Chapter XIX In the Duchess’ Apartments
Any doubts that Prue’s escort might have secretly entertained as to the credibility of her strange story, were set at rest the moment she entered the doors of Marlborough House. Her reception was that of the elect; a privileged guest whom all delighted to honor. The obsequious flunkeys bowed before her, and the stately Groom of the Chambers, by whose command the lieutenant was shown into a waiting-room, himself carried the Lady Prue’s request for an audience of the duchess on most pressing business.
The anterooms were thronged with visitors whose curiosity had been whetted by a rumor that the long-expected had happened, and that the queen had gladly availed herself of the loss of her jewels as an excuse for humiliating the tyrannical favorite whose exactions had lately increased in proportion to the waning of her influence. It was whispered that the queen had been most reluctant to attend the masquerade, and that the duchess, fearing that she might repeat the slight of a recent public occasion (when Her Majesty had declined to appear in regal state in compliment to her), had exercised her privilege as Mistress of the Robes, and caused certain jewels to be conveyed to the royal tiring-room in Marlborough House. But the queen, on her arrival, had signalized her disapproval of this audacious proceeding, by refusing to make any alteration in the conspicuously simple costume she wore, and the jewels—among which the necklace was the most important—were left in the tiring-room in care of the attendants.
All this, however, was mere gossip. Those more friendly to the duchess discredited the whole story and claimed to know that no royal jewels had come into the house, except on the queen’s person, and that if any were mislaid, they would certainly be found either at Kensington Palace, where Her Majesty had been residing for some weeks, or St. James’, where she had passed the previous day, in order to incur as little fatigue as possible in attending the masquerade.
Ladies Rialton and Monthemer, with other members of the ducal family and household, flitted from group to group, making light of the rumored estrangement between “poor, unfortunate, faithful Mrs. Morley” and her erstwhile inseparable and all-powerful friend, and vowing that nothing kept them apart but the violent illness of the duchess, over whom the physicians were in consultation as to the propriety of bleeding her to avert an attack of fever. But all hints and allusions to the lost necklace were ignored, and those who were hardy enough to put their inquiries into plain words, were met with diplomatic replies that neither affirmed nor denied anything.
With a greeting here and a hand-pressure there, Prue threaded her way through the crowd and hurried up-stairs to the duchess’ private apartments. The way led past the little conservatory where she had sat with Robin last night. It was dark now and the entrance was blocked with tubs containing the orange-trees and shrubs which had adorned the grand stair-case and entrance-hall. Prue’s heart beat a shade faster and a pang of remorse assailed her at the thought that by introducing Robin to this sequestered part of the house she had exceeded her privilege as a guest, and exposed both Robin and herself to a suspicion that only her utmost ingenuity could dissipate.
In the duchess’ dressing-room a little throng of ladies-in-waiting and intimate friends welcomed her warmly. Deep concern sat upon every face as they listened to the hysterical cries and moans, in which the patient in the adjoining bedroom gave expression to her sufferings, and the broken exclamations and fierce invectives by which she called upon her doctors and attendants to bear witness to the ingratitude and perfidy of the queen, and the baseness of her minions.
While Prue hesitated about intruding, the doctor and the apothecary came out. The former hurried away with a red face and air of offended dignity, and his satellite only lingered long enough to assure the ladies that her grace, having refused to be blooded and having ordered the two medicos from her presence under pain of a drenching with their own potions, nothing could be done for her until she could be brought into a more reasonable mood.
“I must see her at once,” said Prue, with decision. “I have a cure for her malady far more efficacious than all the court physicians’ nostrums.”
“Why, do you come from the queen? Has she found her diamond necklace?” A dozen eager questioners crowded about her, but with a smile of mysterious but encouraging significance, Prue reiterated her demand and at last escaped from further interrogation, by making her way unannounced into the presence of the duchess.
The great lady lay upon her bed, her disordered dress and disheveled hair revealing the ravages of time, which she usually disguised with so much skill. Her tire-women vainly attempted to soothe her by chafing her feet and hands and fanning her flushed and swollen face.
“Who is that?” she screamed, catching sight of Prue. “Go away—I can not see any one—I am very ill—I am dying! Make haste to pay your court to Masham—Masham! the creature I raised out of the mire—the kitchen-wench, who will queen it to-morrow when I am dead! Oh! oh! oh!” And the hysterics were resumed with wilder frenzy than ever.
“Leave her to me,” said Prue to the women. “I can cure her, but I must have her to myself for a few minutes.” They looked from one to the other with bewildered eyes, wondering at Prue’s audacity, yet unable to resist her calm tone of authority.
When they had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, she bent over the shrieking, raving duchess, and said, in a quiet, penetrating voice, “The necklace is not lost, it is quite safe.”
The cries ceased with almost ludicrous suddenness. “What do you say?” gasped the patient.
“I will tell you all about it as soon as you are able to lie still and listen,” said Prue, who had laid her plans on her way from Essex Street, and had her story all ready. The duchess quieted down and turned her face partly toward her.
“Is that Prudence Brooke?” she asked. “If you know anything about that accursed necklace, tell me quickly, before it is the death of me.”
“I have news of it,” said Prue, passing a cool, soothing hand over the hot brow and brushing away the heavy, straggling masses of hair, once the pride of Sarah Churchill and the envy of rival beauties. “If the necklace is returned what reward will you give the finder?”
“Reward? Oh! he shall be well rewarded; the finder need not be afraid to ask his own price,” cried the duchess. “And yet the thing is worthless to any one, child—worse than worthless—it is deadly! No one would steal it except to injure me! But they shall swing for it, no matter who is at the bottom of it. It is a conspiracy of those who hate me—”
“It is a mistake,” interrupted Prue; “the necklace was not stolen, it was taken by—by accident.”
“Accident! Oh, I know what kind of accident it was; it was a conspiracy, I tell you!” the duchess reiterated.
“It was a mistake,” Prue urged. “I am sure I can prove it.”
“Prove it a conspiracy, Prudence Brooke—prove it so that I can get my revenge upon these wretches and you may ask what reward you will. Honors and emoluments shall be heaped upon you—”
“I want neither!” cried Prue vehemently. “That is, the finder would not accept money or anything of that kind.” She began to feel uneasy at the threatening tone the duchess took, and her nimble wit jumped for shelter. “For myself,” she said, in her most cajoling way, “I would ask a favor—not now, but later—and I want you to promise that you will grant it, no matter how strange and unreasonable it may seem.”
The duchess, who was now quite collected, sat up and looked searchingly into the guileless blue eyes, bent so eagerly upon her. “You would not ask anything that would injure me?” she said slowly. “My enemies are so many and so wily, I fear to trust—even you. Is it something you want for yourself? If so, I promise.”
“A thousand thanks,” cried Prue. “I may never ask for anything; certainly never for anything that would hurt my dear benefactress to grant. ’Twas but a fancy. And such strange things happen—one never knows what one may be led into. I have had the strangest adventure to-night—”
“Another time, dear Prue,” the duchess interrupted; “I can think of nothing now but the necklace.”
“Yet you will own,” persisted Prue, “when you have heard it to the end, that it is worth listening to. ’Twas thus—as soon as I heard of your grace’s troubles, I set out to offer my heartfelt condolences. Scarce a hundred yards from home, the chair was stopped and a rough hand thrust a paper through the curtains. Here it is; shall I fetch a lamp for you to read it by?”
“No, read it to me. I have wept myself purblind,” replied the duchess, without attempting to disguise her impatience and lack of interest.
Prue unfolded the paper, now soiled and crumpled from frequent handling, and read:
“MISTRESS BROOKE:
“Follow the bearer and you will find the queen’s diamond necklace.”
The duchess started up and seized her arms convulsively. “Is this true, Prue?” she demanded tragically. “Then why did you not go at once without coming to make terms with me first?”
Prue was too well acquainted with the suspicious and selfish nature of the woman to take any offense. “I thought you would be interested,” she replied sweetly. “Have a moment’s patience and I will tell you how, reckless of consequences, I ordered the chairmen to follow this unknown leader, who took us through narrow by-streets, where I momentarily expected to be waylaid and perhaps murdered. But my desire to serve your grace was stronger than my fears; besides, as you are well aware, I am not very timid, especially when there is an adventure to the fore—”
“Yes, yes, I know how reckless you are, but where did you find the necklace?” the duchess broke in.
“I am coming to that. The chair stopped at last and I descended in a dark and muddy street, where I followed my conductor afoot to a lonely house, apparently uninhabited.”
“Prudence—you reckless girl—you ventured into such a place alone and unprotected!” exclaimed the duchess, excited to such a pitch by the story that she absolutely forgot its reference to herself. “What madness!”
“Oh! that is nothing to what I would have done, if necessary, for—for your grace’s sake,” cried Prue. “But I confess that all my devotion was needed to keep up my courage. Inside the house my situation was even more terrifying. All was dark and empty—it seemed the very place for secret deeds of horror—yet no attempt was made to harm me; not a living creature appeared except the person who wrote this message and who, without any ado, placed this in my hand and begged me to take it away.”
Having now arrived at the climax of her story, Prue drew forth the emblazoned casket and displayed the diamond necklace.
The duchess snatched it from her and gazed at it with entranced eyes. She flung her arms about Prue, calling her a heroine and a marvel, and the truest friend woman ever had.
“Any one but you would have gone straight to the queen and left me to my fate. There are those about that ungrateful woman who would have paid mighty high for such a chance of humiliating me. What reward did the robber demand, and how did you satisfy him?”
“There was no robber; only an old woman,” said Prue, whipping out her carefully planned lie without a tremor. “I know not how she came by it, but she asked for no reward and only seemed to wish to be rid of it. Indeed, there was no time for me to ask an explanation, if she had one to give, for at the very moment when the casket was in my hands, there arose a hubbub in the street outside and the house was surrounded by soldiers. The old woman disappeared as if by magic, and when the soldiers broke into the room I was alone; nor could they find any trace of her, though they battered the place to pieces.”
“She shall be found and compelled to give up her accomplice,” cried the duchess furiously. “Soldiers surrounded the house, and yet the miscreant escaped! Pretty soldiers, forsooth!”
“Yes, truly,” cried Prue; “and more than that—they arrested poor little me—because I was all alone there with the queen’s diamonds; think of that! I had a narrow escape of spending the night in jail! However, my tears and entreaties prevailed upon them to bring me here, and all that remains to be done is to dismiss my captors, and permit me to take my leave of your grace.”
“Not so fast, Prue; you have still something to do for me,” said the duchess. “I must hasten to the queen and you must go with me, and repeat what you have just told me. Marie!—Alice!—leave off chattering and tire me with all despatch. I must see the queen without a moment’s loss of time.”
“Surely, ’tis too late to-night,” remonstrated Prue, who was sinking with fatigue. “Her Majesty will have retired.”
“That’s no matter,” retorted the duchess arrogantly; “I am still Mistress of the Robes, and by virtue of my office entitled to enter the queen’s bed-chamber at all hours of day or night. You must accompany me, and repeat your story, else I might be discredited by the reptiles who are for ever at the royal ear, poisoning poor, faithful Mrs. Morley’s mind against her once beloved Mrs. Freeman. Come, I am ready.”
As they descended by a private staircase to take the carriage, the Groom of the Chambers approached, and deferentially inquired what was to be done with the Viscountess Brooke’s military escort.
“Faith, ’tis the honest soldier who wanted to hale me off to jail,” cried Prue in reply to the duchess’ look of surprised inquiry. “He came prepared to arrest a houseful of robbers or conspirators—he seemed uncertain just which—and finding me alone, with the queen’s necklace in my hand, would have taken me to prison if I had not coaxed him to bring me to you first. If I might venture to suggest that your grace bid him attend us, he can corroborate my story, if needful.”
“Let him come,” the duchess commanded. “I would I had a hundred witnesses that it was not found in Marlborough House.”