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.”