Chapter XVII Lady Barbara’s News
The sun was flushing the horizon when Prue and Peggie left off comparing notes about the ball and laid their weary heads on their respective pillows. Peggie, light of heart and easy of conscience, was very soon asleep, but Prue was less fortunate. The more tightly she closed her eyes, the more distinctly she saw everything that had happened to her since yester morning’s sun had looked coldly upon her grief and remorse. Could it be only yesterday that she had been awakened by the hideous thought that her husband was expiating his crimes upon the gallows? Only yesterday that she had bemoaned herself as the wickedest and crudest of women, while she believed him dead: yet was ready to reproach him with perfidy when she saw him alive? Oh! it was impossible that only yesterday morning she had scorned herself for the folly that bound her to a malefactor. Why, last night she had treated him as an equal, had taken his word as a gentleman, had felt and acknowledged anxiety for his safety, and had permitted him to kiss her hands; not out of pity as when she married him, but just as if he had been of the same social flesh-and-blood as herself. She vainly reminded herself that this Robin was the same who had waylaid her on Bleakmoor; the same who had lain in Newgate Prison, a felon condemned to the gallows; the same she had married because he was doomed to death, and for no other reason; oh! more the shame to her! As to him, his part in that ignoble contract was blameless and even generous. With which thought last in her mind, she fell asleep.
When she opened her eyes, Peggie stood at her bedside, smiling over an armful of roses.
“Guess what little bird sent these to you,” she said.
Prue started up eagerly. “Is he here?” Peggie shook her head. “What, did he go away without seeing me?” cried Prue, her face falling and her lip drooping like a grieved child.
“No, he sent them by his lackey. You had better make haste to be up and dressed, in case he comes to be thanked.”
Prue jumped out of bed and began dressing in a great hurry.
“How comes he with a lackey, forsooth!” she said presently, feigning to cavil so that Peggie would go on talking.
“Why, does not Sir Geoffrey always send his lackey with flowers for you—and grandmother?” laughed Peggie.
“Sir Geoffrey!” cried Prue, starting away from the roses as though she had suddenly encountered their thorns.
“Of course; who did you think had sent them?” inquired Peggie blandly.
“Why—I thought—you said—Oh! Peggie, what did you mean by a little bird?” pouted Prue.
“Ha! ha! ha!” Peggie screamed with laughter. “So the only bird you can think of now is a Robin! Why, Prue, you foolish coz, what is the use of setting your heart on him? You know you can not have him.”
“And suppose I can not; is not that enough to make any woman set her heart on a man?” cried Prue. “Take those nasty things out of the room, Peggy; the smell of them makes me quite sick.”
Peggie started to go, sniffing them voluptuously. “Poor Robin!” she murmured; “’tis well he can not see how his roses are treated. Nasty things, indeed! I never knew the smell of roses to make you sick before.”
Prue flew after her. “Margaret!” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. “How dare you torment me like this? Tell me, this instant, who sent those flowers to me?”
“Why, didn’t I tell you they came from Robin?” asked Peggie, regarding her with guileless surprise.
“Give them to me this instant! Oh, Peggie, Peggie, you know you tried to make me think Sir Geoffrey sent them—”
“I only said he always sent flowers by his lackey,” Peggie interposed.
“Was there nothing with them? Not a letter, not a message?” Prue went on. “Oh, Peggie, just a word—?”
“Not a word. But the day is not over yet, and mayhap Captain Scatterbrain will bring his own message. He is mad enough for anything. Now don’t keep smelling those ’nasty things’—you know the smell of roses makes you sick to-day—and make haste down-stairs. Grandmother is feeling almost well to-day and will take her chocolate in the drawing-room. She wishes you to join her anon, so that she can hear from your own lips all about your triumphs last night.”
When Prue came down presently, she wore a great cluster of red roses at her breast, and one or two nestled in the rich braids of her hair. It was a pity Robin could not see how well they became her, but they were not altogether wasted, as Sir Geoffrey, coming in a short time later, made them the occasion of some charming compliments.
Old Lady Drumloch, with no sign of weakness about her but her delicate waxen pallor, reclined on a couch enveloped in her cashmeres, sipping chocolate, and listening with great complacency to her granddaughter’s account of the masquerade. She greeted Sir Geoffrey without enthusiasm, accepted his congratulations upon her recovery with resignation, and remorselessly turned him over to Peggie for entertainment, while she kept Prue in close attendance upon herself.
Other guests dropping in, Prue was kept so busy dispensing chocolate and sweetmeats that she hardly noticed the portentous gravity with which Sir Geoffrey drew Peggie apart and engaged her in a low-voiced conversation, which at first amused, then surprised, and finally caused her to exhibit unmistakable signs of uneasiness. Her efforts to catch Prue’s eye being abortive, she was on her way across the room, when the door was thrown open, and with a great rustling of silks and clattering of fans, three ladies were announced. “Lady Limerick, Miss Warburton and Lady Barbara Sweeting.”
Of the new-comers, the latter deserves a word of introduction, for Lady Barbara had been the sharer, and many thought, the instigator of half the frolics of Prue’s lively widowhood. They were fast friends, and if the fading charms of Lady Barbara suffered by contrast with Prue’s fresh loveliness, those who desired the friendship of either were usually wise enough to treat both with impartial gallantry.
A great favorite of Queen Anne and also a dangerous rival of Sarah Churchill, Lady Barbara owed her popularity chiefly to her skill in collecting and disseminating scandal. She knew everything long before any one else suspected it. Projected marriages, family jars, political intrigues supplied her with an ever-fresh stock of amusing anecdote. Mischievous but rarely malicious, she often pricked but seldom stabbed, and was as ready to turn the laugh against herself as to make fun out of her most cherished enemy.
“Dear Lady Drumloch, what a delightful surprise, and how charming you look!” she cried, taking the old lady’s delicate hand in hers and pressing upon it as reverential a kiss as though it had been Queen Anne’s own chubby fingers. “You don’t know how enchanted we are to have you among us again! We have missed you so. Prue, you wicked witch, how dare you look so lovely? After last night you ought to be pale and languishing, instead of looking so shamelessly unconcerned and lighthearted.” Prue, without knowing why, changed countenance a little, at which her tormentor ran on still more volubly. “We were getting on very nicely without you—a little dull, perhaps, but one can live without duels, and while you stayed in the North, wives could let their husbands run alone, even if they had been your bond-slaves. Prithee, was ever General Sweeting the victim of your enchantments? If so, alack, what is to become of me?”
A laugh rippled round the room, for Lady Barbara’s husband was notoriously henpecked, and although he had once been a redoubtable warrior and a still more formidable rake, it was in the days when Prue’s mother had not emerged from the nursery and Prue’s self was an unpropounded problem of the distant future.
Not at all disturbed by the amusement of her audience, Lady Barbara raised her quizzing-glass and ran her bright, sharp glance round the room.
“What! Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert! how come you here? Why are you not flying for safety to your Yorkshire Castle? Or perhaps your parliamentary immunities extend to the slaughter of the innocents as well as the spoiling of the Egyptians!”
Sir Geoffrey, very red in the face, came forward, bowing low. “Dear Lady Barbara, as you are strong, be merciful,” he murmured imploringly.
She gave him a look very unlike her ordinary merry defiance. “Merciful to you, who have no mercy even for the nursing mother and the suckling babe? Never! Lady Beachcombe is one of my ninety-and-nine dearest friends. I have just come from her. There was a sight to wring the heart of a monster! the weeping mother in one room and the wounded husband and father—”
“Oh, tush!” interrupted Sir Geoffrey, recovering his aplomb. “’Twas the merest scratch. A strip torn from my lady’s kerchief would have bound it up and left something to spare—”
“Don’t quarrel, you two,” interposed Prue’s sweet, cooing voice. “Bab, come and sit beside granny and I’ll give you a cup of chocolate, while you tell her the latest news.”
“The latest news! There is so much, that the difficulty is to know where to begin. I went, this morning, to visit my interesting friend, Lady Beachcombe, and according to promise, to give her full description of the ball, including”—here she shook her finger at Prue—“all the doings and misdoings of her lord. I was prepared to be cautious with the dear creature, but instead of finding myself welcomed as a bearer of news, I heard so much that my poor head fairly swims with trying to remember it all.”
“Begin with the least exciting and work up by easy stages to a climax,” suggested Peggie, edging toward her cousin and trying to attract her attention.
“No, begin with the most thrilling while our nerves are strong enough to bear it,” Prue proposed eagerly.
“First, then,” Lady Barbara began, highly enjoying her anticipated triumph, “there was a robbery at Marlborough House last night; and sure no common thief would venture to steal Her Majesty’s diamond necklace from the royal tiring-room.”
The general chorus of incredulity and indignation realized her expectations and she looked around with a mysterious smile. “No common thief, indeed; but Robin Freemantle, the highwayman, is out of jail, and ’tis said—indeed my authority can not be questioned—that he was among the maskers.”
Prue felt cold shivers trickling down her spine, but the consciousness that Sir Geoffrey was watching her, gave her strength to fix a smile upon her face and pour out the cup of chocolate with a steady hand.
“Why do they think he had anything to do with this?” some one inquired. “Tell us everything quickly, Barbara, before we die of curiosity.”
“Why, now we come to the best story of all,” cried the fair newsmonger. “On his way to the ball, Lord Beachcombe was waylaid by Robin Freemantle and a band of ruffians, who carried him off—carriage, servants and all complete—to a secret cavern and left him there for several hours, having robbed him of his mask and domino and borrowed his invitation and his carriage!”
“The devil!” ejaculated Sir Geoffrey, suddenly very much enlightened.
“Fie, Sir Geoffrey; you should leave such remarks to our poor friend Beachcombe, when he discovered, this morning, the purpose for which his disguise had been taken.”
“But he was there; I spoke with him,” said Prue, feeling the color ebb from her cheeks and surreptitiously trying to pinch some of it back.
“Did I not see you supping with him?” retorted Lady Barbara archly. “I refrained from dwelling upon that subject to my poor friend, Lady Beachcombe, but I saw what I saw! Before midnight his property was restored and he was set free. He hastened to the ball, and doubtless he would have done much better to go straight home, eh, Sir Geoffrey?”
“He seemed in a bad humor,” said Prue reflectively, “but not more so than usual.”
“He might well be in a bad humor. It appears that he was instrumental in getting Robin Freemantle pardoned when he was in Newgate, condemned to be hanged.”
“That is strange!” Peggie exclaimed. “’Tis the first time I ever heard tell of a charitable act of his!”
“’Twill be the last, no doubt; the man is an ingrate. His first use of his liberty was to steal his benefactor’s mask and domino, and under cover of them to rob the queen’s Majesty. Oh! ’tis outrageous!” Lady Barbara ran on volubly. “But he will be punished; and speedily.” She became mysterious. “His retreat is known. When Beachcombe questioned his servants and added his own suspicions to theirs, he came upon important clues, and when I left he was going to place them in the hands of the authorities, from whom this miscreant will certainly not be rescued a second time—by him!”
“Or by any one else, it is devoutly to be hoped,” remarked Sir Geoffrey; “don’t you agree with me, Lady Prudence?”
“You played thief-taker before, Sir Geoffrey,” she retorted, with unaccustomed acrimony. “You should offer your services again; his escape would then be impossible.”
“Quite impossible!” cried Lady Barbara, who only caught the last words. “His home will be surrounded by soldiers, and he will be lodged in the Tower, when they catch him.”
“Do they send soldiers to catch a highwayman?” inquired Peggie.
“And why the Tower?” objected Lady Drumloch. “Methought that was reserved for gentlemen; ’tis too much honor for robbers and footpads. Will they also behead this person; like a gentleman?”
“’Tis likely,” cried Barbara. “I had so much to tell you, that I forgot that this Robin is not a mere ordinary highwayman; he is a Jacobite plotter, no less, and is known to carry letters and messages from rebels in the South to those in the North and back again—doing, I presume, a little highway robbery on the way, for the good of the cause. Mayhap he appropriated the queen’s necklace as a contribution to the treasury of the ‘King in Exile.’”
“Barbara!” exclaimed Prue and Peggie together, in a panic.
“My dear Lady Barbara,” put in the thin, incisive voice of Lady Drumloch, “the ‘King in Exile’ is the queen’s brother and probably—may the day be distant—will succeed her. I can not permit such insinuations to be made in my presence, against the cause for which my husband and my son laid down their lives.”
“Pray pardon me, dearest Lady Drumloch,” cried Lady Barbara, really shocked at her own want of tact. “I meant no harm—my tongue runs away with me—and to be sure, I have no greater fancy for a Dutchman on the throne than any other loyal Englishwoman. Yet ’tis true that Robin Freemantle is only the nom de guerre of one of the most turbulent rebels against the queen’s government—”
“If by that you mean the Whigs, you should rather say against the Duchess of Marlborough’s government,” retorted Lady Drumloch crisply.
“And what is the real name of this—rebel?” inquired Prue.
“Why, he calls himself De Cliffe, and if he really is an offshoot of the family, that would explain why Beachcombe obtained a pardon for him,” said Lady Barbara.
“Indeed, it requires explaining,” remarked Prue, who had quite regained her self-command. “It is much easier to understand why he is sending him to the Tower, if he be a poor relation.”
During the laughter that followed this sally, other guests arrived and the loss of the queen’s diamond necklace having, by this time, become pretty generally known, poor Prue had to listen to every variation of the story and every kind of theory concerning it, all leading to the same conclusion, that Robin the highwayman had been at the masquerade ball and profiting by opportunity—the Ruling Planet of adventurers—had carried off a prize of incalculable value.
With difficulty she eluded Sir Geoffrey’s ironical condolences, and took her accustomed part in the heedless chatter, watching the clock as minute by minute slipped away and still her visitors lingered.
“Oh! if they would only go,” she whispered to Peggie. “Do you think if I were to fall in a fit, or make James give an alarm of fire, that it would speed the parting guest?”
But the longest afternoon comes to an end some time, and Lady Drumloch’s weary looks presently reminded her guests that she was but recently off her sick-bed. So with a great rustling of silks and sweeping of voluminous curtseys, they withdrew, with as many farewell speeches as though they did not expect to meet again in a few hours at dinner, rout or playhouse, and left the old countess to be carried up-stairs, and the two girls to their own devices.
When they were alone, Peggie threw her arms round her cousin. “Oh! my poor Prue,” she cried; “what I have suffered for you the last hour—”
“Tell me of your sufferings by and by, Peggie,” said Prue, rather ungratefully. “If you would help me, bid James fetch a chair, while I get me a cloak; I must hasten to the duchess.”
“The duchess! Oh, Prue, dearest, don’t do anything rash; for Heaven’s sake, try to be discreet. If you can not help Robin, do not ruin yourself for the sake of a thief!”
“You are quite mistaken, Margaret; every one is determined that Robin has taken the necklace, and if I did not know him better than you do, I might think the same. But trust me; for once I will be the personification of prudence, and you will see that everything will come right. If any one should ask you where I am, say I have gone to offer my services and sympathies to the duchess. Sure, ’tis a terrible blow for her, and there are those about the queen who would rejoice if it were mortal. No one will wonder that I should wish at such a time to prove my friendship for one who has so often stood by me.”