Chapter XXV A Confession
It was Peggie who, after some hours’ anxious watching, opened the door without waiting for Prue’s knock. She had long ago persuaded the sleepy and unreluctant James to retire to bed, and settling herself beside the dim lamp with a book, uncomplainingly resigned herself to a tedious and solitary vigil.
She had passed an evening not without excitement, for her grandmother’s searching and persistent inquiries into Prue’s mysterious behavior were not to be evaded, and some kind of explanation was inevitable. So, ingeniously substituting Captain de Cliffe, the emissary of King James, for Captain Freemantle, the highwayman, Peggie admitted that Prue and he had met “in the North,” that after his arrest she had visited him in Newgate Prison, and that although now an outlaw and fugitive, steeped in Jacobite plots and charged with state secrets and compromising documents, he had played an important part in her recovery of the queen’s necklace. In fact, she had contrived, without desperately straining the truth, to surround Robin with an aura of heroism and loyalty that had enlisted the old countess’ sympathy for him, almost to the extent of preparing her to sanction Prue’s marriage.
Having skilfully wrought her up to this point. Peggie had retired, leaving her revelations to work upon Lady Drumloch’s long-dormant but far from extinct passion for the cause which had robbed her of husband, sons and worldly possessions, and left her nothing for the consolation of her declining years but unrecognized devotion to the most ungrateful of dynasties.
Too excited to think of bed, the cousins were still eagerly exchanging confidences, when Prue stopped abruptly and listened. Peggie was hurrying on with her story, but Prue checked her with a warning hand.
“Hark, Peggie, did you hear that? Was it not some one knocking at our door?”
Peggie listened, and the knocking was repeated. She threw open the window, and thrusting her head out, withdrew it after a brief investigation, with the announcement that there was a man in the street, looking up at their lighted window.
“Only one man?” queried Prue. “Can it be Robin?”
“I think not,” said Peggie; “it does not seem tall enough—this man is—there is the knocking again—what shall we do?”
“Something has happened to Robin!” cried Prue, hastily throwing a cloak about her. “I must go down and see what is the matter.”
“I’ll come with you,” cried Peggie, impelled partly by curiosity, and partly by the impulse to protect her cousin. They ran down together, and at the door paused to take counsel. It was no uncommon thing in those days for the “Mohawks” to batter thus at quiet citizens’ doors and mistreat the person who answered their summons, or even, if a woman, to carry her off, shrieking and struggling.
“Who is there?” Prue demanded through the closed door.
“It is I, Steve Larkyn,” a voice replied. “Oh! Mistress Brooke, I beseech you open the door; they have taken my master!”
Prue flung the door open, and there stood Steve, ghastly pale in the broad moonlight.
“They have taken your master? Then what are you doing here, alive and unhurt?” she cried passionately.
“Madam, what could one arm, and without a sword, avail against a dozen men, fully armed? The captain had but time to say to me, ‘Fly—to Prudence!’—your pardon, but those were his words—when they surrounded him and made him prisoner without a chance to defend himself.”
“Oh! dear God!” murmured Prue, covering her face with her trembling hands. “It is my fault; if I had left him with Barbara, he would now be safe. I brought him away to his death for a jealous whim! Where have they taken him?” she demanded, looking at Steve with widely distended eyes. “To Newgate? to the Tower? Tell me and I will go to him and share his prison.”
“I don’t know what they mean to do with him,” said Steve, “but they were taking him to Lord Beachcombe’s house—”
“Lord Beachcombe! Oh! I see it all! This is no arrest; it is a plot to rob and mayhap to murder him. Lord Beachcombe fancies that he has to deal with a defenseless outlaw and a weak woman. I will show him that there are stronger weapons than swords and bludgeons. I will go instantly to Rodney House.”
“Oh! Prue, wait until morning!” implored Peggie.
“And give Lord Beachcombe time to spirit Robin away to some secret dungeon, where I may, perhaps, never find him alive? No! I will go to him at once, without a moment’s delay.”
“Then I will go with you,” cried Peggie. “You can not go to Lord Beachcombe’s house alone.”
“Can not I? Besides, I shall not be alone; Steve Larkyn will escort me.” She turned to Robin’s faithful henchman with a wan smile. “One woman is enough for you to take care of; and you, Peggie, dear, will watch for me, so that when I return, I can get in without rousing the house. Believe me, dear,” she went on firmly, as Peggie was about to remonstrate, “what I have to do can be better done by myself alone; and I am not timid, as you know.”
“But, Prue—what on earth can you do for Robin, by going to Lord Beachcombe in the middle of the night?” Peggie urged, in desperation.
“That remains to be seen,” said Prue, with a smile of mystery. “I think I can make Lord Beachcombe set him free, and be grateful for the chance. Come, Steve,” and wrapping her mantle closely round her, she drew the hood well over her face, and went out with a resolute step into the street, already growing gray in the early dawn of the May morning.
The courtyard of Rodney House was all astir when Prudence, clinging to Steve Larkyn’s arm, stole through the great gateway, and under the deep shadow of the arcade that flanked the main entrance. That was closed, but from a low door a few feet away, a flood of light poured upon a traveling carriage with four horses and a group of mounted men. Without a moment’s hesitation, Prue darted past them, ran down a few stone steps and found herself in a large, bare basement hall, where Robin, his dress in some disorder and his hands tied behind him, stolidly confronted Lord Beachcombe in a white heat of fury.
At Prue’s sudden apparition a couple of servitors interposed to stop her and Lord Beachcombe, in a voice hoarse with rage, shouted, “Who are these people? What the devil do they want? Turn them out—”
Prue’s silvery laugh rang out. “Not so fast!” she cried, flinging back her hood. “I have business of the utmost importance with Lord Beachcombe,” and she swept him a mockingly ceremonious curtsey. No lady of the court, not even the great Duchess Sarah herself, was better known than the beautiful “Widow Brooke.” The sight of her familiar face seemed to paralyze every one present. The lackeys fell back abashed, Robin gazed at her speechless, and Beachcombe’s sallow face flushed with a purple that suffused even his eyeballs.
“Viscountess Brooke!” he stammered. “What in the name—”
“You are surprised?” she interrupted. “To be sure, my visit is somewhat untimely.” She came close to him and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Did you find what you expected when you searched Captain de Cliffe?” she inquired insinuatingly.
“How do you know I searched him?” demanded Beachcombe.
“Why, when one sees a man with his hands tied behind him and his pockets inside out, it is not unreasonable to suppose that he has been searched. Yet I’ll venture to say, Lord Beachcombe, that whatever you found, it was not what you were looking for!”
“How can you know anything about that?” he replied, with dawning suspicion. “Perhaps you know what it was and where it may be found? If so, you must be aware that it has no value except to me—”
“And Captain de Cliffe,” she interposed.
“Captain de Cliffe!” he repeated, with a bitter and disdainful emphasis.
“What would you have me call him?” she bent forward and in a whisper suggested, “Robert—Earl Beachcombe?—is that better?”
The blood ebbed from his face, leaving it ghastly with fear and fury. He cast a hasty glance toward the group of men surrounding Robin, and although they were quite out of earshot, he fiercely motioned them to a greater distance. Then he pulled himself together sufficiently to force a sardonic laugh.
“Was it to play comedy that your ladyship honored me with this nocturnal visit?” he sneered.
“Not altogether,” she replied. “I came to prevent your harming Captain de Cliffe, and, incidentally, yourself. Now tell me—in confidence—not having found the documents you sought, what do you propose to do with your prisoner?”
“I propose,” said Beachcombe slowly, “to hand him over to justice. I believe the—documents—to be lost. At any rate, I am willing to hazard the risk of their recovery in order that this man may receive his deserts as a traitor and a malefactor. After he has been hanged, there will be plenty of time for me to deal with a claim that has no longer a claimant.”
“And you really hate him enough to prefer his death to your own safety?” Prue could not repress a shudder at the cold ferocity of his tone.
“What if I secure both?” he retorted, gratified by the effect he had produced. “This man is a traitor and has earned a traitor’s death. Although I may not have found what I sought, I have found papers that will send him to the gallows, and give me a claim to the gratitude of the government. Do not trouble further about him, his fate is sealed.”
“And how if another claimant, perhaps far stronger, should spring up in his place? How if he leaves a widow?” suggested Prue. “One, for example, able and willing to pursue his claim?”
“I am not uneasy about that,” he replied, but his tone was less confident than his words. “I have the best of reasons for knowing that he is not married.”
“And you think that having no wife and leaving no—heir—to his claim (you acknowledge that he has a claim) it will cease with his death, because there is no one to pursue it?”
“My dear Lady Prudence, a lawyer could not have put it more clearly! That is exactly his position; I think mine is pretty safe, even if those redoubtable documents should still be in existence. It will then be merely a matter of money—some one will bleed me more or less copiously—but that will be the end of the trumped-up claim of Captain—Freemantle.”
“Well, Lord Beachcombe,” said Prue, smiling up into his face, “now I ask you, as a favor to me, to liberate Captain Freemantle, and to molest him no further. I will answer for it that he will leave the country immediately and abandon his claim. Surely, you will not refuse a favor that is so hard to ask and so easy to grant!”
Beachcombe laughed unpleasantly. “Come, dear Viscountess,” he said, and his tone, though bland, was tinged with insolence, “I know of old your thirst for adventure, but surely it has been slaked by the romantic episode of the queen’s necklace and the mysterious spiriting-away of your cavalier—your Knight of the Road—by Barbara Sweeting! The excitement of the affair has evaporated; its novelty has staled. Waste no more of your enchanting wiles on so sorry a subject. I have made up my mind, and even for the sake of the most charming of women, I will not change it.”
“Yet I think I may induce you,” said Prue undauntedly, “because to my certain knowledge Captain de Cliffe has a wife and those precious papers are in her possession. She knows their value, too, and will only give them up on her own terms. If you will not grant me this gentleman’s life as a favor—will you make a bargain with her?”
Astonishment and doubt struggled with Lord Beachcombe’s self-command, but he kept an unmoved face, although an inkling of the truth began to force itself upon him. Not the whole incredible truth, of course, but enough to make him suspect that Lady Prudence Brooke was more than commonly interested in the subject of their discussion.
“And what might be the terms of the bargain?” he demanded, after a brief hesitation.
“You had better settle them with Captain de Cliffe,” she said, “and I pledge my word that his wife will agree to whatever will satisfy him.”
“I will make no terms with him,” said Beachcombe sullenly. “If I listen to any proposition it is entirely for your sake, Lady Prudence, and must come from you and be carried out by you alone.”
She reflected a few moments, while he watched her intently.
“This is my proposal,” she said, at last. “That you will liberate your captive, giving him such time to reach a place of safety as he considers necessary. And that when you have received the packet you will engage not to take any steps to prevent his leaving the country. In return I promise that his wife will consider the whole matter at an end, and regard the claim as though it had never existed.”
“And when I have liberated him and given him every opportunity to elude justice, what security have I that those papers will be delivered to me?” he demanded.
“I myself will be hostage for him. Send Steve with him and when he returns, having left his master in safety, I will hand you the packet. Does that satisfy you?”
Robin, sitting on the corner of a table, a little apart, could only guess from a word here and there that rose above the low-voiced colloquy, that Prue was making terms for him, the conditions of which it was not difficult to divine. Cruelly as it irked him to see her pleading with his bitter enemy for his life, he resisted the strong temptation to interfere, as he certainly would have done, could he have known that she was offering to remain a hostage to this unscrupulous man, until his safety had been purchased by her acknowledgment of their marriage. She was too well aware of that to admit him to the conference.
Lord Beachcombe, sullenly balancing pros and cons, found it no easy matter to decide between the gratification of his revenge upon Robin and the fear of losing what might be his last chance of securing the coveted documents.
It is impossible to say how long he might have fluctuated between two desires equally importunate, but it was at last borne in upon the sluggish current of his intelligence that the certificates were possibly that moment in the possession of Lady Prudence Brooke, who certainly would not hesitate to use them for his humiliation if he exasperated her.
“What will you do if I refuse?” he said at last.
“Then,” said Prue, with spirit, “I shall go straight from here to the Duchess of Marlborough and lay the whole story—including the documents—before her. She has pledged herself to grant me any request I make of her, and will not consider the life of a highwayman too high a price to cancel her debt to me.”
“The duchess is no longer the power behind the throne,” said Beachcombe, with a scowl. “If you rely upon her influence—”
“I do not rely upon that alone,” said Prue, retaining her patience with the greatest difficulty; “I will go to the queen herself and plead with her—oh! when I show her my heart, she can not resist the appeal of my prayers and tears—” She forgot for the moment where she was and who was her listener, and in imagination was already at the feet of her royal mistress. Beachcombe regarded the sapphire eyes sparkling through unshed tears and the piteous tumult of the lovely bosom beneath the laces of her ball-dress, and his pulse quickened dizzily.
“If her Gracious Majesty were a king, I think he would give you whatever you were pleased to ask,” he breathed. “Ah! Prue—”
“And can you refuse me, when with a word you can secure my gratitude—my friendship—for life?” She stretched out her hands with a gesture so alluring, and turned upon him a look of such compelling appeal, as might have melted even a colder heart than his. He could not altogether resist her, but he still sought to temporize.
“You have those—that packet?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“Have you examined the contents? Surely woman’s curiosity—” The lightness of his words could not veil the anxiety in his voice.
“The seals are still unbroken,” she assured him, “and, if you agree to my terms, will remain so until you break them yourself.”
“But you know somewhat of the contents? No doubt,” with intense bitterness, “Captain Freemantle has given you his version of their importance?”
“Whatever I know about them, Lord Beachcombe, will be forgotten—absolutely—from the moment that Captain—Freemantle—is out of danger.”
Beachcombe still hesitated. His curiosity was strongly roused. He had had more than one experience of Prue’s unbridled caprice, but this one bewildered him. He could not grasp the only explanation; its improbability baffled him. She had led so many eligible suitors—himself one of them—a lively dance to the very altar-rails; was it believable that this man—outlaw, fugitive, proscribed, penniless—could have won the wayward beauty, and won her so completely that having actually married him, she was ready to sacrifice the future she expected to share, for his present safety?
“How am I to know that his wife, if there be such a person, will keep the promises you make for her?” he said, with his crafty eyes upon her.
“I will answer for his wife—as for myself,” said Prue. “Question me no further, Lord Beachcombe, but accept my terms—or refuse them if you deem it more to your advantage.”
It is doubtful whether even then he would have taken the decisive step, but for a sudden recollection that flooded his mind with rapture. If Prue were married, Sir Geoffrey had lost his bet, and five thousand pounds, plus a glorious revenge, would fall into the hands of his bitter foe! Unable to conceal his excitement, he seized Prue’s hand and drew her reluctantly farther away.
“Tell me,” he whispered, “are you his wife? If so, I will make no further demur. For your sake,” he added as an afterthought, “I am willing not only to free this—gentleman—but to aid his escape, although, by doing so, I play the traitor to my sovereign.”
Prue gazed steadily into his eyes, as though she would read the depths of his mean soul. Then she replied firmly, “I am his wife.”
“He is free! I pledge you my word I will not pursue him. Let him go where he pleases; your husband is sacred in my eyes.” The sinister light in them was not in accordance with the bland, congratulatory smile that played over his lips, as he turned to Robin.
“The Lady Prudence has proved irresistible, as usual, Captain Freemantle. You are free. Take my advice and use your freedom to put as many leagues as possible between yourself and London. I shall not pursue you, but there are others who seek your life, on whom the charms of Lady Prue might be exercised in vain. Untie his hands and set him free.”
When he was obeyed and Robin had returned his pockets to their proper place, Beachcombe restored their ravished contents, reserving only one object. With his eyes fastened upon that, Robin pocketed his well-furnished purse, his handkerchief and other belongings, and then held out his hand once more.
“Your pardon, Lord Beachcombe, you have forgotten my wallet.”
“The contents of that wallet, Sir Highwayman, concern matters of too great importance for either of us to deal with. It shall be placed in the hands of those most interested—when you are out of their reach,” was the reply, pompously delivered.
“I can not leave this place without that wallet,” said Robin resolutely. “It is worth more than life to me, and rather than purchase my freedom at the price of its surrender, I will remain here, and risk the worst.”
“Robin!” cried Prue, in a voice of anguish. “Have pity on me if not on yourself!”
“Would you have me sacrifice a hundred lives to save my own?” said Robin unflinchingly, though pale to the lips. With drooping head she sank upon a bench, her courage for the first time failing. Lord Beachcombe looked from one to the other with a scowl as black as thunder, then with a sudden impulse snatched up the wallet and almost flung it into Robin’s hand.
“Go!” he shouted; “go quickly, before I have time to repent my folly, and remember that other swords will soon be thirsting for your life,” and he laughed harshly, as he turned abruptly away and walked to the farther end of the hall.
Then Robin approached Prue and taking her hand, said gently, “A thousand pardons, dear Heart of my heart. I must seem an ungrateful churl; but oh! if you could know—I will write—”
“Yes, yes!” she interrupted feverishly; “but now go quickly—every moment’s delay is fatal to you—and to me—” the last words were murmured inaudibly. “How soon can you reach some safe concealment?”
“Very soon; in less than an hour,” he said. “I leave you in Steve’s care; he will conduct you home and protect you with his life.”
“First you must take him with you and send him back when you are on the road to safety. I have pledged your precious packet,” she said, smiling bravely up at him, “and when Steve returns to say you are safe, I shall give it to Lord Beachcombe. It is the price of your ransom.”
“But you—”
“Don’t you yet understand,” she cried impatiently, “that I am like a cat? No matter where I am thrown, I always fall on my feet. Do not fear for me, but begone, and if you love me, do not attempt to see me again. Farewell.”
It was no place for the tender adieux of parting lovers. He pressed her hand passionately to his lips, threw his cloak round him, and with a brief salute to Beachcombe—who took no notice of it—strode away, followed by Steve.
When their footsteps ceased to reverberate under the colonnade, Beachcombe approached Prue with a friendly smile.
“Permit me, dear Viscountess, to offer my congratulations,” he said. “You have indeed prepared a charming surprise for your friends—and enemies, if one so adorable could by any possibility have any such.”
Her answering laugh had the old ring of sweet, contagious mirth. “Circumstances have forced me to reveal my secret rather prematurely,” she said, “but I can trust your lordship’s discretion not to share it—with my dear friends—and enemies.”
“Oh! we will give your husband time to escape before we impart the joyful news to—Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, for example!”
Prue experienced an unpleasant shock as he pronounced this name, in a tone of malevolent triumph. This man, who had no cause to love either herself or Robin, evidently purposed using the secret he had torn from her in some hateful scheme of retaliation, of which Sir Geoffrey was to be the victim and executioner.
“Why Sir Geoffrey?” she murmured, half to herself.
“Because I hate Sir Geoffrey,” said Beachcombe, with cold bitterness. “He has insulted me and triumphed over me—who can know how so well as you? He has worsted me in a duel and boasts that he will tame the lovely sorceress who has bewitched so many—myself among them—to their undoing. I hate him, and I shall never be satisfied until I see him reft of what I also have lost—impoverished—in a debtors’ prison—” he checked himself at the sight of the indignant horror his words had roused. “I can wait, however,” he went on, less vehemently. “It will satisfy me, for the present, to feel my power over him, without using it. How can I accommodate your ladyship while you wait for the captain’s messenger? You can not wait here; will you honor me by accepting the poor hospitality of my house?”
“I can perfectly well wait here,” she replied, reseating herself on the bench. “Your countess would be somewhat amazed to receive a visit from me at five o’clock in the morning—in my ball-dress! Even the Widow Brooke must draw the line somewhere!”