Chapter XXII In A Chairman’s Livery
Lady Barbara rustled into the room in the most expansive of hoops and the loftiest of heads of lace and feathers, the height, literally, of the mode.
“Prue, you sly minx, I have come to give you the scolding you deserve,” she began, and half-mirthful, half-reproachful, was about to embrace her when her glance fell upon Lord Beachcombe. She started back and turned her eyes from one to the other with exaggerated disapproval, behind which lurked the excitement of the keen hunter on a promising trail.
Beachcombe’s dark face flushed with an embarrassment that he vainly attempted to conceal under the elaborate politeness of his greeting, but Prue, all innocent smiles, and thoroughly enjoying a situation which put her inquisitor to confusion, flew into her dear friend’s arms.
“How are you, dearest Bab?” she cried. “I am simply perishing for a long, long talk with you. Oh! I have so much to tell you—”
“Not so much as you think, perhaps, wicked one,” retorted Barbara, still reproachfully, “but I own I am dying for the key to your mysterious adventures.”
“Have you, too, come to cross-question me about last night?” cried Prue petulantly. “Before I was out of my bed, the house was besieged. Ah! here is Peggie, who can tell you more about my visitors than I can, for half of them came while I was yet asleep.”
“’Tis not your visitors I want to hear about, Prue, but yourself. To think, that with such a frolic to the fore, my Prue should have left me without a hint of what was happening! How can I ever forgive it?”
“Lady Brooke should be pardoned all things for the sake of her heroism,” said Beachcombe, with cold irony. “Yet it seems a pity that she should have braved alone the dangers so many of her friends would willingly have shared.”
“You too?” cried Barbara, raising hands and eyes appealingly to the offended heavens. “Can neither matrimony nor paternity cure the Prue-fever?—nor even phlebotomy at the hands of so skilful a chirurgeon as Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert? Pray, if one may venture to inquire, what may be your interest in the recovery of the queen’s necklace, since surely it can not be either friendship or love?”
The look he gave her certainly suggested neither of these emotions, but his voice was under better control.
“My interest, dear Lady Barbara, is so far selfish that as the robbery was perpetrated under cover of my domino, I should certainly have wished to take part in the finding of the jewel—and the thief.”
“La!” cried Barbara, smiling enigmatically. “How unfortunate that the necklace has been returned and the thief arrested without your assistance!”
“Arrested!” her auditors exclaimed together, but in very different tones. Lord Beachcombe’s vibrated with gratified hatred, Prue’s trembled with dismay. The color dropped from her cheek, and but for Peggie’s promptitude, her agitation would have betrayed her beyond concealment. She, however, had been hovering on the threshold trying to attract her cousin’s attention, and now ran forward with great vivacity, and by a torrent of eager questions, drew attention to herself and gave Prue time to recover from her perturbation, though not before it had been observed with malicious inference by Lord Beachcombe.
“Why, truly, I scarcely expected to bring news to the fountain-head,” Barbara ran on. “Yet ’tis a fact, my poor Prue, that your romance has a very commonplace finale. ’Tis no dashing exploit of a bold highwayman, after all, no hairbreadth escape from a robber’s den, but merely the outcome of an intrigue between a chambermaid and a scrivener’s clerk; and a fit of vulgar jealousy has pricked the bubble of your romance, my love!”
Greatly to the astonishment of both her visitors, Prue’s face, instead of falling in dismay, became irradiated with the loveliest expression of joy. Her eyes, softly luminous, swam in a rapturous mist and dimples played in the damask that suddenly drove the pallor from her cheek. Such a transformation could hardly fail to astonish even those most accustomed to the swift variations of this creature of caprice.
“Tell us quickly, dear Barbara,” she cried, with a little tremolo of excitement in her voice. “You know ’twas near midnight when the duchess brought me home, and I was so tired I slept until noon—all my visitors this morning have come to seek information—not to impart it. Do, pray, tell me what has happened.”
“La! Prue, I thought you would be mortified to death at such a tame ending to your romantic adventure, and you seem delighted,” replied Barbara, with pique. “One of the serving-wenches at Marlborough House, finding the royal tiring-room for a moment unguarded, took her sweetheart in, and not content with gazing, they must needs carry their audacity to the point of fingering Her Majesty’s toilet-articles, and so came upon the necklace in its case, which so dazzled them, I presume, that they turned crazy, and hearing voices at one door, ran out of another and found themselves back in the servants’ quarters with the necklace in their possession. The girl swears they did not mean to steal it, but did not know how to get it back unobserved, and finally the lover, in a panic, fled from the house, carrying the perilous pelf with him.”
“A probable story, indeed!” cried Beachcombe scoffingly. “It might account for the disappearance of the jewel, but scarcely for its restoration.”
“Oh! that was a case of conscience, a thing quite incomprehensible of course to an ‘esprit fort,’ such as your lordship,” retorted Barbara. “The girl suffered tortures, it appears, during which she was a dozen times on the point of confessing, but hesitated for fear of incriminating her lover. Then came the story of the return of the necklace, which, by the time it reached the still-room, had grown to the wildest of marvels. After that, no one seems to know exactly what happened, but possibly, between fear of her own part in the affair and rage at the treachery of her lover, the wretched creature lost what few senses she had and actually forced her way into the presence of the duchess, where she groveled on the floor, confessing and accusing and Lord knows what besides, and was carried out raving and foaming at the mouth.”
“And so she confessed that she and her lover had stolen, or at any rate carried off the necklace,” commented Prue thoughtfully.
“Then how do you account for its restoration by Robin Freemantle?” Beachcombe inquired, with his stealthy eyes upon her.
“Do you persist, even now, in connecting him with this affair?” she retorted, facing him defiantly. “For my part, I am now thoroughly convinced that it was a very vulgar matter and that I have been made a fool and a tool of by a pack of low wretches. Do not let any one who does not wish to offend me, ever mention my part in it again.”
“On the contrary—” Barbara was beginning, when Peggie, from the window, uttered a cry of admiration.
“Is that your new chair at the door, Barbara?” she cried. “Sure, ’tis the finest in town!”
“Ah! I had for the moment forgotten—’twas but to display it I came here this afternoon—to show that and to scold Prue for a faithless friend.”
They all followed her to the window, and in the street below stood a most superb sedan-chair, all carving and gilding, lined and curtained with crimson, and borne by four strapping footmen in liveries to match.
“’Tis truly magnificent,” cried Lord Beachcombe. “All the world admires the taste of Lady Barbara Sweeting, but this time she has given us something to marvel at.”
While he was speaking, Peggie plucked at Prue’s sleeve and murmured in her ear, “In the library,” with a glance and gesture that needed no interpretation. With an immense effort of self-control, Prue stopped long enough to compliment her friend on her new and gorgeous equipage, and then slipped away, with her heart throbbing in her throat, and ran down-stairs, to find Robin awaiting her, rather inefficiently disguised in a gold-laced velvet coat and a voluminous periwig, in which his marked resemblance to Lord Beachcombe struck Prue with absolute consternation.
“Robin, Robin!” she cried, when the door was closed, “how could you dream of coming here, of all places?”
“I have dreamed of nothing else,” he replied. His eyes were glowing and his whole countenance transformed by a sublime transport of adoration. Few men are capable of this ecstasy and few women privileged to behold it; none, it may be conjectured, can resist its enchantment. Prue, trembling with a strange joy, yielded to the arms of her lover-husband, and there forgot everything else for a few blissful moments.
“Dearest, you must not stay here,” she murmured, when he released her lips, “your worst enemy is in this house.” And in a few rapid words she told him of Lord Beachcombe’s search after the papers, his prediction of Robin’s visit and his suggestion of using her as a bait to the trap he proposed setting for him.
“Go, now—at once, Robin, my husband, and send me word where to come to you; it is safer so. Oh! I will come! you need not fear—you see, I do not even ask if you want me to! Send for me, and be not too tardy about it—”
“Tardy, Heart of my heart,” he murmured, with his lips to hers. “Every moment I spend away from you is an eternity in purgatory. If I must go, tell me that you love me, that I may have something to live upon until we meet again.”
“Oh! I love you, Robin—indeed I love you—yet I take blame to myself for telling you so often, who have never yet said it to me. Some day you will, mayhap, remind me that I did all the wooing, and all the marrying, too! Nay, swear to me, Robin, that thou’lt forget that ever I asked thee to many me—” and she hid her face, all blushing with love and shame, upon his shoulder.
“Forget!” he exclaimed. “If ever I forget, it will be because my body is dust and my soul in torment! Yet I can not believe it. I fear to close my eyes in sleep, lest when I wake I shall find I have been dreaming—dreaming that these arms have held the dearest and sweetest woman in all the world and these most unworthy lips have been permitted to offer her worship. Oh! I scarcely dare to say, ‘I love you.’ I would I knew some other word that could express the adoration that fills my heart to bursting! I loved you the moment my eyes fell on your angel face—from the moment I kissed you. Oh! how dared I kiss you? Yet I was punished! You can not imagine the fire that kiss left in my veins—the unappeasable longing in my heart!” His lips were seeking hers again, but she thrust him away with tender vehemence.
“No, no,” she cried, “don’t stop to kiss me now, but go, while yet the way is open.”
She had her hand upon the lock when it turned gently and the door opened a few inches. The eyes of Lord Beachcombe and Robin met over Prue’s head and the flash of mutual animosity struck through her like an electric current. She glanced quickly from one to the other, and the secret of their kinship revealed itself so convincingly in the two faces that she did not even feel surprised. It seemed as if she must always have known that they were brothers.
The door closed again so swiftly that the whole incident was over before any one could have drawn a breath.
“It is too late!” whispered Prue, then threw herself into Robin’s arms in a kind of desperation that was half rapture. “He will betray you, but they must take me too; I will not be separated from you.”
“He will not come here for me,” said Robin, cool and practical in the presence of danger. “It will be best for me to go at once, before he has time to call assistance. I can surely beat off half-a-dozen of his lackeys single-handed. If I give him time to set a posse of constables in wait for me, I may have more trouble with them. Farewell, Heart of gold; I will send a safe messenger to you soon. Oh! I must see you again very soon; I have so much to say to you—”
“Yet, wait,” said Prue, detaining him. “Let me think; I would not risk your life unnecessarily. Stay here and I will return instantly.”
She was back in a few minutes accompanied by a gorgeous vision of rich brocade and costly lace. These embellishments fitly set off a stately figure that had once been slenderer and a charming face that showed few of the ravages of time and, indeed, had more than replaced the graces of youth by the archness and gaiety time had but enhanced.
“Barbara, this is my friend Captain de Cliffe,” said Prue. “We met in the North Country. Permit me to present him to you.”
Lady Barbara’s evident astonishment did not affect the ceremoniousness of her deep curtsey, to which Robin, not less surprised by Prue’s manoeuver, responded with a gravely respectful salute.
“Methinks I have heard of your meeting with this gentleman—on Bleakmoor,” said Barbara, with twinkling eyes. “I, myself, claim a distant kinship with the De Cliffes; what branch do you belong to, Captain?”
“I am an unworthy twig of the senior branch,” replied Robin.
“Ah! that accounts for your strong resemblance to the late earl,” said Barbara, seating herself near the window, and so compelling him to face the light, while she coolly scrutinized him. “And if the present earl were a handsome fellow, you would be like enough for brothers. As it is—”
“As it is, he hates me like a brother,” said Robin negligently, “and in that the resemblance between us is not to be denied.”
“Dear Barbara,” cried Prue, “let me make a confession to you. Captain de Cliffe is also known as Robin Freemantle, the highwayman.”
“And when I told you so t’other day, you pretended to be surprised,” cried Barbara reproachfully. “Little did I ever expect that my Prue would so deceive me.”
“’Twas not to deceive you, dear Barbara, but a roomful of curious gossips, all ready to fall upon poor little me and tear my secret to shreds. Scold me as much as you will, some other time, dearest Bab, but help us now!”
“Us?” cried Barbara, turning her shrewd eyes from one to the other with sudden enlightenment. “Aha!” she smiled knowingly, and Prue, blushing and faltering, found no word to explain away her unvoiced suspicion. “I am glad, at any rate,” she went on rather dryly, “to find Sir Geoffrey’s nose out of joint! But if you want help, why did you not ask Beachcombe, who seems all too willing to return to your feet, and who has already, if I am not mistaken, once rescued this gentleman from Newgate?”
“Barbara, he wishes nothing so much as to get him back there. Scarce an hour ago he proposed to me to decoy him here that he might seize him and rob him of valuable papers. No doubt he would kill him if he resisted, or throw him into prison. So now, dear Barbara, help me to devise some way of getting him away from here unobserved.”
“That is not difficult,” Barbara assured her. “My new chair is amply large for two. If Captain de Cliffe will give me his arm, we will walk out of this house together and he can escort me home.”
“But, Bab, if that wretch is on the watch, he may attack you. Remember, he has seen Rob—Captain de Cliffe here, and if you had seen his face as I did, when he looked in at the door! Oh, you may be sure that even you would not be safe at his hands, if you stood between him and the object of his hatred!”
“I have a better plan,” said Barbara, laughing mischievously, “and one that promises more diversion. You are tall, Captain,” she looked him over with an approving eye, “a proper man, i’ faith! Do you think you could be trusted to take the place of one of my chairmen? They are all six-foot men, chosen to match in size; I am very fastidious in such matters. Three are new to my service, but the fourth is a faithful lad, who can be trusted to hold his tongue. In his livery you can defy my Lord Beachcombe and his myrmidons and walk away under their noses.”
This proposition was quite to Prue’s taste and Robin, who was too anxious to get away without causing her any serious trouble, to care much in what guise he fared forth, gratefully consented. So James was despatched to call Lady Barbara’s man Thomas, to whom she conveyed her commands in the fewest possible words, and the two ladies withdrew while the exchange of costume was effected, and the stolid Thomas, too well accustomed to his mistress’ whims to raise the least question, resigned his crimson coat and gold-laced hat, his silk stockings and buckled shoes, and even his powdered bob-wig, to the new chairman.
By this time Prue’s usual afternoon court was assembling in far greater numbers than the little house could easily accommodate, and the rustle of brocades and the ripple of gay voices filled the air. Outside the library Barbara hesitated. “I think I will not go back to your visitors, Prue, my tongue is apt to slip out of my control and I might say something compromising,” she said. Then, seeing the door open into the empty dining-room, she went in, drawing Prue after her.
“Is it serious, child?” she demanded, with a hand on each shoulder and Prue’s eyes vainly attempting to meet her searching gaze unflinchingly. “Is it possible that the heart that has resisted a hundred and one skilled assaults can have surrendered to the ‘Stand and deliver’ of a brigand? Come, tell me everything!—if you are in love with him—”
“Oh! no, no!” cried Prue, shrinking in horror from the extent of the revelation she might be drawn into if she began with such an admission. “Love! what nonsense—for a highwayman?” and she laughed, though with less than her usual abandon.
“Yet he is a charming fellow,” said Barbara insinuatingly. “He might have caught your fancy—but, in fact,” in a gay tone, “I’m glad he has not, for to own the truth, I am more than half disposed to carry off your highwayman and hold him prisoner for a day or two. ’Twill be safer for him and his adventures will surely keep me entertained for a while—and, who knows? I might amuse myself by making a conquest of this gentle savage!”
“Oh! Barbara, fie!” cried Prue, to whom the picture of Robin under the influence of another woman’s fascinations was far from agreeable.
“It is condescension enough for you to save his life—”
“Condescension i’ faith,” laughed Barbara. “At least I can promise that my condescension shall end—where charity begins—at home! Eh, Prue? Well, I hear my new retainer in the hall, so fare thee well, dear Gossip,” and with a kiss on either cheek, she rustled out and was respectfully assisted into her chair by Robin, who then took Thomas’ vacant place at the rear pole.
The street was thronged with the equipages of Prue’s visitors and, mingling with the crowd, Lord Beachcombe, closely followed by half-a-dozen lusty fellows, exchanged greetings here and there, without relaxing his vigilant watch upon the entrance. He scarcely vouchsafed a glance toward Lady Barbara, and as she swung past him in her gorgeous sedan-chair, with her four tall chairmen at full trot, she was so elated that she had half a mind to stop and speak to him. But wisdom prevailed with her, for once, and she contented herself with waving her jeweled fan in saucy greeting. He responded with a careless wave of the hand, and the next minute she was out of sight.