set Prue's ears tingling. "To be sure, the wealth of Golconda could not add to the Lady Prue's charms, but in this wicked world one can not live on love, and as I have little else to offer, I rejoice, for her sake as well as my own, that she has a rich grandmother, who can not, it is to be hoped—I should say, lamented—live long to enjoy her hoards. They will, I am convinced, be put to excellent use by Lady Prudence Beaudesert."

"But how, if I could prove to you, Sir Geoffrey, that Lady Drumloch, instead of being a rich miser, is a very poor old woman, whose kinsman loans her a house to live in, and whose sole income is an annuity, from which she has—perhaps—saved enough to bury her? I know not who may have told you of this fabled wealth, but I am pretty sure it is not either of her granddaughters."

"Indeed, no," said Sir Geoffrey reflectively. "No such sordid subject has ever been broached between us. Yet I had it from a reliable source."

"Well, I advise you to make very sure of it, Sir Geoffrey; it will be no kindness, either to yourself or the Lady Prudence, to marry her without either of you having anything you can call your own—except your debts."

"'Tis true," muttered the baronet. "If I can not raise a thousand pounds—are Lady Prudence's debts so very great?"

"I do not betray the secrets of one client to another," said Aarons, with a sinister smile. "Even now I have acted against my own interests in my desire to befriend two headstrong young people. Nay, I would gladly go further, and find a rich wife for your Honor and a rich husband for the viscountess, if you would both listen to reason."

"Thanks, good Aarons," said Sir Geoffrey, moving toward the door; "I appreciate your good will at its full value. A rich wife—of your providing—to pay my debts, and a rich husband, on the same terms, for Lady Prudence, would make four fools for the benefit of one wise man."

"Your Honor flatters me!" said Aarons obsequiously. They passed out of the room together, and as he closed the door behind him, the money-lender remarked, in the most casual manner, "I had a visit from the lady but an hour agone, praying me for a loan of a few hundred pounds, at any interest, on the strength of her approaching marriage with your Honor."

Sir Geoffrey started, and a curious light came into his cold, handsome eyes.

"'Sdeath!" he ejaculated, "the lady doth me too much honor!"

"I was most reluctantly compelled to refuse the loan, for the same reason that she gave for requesting it," said the usurer, as he respectfully bowed his visitor out. "But in the meantime, if I can serve you in any other direction, pray command me."

When he returned alone, he found Lady Prudence arranging her hood with a weary air.

"Prithee, Mr. Aarons, is my chair at the door?" she demanded, cutting short his apologies for detaining her. "You and your client have well-nigh sent me to sleep with your long conference. Sure, you have kept me shut up in the cupboard, while you transacted the business of a dozen petitioners."

"Your ladyship was probably unable to overhear our conversation?" he retorted, with a shrewd smile. "'Tis a pity, for it would have interested you vastly."

"Did you, indeed, think I would condescend to listen at the keyhole?" cried Prue, with a superb air of disdain. "Believe me, I do not take quite so much interest in the clients of Mr. Aarons! Is my chair at the door? Then let me begone. My grandmother will marvel at my absence, and ask more questions than I shall be able to invent answers to."

The Jew accompanied her out to her chair, bare-headed, and as he handed her in, said, in his voice of curiously blended humility and power, "I shall hear from your ladyship again, when you and Sir Geoffrey have had time for reflection."

CHAPTER V

A WIDOW ON MONDAY

That day was destined to be one of accumulated trials to Prue's patience. Her ruffled temper had scarcely calmed down by the time she reached home, and found that, during her absence, communications had been received from the attorneys of various tradespeople, warning her that Mr. Aarons' view of her position was by no means exaggerated.

Although she had rigidly refrained from announcing her projected marriage, in deference to Lady Drumloch's opposition, the news had crept out in the mysterious way such things have of proclaiming themselves, and had led to a general investigation of Sir Geoffrey's solvency, by those whose only hope of payment depended upon her future husband's wealth. The immediate result of these researches displayed itself in the unanimous determination of her creditors to be paid before she could shelter herself under the coverture of a husband whose parliamentary privileges placed him out of their reach.

This blow was the more crushing because it came from those who had encouraged her extravagance and played upon her vanity while she was the favorite of the all-powerful Duchess of Marlborough, and lady-in-waiting to the queen. Then, every temptation was thrown in her way, and the day of reckoning was never mentioned, unless in sly allusion to the dazzling, ever-changing panorama of her matrimonial prospects.

But, now, circumstances were different. To tell the truth, the fair viscountess had left London a year ago under the cloud of royal displeasure. Her extravagance at the card-table and elsewhere, her mad-cap frolics and countless flirtations—culminating in a fatal duel and a brilliant engagement broken off almost at the church-door—had brought upon her a sharp rebuke from the queen, coupled with a command to seek time for reflection and penitence in some retreat far enough removed from the court to relieve her of its temptations.

Under this ban, she had thrown herself upon the hospitality of her brother-in-law, himself somewhat out of favor, in consequence of his Jacobite tendencies, and living in comparative seclusion upon his heavily mortgaged estate in Yorkshire. There, Prue had held a little court of fox-hunting squires and provincial notables, until, wearying for a more congenial atmosphere, she gladly seized upon the illness of her grandmother as an excuse for a hasty and unheralded visit to London, where her bosom friend, Lady Barbara Sweeting, having paved the way for her, met her with the delightful news that her escapades were forgotten and her absence bewailed, and being on the spot, her unauthorized return would meet with no severe reprimand, but rather with a joyous welcome.

Prue knew the advantage of striking while the iron is hot. She was well aware of the fickleness of the great, and the importance of catching the smile of royalty before it has had time to cool off into a frown. So, being assured that the hand of welcome was graciously beckoning her, it did seem the irony of fate that she must needs hang back because her wardrobe was in Yorkshire, and her chance of redeeming or replacing it even more distant.

At this exasperating crisis, it was only natural that her mind should revert persistently to the one spot of light in the gloom. Was it a beacon of hope or an illusory will-o'-the-wisp? Had Sir Geoffrey been misled, or was he trying to mislead Mr. Aarons?

"Can grannie really be a miser?" she had asked both herself and Peggie a dozen times in the course of the day. She longed to question Sir Geoffrey as to the source of his information, yet dared not reveal the little she knew, for fear he might wonder how she had come by that little.

Peggie laughed heartily at the suggestion of Lady Drumloch's wealth, and vowed it must be a myth. "Could she have kept such a secret from us for all these years?" she asked. "Never once giving us a hint of it, and never once relaxing the austerity of her life, even now she is old and sick? Besides, how would it help us now, if she had a cellar full of gold, since she will not give us a guinea or a gown? You have so many friends, Prue; will none of them help you out?"

"The women will not help me; they are only too glad to keep me out in the cold," said Prue pettishly, "and I am neither old enough nor ugly enough, to ask favors of a man, even a money-lender," she added, contemptuously reminiscent of Mr. Aarons' advances. "Pray, open the window, coz. These distracting cares make me so faint, I feel as though I should die for lack of air."

Peggie obeyed, and Prue, seating herself near the window, gradually ceased her lamentations and fell silent. The outside noises floated up confusedly—the roll of a passing carriage, the quarrelsome shouts of waiting chairmen, and clear above all, the voice of the newsman, calling the details of yesterday's cock-fight and the latest scandal.

"Rumor of a great battle in the Netherlands—Arrival of a queen's courier with sealed despatches from the seat of war—Exciting scene in the House of Commons—Threatened resignation of Lord Godolphin from the Cabinet—Trial and sentence of Robin Freemantle, the highwayman. Story of his Life and confessions—How he fell from virtue and respectability to end his days on Tyburn Tree next Monday."

"Dost thou hear that, Peggie?" cried Prue; "the bold highwayman who kissed me on Bleakmoor is condemned to die for other crimes, perchance less heinous!"

"'Tis a natural death for such as he," quoth Peggie philosophically.

"And yet, he was a gallant man; young, I'll be sworn, and handsome, belike. It seems strange to think that such hot blood will be cold in the veins of a corpse in less than a week—"

"Art going to wear weeds for him, coz, because he snatched a kiss from you?" teased Peggie.

"Not I! but mayhap some poor wretch is breaking her heart because she'll be a widow o' Monday," said Prue pensively.

"All her debts will be paid along with the debt of nature," said Peggie flippantly. "Don't you think you could easily console yourself in her case?"

"Forsooth, yes!" cried Prue, quickly recovering her vivacity. "I would I were like to be the widow of somebody—somebody I don't care for, of course—within a week. Then I could laugh at that old villain Aarons, and the rest of the pettifoggers, with their threats of the debtors' prison! Sure, there must be a special hell for Jews and lawyers!"

Peggie gave her hearty acquiescence and returned to her book, and for some time no sound was heard except an occasional smothered laugh, when Mr. Pope's highly-spiced rhymes tickled her fancy more than usual. Prue fell into a somber reverie, and with the tip of her taper finger between her teeth, became so buried in thought, that a sharp little line began to trace itself distinctly between her drawn brows. Outside, the newsman's voice, gradually fading in the distance, still repeated, "Buy the life and confessions of Robin Freemantle, the notorious highwayman—only sixpence."

Prue sprang to her feet, at last. "Margaret!" she exclaimed, and her voice had a curiously unfamiliar ring.

Her cousin started. Prue had not called her by her full name in many a day.

"Margaret, if this highwayman has no wife—people of that sort don't marry, usually—what is to prevent his marrying me, and leaving me a widow on Monday, with all my debts buried in his coffin?"

Peggie had been so often participator and prime minister of Prue's exploits, that she was not easily astonished by her. But this proposition was so entirely outside the bounds of reason, that she could only shake her head vigorously, without even a word of protest.

"'Tis not so reckless as it seems, Peggie," said Prue, sitting down beside her and passing a coaxing arm round her shoulders. "Listen, dear Peg. The man must die; God's pity on him! What can it matter to me to be his wife for a few hours; what can it matter to him to ease me of my debts? They will not trouble him in the next world; neither will I."

"You'll be none the richer for such a mad freak," Peggie remonstrated.

"I'll be out of danger of the Fleet, though!" cried Prue, renewing her caresses. "Fancy your poor little cousin in a debtors' prison, Peggie, with all sorts of wretches who can not pay their butchers and bakers—and miserable cheats and swindlers, so mean and low that they have not a soul to help them—and fancy me just as ill-off and forlorn as they!" Peggie began to melt. "You saw that letter from Madame Taffetine's lawyer, 'Unless we receive the payment, so frequently promised, within forty-eight hours, the law will be enforced without any further delay.' The other man is even more explicit; he threatens me with imprisonment in so many words! Oh! Peggie, I am the most miserable girl in the world!"

"Sir Geoffrey will marry you, and you will both be safe and happy," counseled Peggie.

"Sir Geoffrey! I'm not so sure I wouldn't rather marry the highwayman!" cried Prue. "At any rate, I can not offer myself to him, and I doubt if he be in the mood to hurry me. Besides, there's like to be a dissolution of Parliament, and then he'll be in a worse plight than I am now. 'Tis true," she laughed, but not quite merrily, "there is Mr. Aarons, who was kind enough to place his hand and his money-bags at my feet, but the doors that are open to the poor Viscountess Brooke, might be slammed in the face of the rich Lady Prudence Aarons!"

"Robin Freemantle would be better than Mr. Aarons," Peggie conceded.

"Robin Freemantle, at this moment, will do better than any one else," said Prue. "I tell you, Peggie, my mind is made up. You may as well help me, for if you don't, I'll do it all alone—but you won't desert me, will you, Peggie, dearest?" So, with tears and kisses and wiles most varied, but all through with a stubborn self-will that had often before subdued Peggie's feeble scruples, Prue won her at last, not merely as a confidante, but as an accomplice.

As soon as the whimsical creature found that there was nothing to fear from her cousin's opposition, her spirits rose at the prospect of an adventure even more reckless and madcap than usual. She ran on with a thousand absurd suggestions, until Peggie, infected by her mood, offered to visit the prison at Newgate, and lay Prue's proposal before the highwayman.

"You know, you told him I was your maid," she said, "and 'tis one of a maid's chief duties to carry messages for her mistress; messages of doubtful discretion especially. I can remind him of the meeting on Bleakmoor, and introduce myself as having witnessed the kiss which ignited a flame in your heart, that can only be quenched by a marriage in extremis."

"Make use of what arguments you please, Peg, and for credential, take with you the purse he bestowed in charity on the poor widow, who now implores a still greater favor from him. Alack! the purse is well-nigh empty, but there's enough left in it to bribe the jailers to admit a lady of high degree, who comes to find out if the condemned man can put her in the way to recover the jewelry she was robbed of on the Queen's Highway."

"To-day is Thursday, Prue," said Peggie, proceeding to prepare for her errand without delay. "Thou'lt not wed o' Friday? 'Tis unlucky!"

"Unlucky! Dost think there's any luck, good or ill, about such a marriage?" cried Prue, dropping suddenly into a shuddering despondency. "Friday is as good a day as any for one's undoing, and Saturday's too long; 'twould give me time to change my mind."

"There's time enough for that now," quoth Peggie philosophically. "The banns are not yet asked, nor even the wooing sped. 'Twere wiser, perhaps, to repent to-day than regret to-morrow."

"Do you think so, Peggie? So do not I. If I do have to repent, it shall not be for an opportunity missed for a coward scruple. Here, let me tie this long, black veil over your hood, Peg; it will make you look like a mourner, and with your handkerchief to your face, you might defy even the sharp eyes of Lowton herself."

CHAPTER VI

A MATTER OF TITLE

As Peggie, veiled and muffled up, with the curtains of her sedan-chair drawn—but not closely enough to interfere with her outlook—was borne toward the city, she passed a handsome chariot, driven rapidly in the opposite direction.

The glimpse she caught of the occupants caused her great amusement. Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert was seated beside a young man, richly dressed and handsome, but sallow and hollow-cheeked. This was Lord Beachcombe, whose marriage with Lady Prudence Brooke had been abruptly broken off about a year ago, in consequence of a scandal raised by a certain Captain O'Keefe, who considered himself ill-used by the lady, and whose insulting strictures upon her conduct led to a fatal duel with Sir Geoffrey, and resulted in the promise of her hand to the champion of her honor. The sight of Prue's former and present lovers together, struck Peggie as particularly funny, in connection with her own queer errand. If she could have overheard their conversation, it would have given additional zest to the situation.

"Faith," Lord Beachcombe was saying, "if you are really bent on marrying the lovely widow, I wish you better luck than I had."

"I am bent on it, with my whole heart and soul," Sir Geoffrey replied, doggedly rather than enthusiastically. "I am not a man to be turned from my purpose by an idle word."

The other laughed carelessly. "No man in your condition takes warning by other men's misfortunes," he remarked. "But there's still hope for you; you are not her husband yet."

"No, but I swear I will be, and soon, too!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "I won her at the sword's point, and by the God above us, I'll wear her!"

"Will you bet?" demanded the other, with a sneer. Gambling was the most fashionable vice of that day, and few subjects were too great or too small to hang a wager upon.

"Aye, Lord Beachcombe, if you want to lose money, I'll not deny you the opportunity," laughed Sir Geoffrey, recovering his good humor. "What do you want to wager? Fifty guineas? a hundred?"

"Fifty or a hundred guineas is all too small a wager for so important a matter," said Lord Beachcombe slowly, as though considering the exact sum demanded by the occasion. "Let us say a thousand—or five thousand."

Sir Geoffrey was staggered by the amount, but he was as ardent a gambler as his companion, and reputed a much luckier one. "As your lordship pleases," he replied, with well-assumed indifference. "But I warn you that the higher the stake, the more certain I shall be to win it, even if I have to carry the lady off by force."

"Oh! if you have to resort to force—"

"If I have to resort to force, the stake should be doubled!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey, "but I have no fear of that. Did your lordship say a thousand? or was it five?"

"Let it be five thousand," returned Beachcombe. "I'll wager five thousand guineas that you do not marry the Viscountess Brooke within—shall we say a month?"

Sir Geoffrey signified his satisfaction; each gentleman made a memorandum of the bet, and as the carriage had already been standing some minutes at Prue's door, her betrothed alighted, thanked his friend for his courtesy in giving him a lift, and hastened in to press his suit with renewed ardor.

As the carriage was driven off Lord Beachcombe pulled the check-string and ordered the coachman to drive with all speed to Newgate Prison.

Newgate Prison, in the reign of Queen Anne, was a festering sink of iniquity and horror. Almost every crime under the sun was punishable by death—from stealing a penny loaf to robbing a church, and from snaring a pheasant to slaughtering a family. In fact the laws in relation to property were far more strictly enforced than those for the protection of human life, unless the value of the life was enhanced by the rights of property. There, in noisome pens, criminals of every degree herded together—men, women and children—all brought to an equality under the shadow of the gallows. But money was just as powerful there as anywhere else, and the prisoner who could pay might have privacy, company, the best of food and wine—everything except cleanliness—that no power could bring into Newgate Prison, and it needed the cleansing fires of destruction to purge it off the face of the earth.

Robin Freemantle, the condemned highwayman, had money enough to secure him a cell to himself. One of the poorer prisoners, for a consideration, had swept it out, and he had hired a table and chair from the jailer at about twice the price for which they had been bought ten years ago.

At his table he sat writing, with a bottle of wine at his elbow, and the debris of a substantial meal on a tray. Through a barred window above his head enough light slunk reluctantly in to show the fine athletic form and bronzed, manly face, on which the pallor of imprisonment was already toning down the ruddy glow of health. On the page before him he had inscribed but four words, at which he sat gazing irresolutely while he nibbled the feather of his pen. The key turned in the lock and a hoarse voice outside announced, "A visitor for you, Robin Highwayman."

Lord Beachcombe walked in, and the door closed behind him.

Robin rose. "Welcome, my Lord," he said, with an unmistakable ring of relief in his tone. "Your promptitude will do us both a good turn."

"I received your letter, fellow," said the other haughtily, "and I confess I was curious to learn how a man of education had fallen to your condition." His eye glanced upon Robin's left arm, which he wore in a sling, as though he marveled why it had been thought worth while to mend a collar-bone upon which the neck was set so insecurely.

"Take this chair, my Lord. I have but one in my spacious apartment. I'll sit here." He moved to the cot and his visitor sat down, not without some show of reluctance.

"And now, be brief," said Lord Beachcombe, watching him narrowly, "and let me know the service you wish to render me"—with a sneer—"and the price you expect for it. I do not remember ever having been waylaid by you, so you can not have stolen jewels to restore."

"Yet your lordship has some idea of what I have to offer—not to restore, for you never possessed it—and if I die on Monday, will never know the full worth of it until too late. Your lordship has a lawsuit pending involving your title and estate—"

"Every one knows that," said Beachcombe irritably. "Some mysterious person has claimed to be my elder brother. The thing is manifestly impossible, but he appears to have interested a lawyer of sorts."

"The thing is not impossible, Lord Beachcombe. It is true. It is also true that this claimant can deprive you not only of your title and estates, but of your very name."

"You are mad! If such a thing were possible, what is it to you, and how can you know anything about it?"

"Because all the papers are in my possession. Oh! not here—in perfectly safe keeping; where they will remain until I die, or claim them back."

"How came they in your possession?" demanded Beachcombe. "In robbing a coach, I suppose you took them for something valuable."

"They came into my possession by the action of Providence, to afford your lordship the chance of giving me my life and keeping your own honorable name."

"Your life, my good fellow! You overrate my power and your own value. If your papers are worth anything, I'll give you all the money you ask for your own spending, and the provision of those you leave behind—"

"We'll come to that presently," said Robin. "First, I'll tell you what I have to offer. Some thirty years ago—while His Majesty King Charles was on the throne—a certain lieutenant of the Guards, younger son of a great earl's younger brother, fell in love with a poor schoolmaster's pretty daughter. Passing himself off as a stage-player, under the name of Gregory Vincent, he won the young woman's affection, though not, apparently, her complete confidence; for she went to the pains of investigating the gentleman's private life, and discovered his real name. Then she consented to a secret marriage, at which she substituted a real priest and legal papers for the sham ones with which her honorable lover had intended to cozen her."

"This story has already been communicated to my attorneys," interrupted Lord Beachcombe impatiently. "How are you acquainted with it, and why do you expect it to interest me in you?"

"I know it because a vast number of letters, written by this gentleman, first to his sweetheart and afterward to his wife, have fallen into my hands. They tell the whole history, with many entertaining details, and would prove racy reading in the News sheet for your lordship's friends and foes, especially the latter."

The visitor winced. "No man likes his family affairs held up to ridicule," he said. "I would willingly buy the letters, if genuine."

"Oh! they are genuine; also the marriage certificate, whereof one of the witnesses is still living, and the certificates of the birth and baptism of the son, now twenty-eight years old. I believe your lordship is twenty-six?"

"And why has this matter been allowed to sleep for thirty years?"

"Because Mrs. Vincent—as she temporarily allowed herself to be called—although clever enough to find out that her stage-player lover was really a lieutenant of the King's Guards, masquerading under a false name, was unable to trace him when he disappeared, a year after their marriage, and never knew that in consequence of several deaths, he had become Lord Beachcombe, of whom she probably never heard, and certainly never connected with Lieutenant Gregory de Cliffe. The last of this series of documents is the certificate of the death of the deserted wife, when her son was about five years old, to whom she bequeathed only her wedding-ring and a casket, which was to be opened when he came to man's estate."

Lord Beachcombe's sallow face crimsoned with such a rush of blood, that his eyes were suffused, and he seemed in danger of suffocating.

"Five years," he gasped. "Scoundrel, do you know what you are saying?"

Robin bent his head, without speaking.

"Where are these forgeries? These—these—" Beachcombe stopped, apparently unable to utter another word.

"As I told you before, they are quite safe," said Robin quietly. "But an hour after my death, they will be in the hands of the person whom they most concern."

"And do you—does this impostor imagine that he can oust a peer of the realm with a few old letters and musty documents, forsooth?" cried the earl, recovering himself a little. "We nobles hang together, Sir Highwayman, and are chary of disturbing one of our order for a trifle."

"I do not know whether he can oust you, Lord Beachcombe," said Robin, looking him steadily in the eye, "but he can prove you a bastard."

Beachcombe sprang to his feet, with hand on sword, as though he would have drawn it on the defenseless prisoner, and stood, breathing heavily, unable to utter a word.

"We are alone, my Lord, and not one word that passes between us need ever be repeated outside this cell," said Robin; "that is, if you agree to my terms. Otherwise, I may feel compelled to make terms with your cousin, who would be the inheritor if you were—illegitimate, and your elder brother were—could be induced to waive his claim."

Lord Beachcombe bent a furtive but piercing regard upon the prisoner. "And how can you answer for him?" he asked, slowly weighing his words. "If I buy you off, I may have to fight him in the law courts afterward. Oh! 'tis intolerable—it's a conspiracy—it must be a lie—my father a bigamist!—my mother—! Villain, you shall hang for calling me bastard, if for nothing else."

"I think not," said Robin. "Your unborn child may be a son, whose fate hangs upon your word. The rightful heir values my life so highly, that he himself has instigated this offer. He is willing to give all his documents in exchange for my life and liberty. Furthermore, for a sum of money sufficient to carry him abroad and start him in life, he will sign a deed, if you will have one drawn up, resigning all claims on the title or estates of Beachcombe. Is that explicit enough?"