"And how long do you expect to escape the pack of 'damned good-natured friends' who have been accustomed to feed upon the choice morsels of scandal you have liberally provided for them?" he demanded. "Before to-night every gossip in town will be in possession of the story of your adventures, and each one who recounts it will put his own construction upon it."
"'Tis true," she murmured. "I have often assisted at such feasts of reason. They are highly entertaining, and every one is eager to add a dash of spice or vinegar to the witches' broth. And there is nothing I can do to stop those busybodies." She glanced resentfully at Sir Geoffrey, yet there was inquiry in her eye.
"Certainly there is something," he replied, answering the unspoken question. "You can give them something else to talk about that will throw the escapade of the necklace into the shade. The shade, do I say? Rather into utter oblivion." An ironical smile began to dawn upon her face, but he did not leave her time to speak. "You can give them a wedding to talk about, a subject that eclipses every other; if you prefer it, an elopement; indeed, I think that would be more dramatic. Say but the word, dearest, and in an hour, a post-chaise—"
"Oh! Sir Geoffrey," she exclaimed, bursting into a hearty laugh. "Can you really seriously propose such an absurdity to me? An elopement? a post-chaise? Methinks I should be like a man who jumps into a river to avoid being wetted by a passing shower! We should indeed give the town something to talk about; and not only talk, but laugh at."
"Let them laugh," said Sir Geoffrey doggedly. "So can I; and he laughs longest who laughs last."
"With me for the butt of your hilarity? Thanks, I am always pleased to have my friends—and my enemies—laugh with me, but to have them all laughing at me is scarcely to my taste. Besides, for you, Sir Geoffrey, to suggest such a thing to me—you who know that I am already another man's wife and can not therefore legally become yours—for you to make such an offer is an insult—no less."
"My dearest Prue, spare me these reproaches. I grant that yesterday, while this man lived, you were—in a sort of way—his wife. But why should you, who were on the spot, pretend to be ignorant of what the whole town knows this morning, that Robin Freemantle was killed last night, and that consequently you are, as you naturally wish to be—his widow? I congratulate you—and myself."
All Prue's forebodings revived at these words, uttered with an air of triumphant security that struck a chill to her heart. "I—I do not understand you—" she stammered, trying to appear unconcerned.
"Oh! I think you do," he replied, "only you love to torment me by playing the inexorable prude. You were at Robin's house and witnessed—nay, possibly connived at his escape. You were still there when the soldiers overtook the boat in which he and his band were attempting escape, and shot the fugitives and sank their boat. The news in to-day's Courant can not but confirm your own hopes of regaining the joys of freedom, with all the advantages for which you married Captain—de Cliffe."
As she remained silent, he drew the News sheet from his pocket and, with a great show of searching out the item, handed it to her. She waved it away with a careless gesture and when he offered to read it to her, she merely bent her head slightly, never moving her eyes from his face.