Chapter VIII An Order for a Parson
Scarcely had Margaret Moffat alighted from her chair, when Prue darted out into the little hall and greeted her with embraces.
“Oh! Peggie, Peggie, I have been counting the minutes for your return,” she cried, literally dancing round her. “Since you went away, all sorts of delightful things have happened. Our boxes have come from Yorkshire; think of it, all our finery—packed anyhow, to be sure, but a hot iron will repair the damage—and we can go to court and to church and to the play, and to the Duchess of Marlborough’s masquerade! Oh! Peggie, I am crazy with joy!” and she kissed her cousin again, with an ardor that must have been rather exasperating to Sir Geoffrey, who was looking on.
By this time, Peggie had thrown off her wraps, and forgetting all about Robin, had become as joyously excited as Prue.
“Oh! the masquerade—shall we be invited? I was breaking my heart to think of missing it!”
“We are invited! Scarcely had the trunks arrived, when there came a messenger from the duchess with the invitations for the masquerade, and a note bidding me to dinner with her grace, to-morrow, at noon. Think how overjoyed I was to be able to accept both invitations. I flew up to grandmother to give her the good news—never thinking, I vow, that she would do aught but scold—and found her in a most gracious mood. She gave me a lovely lace flounce. Oh! Peggie, you know her rose-point? there’s some for you, too; and what do you think? She offered to lend me her pearls, and promised to give us fifty guineas to help make us presentable at the queen’s next drawing-room. Isn’t that good news? And now, Peggie, you must help me prepare for to-morrow; that is even more important than the mask, for if the duchess should be in great good-humor with her little Prue, she might take her to Kensington Palace to make her peace with the queen!”
“To-morrow morning you have already one very particular engagement,” cried Peggie, laughing. “I see, however, that poor Robin was right in thinking you might change your mind before I got back!”
“Robin—!” Prue glanced at Sir Geoffrey, and turned scarlet. Then her eyes danced with mischief. “Tell us all about it, Peggie; Sir Geoffrey may as well enjoy the joke.”
Margaret hesitated, and would have changed the subject, but Prue, wilful as usual, would not be denied.
“’Tis too good to keep,” she laughed. “You must know, Sir Geoffrey, that I am desperately in debt; ’tis no secret, though no one but Peggie knows how I have been driven and harried by my creditors. Well, in utter despair, I hit upon a most original way of paying my debts. I decided to be the widow of Robin Freemantle, who is condemned to be hanged next Monday.”
“The widow of Robin Freemantle!” he exclaimed, with evident mystification. “Pray, how can you be a widow without first being a wife?”
“That was the only difficulty,” cried Prue, with a mock-serious air, “so I persuaded Peggie to go to Newgate and ask Robin to marry me. Did he consent, Peggie? Did he make terms and demand a bribe, or am I forestalled by some fair Molly of the Minories, and must I pine in the Fleet, or marry good Mr. Aarons?”
Sir Geoffrey, who was, perhaps, a little deficient in sense of humor, could not dissemble his perplexity. He had passed the afternoon at the feet of his capricious mistress, or rather under the high heels of her dainty slippers, for she had laughed at his vows and persisted in turning his poetic rhapsodies into coldest prose. Even her joy over the arrival of her trunks and the duchess’ invitations, had not improved matters, for she took little pains to conceal that the prospect of returning to the field of her former triumphs had reawakened a thirst for further conquest, which might prove disastrous, both to his matrimonial views and his rash wager.
It was certainly disconcerting to hear his betrothed calmly discussing her possible marriage with this one and that one, while he was racking his brain to devise some means of marrying her without burdening himself with the debts she must needs bring in her little hand. And Sir Geoffrey had already discovered that Prudence was never so likely to be serious, as when she appeared most frivolous.
“Miss Moffat has been to Newgate?” he exclaimed, grasping that one fact out of a bewildering array of vague possibilities. “What an extraordinary adventure! And did you really see the miscreant?”
“I saw him,” replied Peggie, “and for a miscreant, he was really quite inoffensive, and even agreeable;” she smiled furtively, as she thought of the two kisses he had stolen, “and if Prue will choose that way out of her troubles, she may; for he’s ready to marry her to-morrow, if she will provide the priest and the ring.”
Prue glanced at her suitor, and observing his downcast eyes and the thoughtful frown upon his brow, thought the joke had been carried far enough, even for her perverse humor.
“Nay, dear Peggie, ’tis enough folly for once,” she said. “Let the poor fellow die in peace. What good would it do me to be the widow of a malefactor publicly hanged? I could never claim the rights of such a widowhood!”
“It need not be known, coz,” Peggie eagerly suggested. “He has another name—one quite familiar to you—and though he will die as Robin Freemantle, he will be married and buried under his own name—or what he claims as his own—Robert Gregory de Cliffe.”
Both her hearers repeated the name in tones of astonishment, “De Cliffe!”
“Of course, it is an assumed name, but ’twill serve, none the less,” said Sir Geoffrey, with a constrained smile.
“De Cliffe,” repeated Prue; “’twould be strange, indeed, if that name became mine by such a means. Lord Beachcombe would be greatly edified, if he knew I had a second opportunity of bearing his family-name.” She laughed merrily, “If such a thing could be taken seriously, this would almost tempt me.”
“And why not?” cried Peggie. “I protest I see no reason for throwing away such a chance. You marry the man to-morrow, and on Monday you will be a widow. His body will be claimed by a friend and buried under the name of De Cliffe, and if your creditors harass you, all you have to do is to produce your marriage-lines and they may go hunt for their money in Robin’s grave.”
Prue looked irresolutely at Sir Geoffrey. Her caprice for this marriage was almost played out, but she wanted to be coaxed out of it, and to make a great favor of yielding up her own wilful way to the remonstrances and entreaties of her lover. Sir Geoffrey, on the other hand, had rapidly turned the matter over in his own mind, and arrived at the conclusion that however this escapade might affect Prue, it would have two points in his favor. First, the riddance of those debts which he was so unwilling to shoulder, and second, the advantage that the possession of such a secret would give him in pressing his suit to a speedy marriage, and in maintaining his marital authority later on. Sir Geoffrey adored Prue, but with the experience he had gained of her wiles and guiles, he had no objection to the handling of a weapon that would keep them in due subjection.
He remained silent, so after a pause that began to be ominous, Prue said softly, “And you, Sir Geoffrey; how does this project strike you? Peggie has given me a girl’s advice; I should like a man’s opinion.”
He hemmed a little, and glanced from one expectant face to the other. “Woman’s wit,” he began at last, “is often more to the point than man’s—”
“Wisdom,” suggested Peggie, filling in a slight hesitancy.
He laughed deprecatingly. “Oh! my dear Miss Margaret, I was not thinking of laying claim to wisdom—merely to logic, with which we poor dull-brained men try to compensate for our lack of feminine intuition. You, who are wise as well as witty, can well afford to be merciful—”
“Still,” persisted Prue, “you are only complimenting Peggie’s wit; you are not telling us what you think of her scheme.”
“Peggie’s scheme!—oh—” murmured Margaret, sotto voce.
“My dearest Prudence, surely I do not need to say that the idea of any man having even such a ghost of a claim upon the woman I adore, is abhorrent to me,” Sir Geoffrey began, rather pompously. “’Tis absurd to think that a few words to a stranger could free you from so much anxiety, while I, the most faithful of your slaves, am forced by cruel Fate to stand aside, for fear of aggravating your woes.” Having got thus far, however, it occurred to him that this was too serious a view of the matter, so he went on with a careless laugh, “To be sure you would only see him once—the fellow’s audacity would be rightly punished by such a torment of Tantalus—and your creditors—the wretches have threatened you with the Fleet, did you say? By Saint George, ’tis no more than they deserve to be balked of their prey—it seems almost worth while—”
“I see,” interrupted Prue, without the least appearance of annoyance, “that you agree with Peggie. We will consider it settled. I’m so glad we have told you about it,” she went on, in her most vivacious manner. “I really don’t see how Peggie and I could have managed without you; and to think that I was foolish enough to be afraid you would be shocked!—”
“Oh! I am shocked—distracted, at the idea of any man—” he began, but she interrupted him, playfully shaking her forefinger at him.
“Now, now! don’t let us try to be sentimental about it. The plan is a very good plan; very sensible and ingenious. I am proud of having originated it. Peggie, I know, is proud of having successfully carried out the negotiations, and you will have a right, my dear Sir Geoffrey, to be proud of the part you are going to play in bringing it to a triumphant end.”
“I am entirely at your disposal, my dear Prudence,” said Sir Geoffrey, rather taken aback at thus finding himself assigned an acting part in the comedy, “but I hardly know what I can do—indeed, the fewer persons concerned the better, I think—the less likely to attract attention—comment might be caused by any—a—unusual action on the part of a member of Parliament—the newsmongers are always on the look-out for—”
“Ta-ta-ta! don’t you suppose that I should make a spicier mouthful for the newsmongers than even a member of Parliament?” cried Prue impatiently. “Who is to procure the marriage license and the priest, Sir Geoffrey, unless you do it? Don’t you think I should attract more attention in Doctors’ Commons than Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, M.P.? And surely, you can more easily find some accommodating parson who will keep the secret and be sure to tie the knot so securely, that when the time comes to reap the reward, there may be no slip ’twixt cup and lip. Then, to-morrow morning, you can conduct me to Newgate, on my way to dine with the duchess, and take care that Peggie and I do not get clapped into a dungeon by mistake.”
“If it can be done so soon,” Sir Geoffrey began reluctantly, yet scarcely venturing to make any further excuse.
“If it can not be done then,” cried Prue imperiously, “it will not be done at all. You may be sure, once I get back to court, I shall have no time for marrying malefactors, or members of Parliament either, mayhap.”
Sir Geoffrey made no further protest, but considering that the benefit to himself was so undeniable, gave in gracefully, and pledged himself to his lady’s service with many courtly vows. Indeed, the tempting prospect of Prue, divested of her debts, and free in three days to bestow herself upon him, rose before him in such glowing colors, that even Lord Beachcombe’s wager was cast into the shade, and only served to add luster to the vision of his fickle and inconsequent mistress, reduced to sweet reasonableness and proper wifely submission by the judicious use of her discreditable secret.
He, therefore, took his leave, having to content himself for the nonce with the tips of Prue’s fingers to kiss, and leaving the cousins to the delightful occupation of turning over their recovered wardrobes, and devising the means of making a resplendent appearance at court with their present possessions and the thrifty outlay of Lady Drumloch’s fifty guineas.