"Fail! How can it fail?" cried Prue pettishly. "Besides, you know the motto of the Wynnes: 'Cowards fayle. I winne.' Well, I have failed often enough, yet not from cowardice, God wot! And still I am always hoping to win, I scarce know what."
"Your new motto will suit you just as well," said Peggie, "'Nil timeo.'"
"Ha, ha! the motto of the De Cliffes. Was ever such audacity as this Robin's? I've a mind to ask him, when the deed is done, if he has any directions to give about his hatchment, or if I shall refer the matter to the head of the house."
"Oh! Prue, are you utterly heartless? I declare, since I have seen the poor young man I am sorry for him and I wish I had not helped to turn his execution into a jest."
"Would you have me weep?" said Prue, almost sternly. "There is always time enough for that when there is nothing else to be done. Ah! I hear Sir Geoffrey's voice. You are dressed, Peggie, prithee go down to him and bring me word whether he has done his part, and is ready—and willing—to give away the bride."
She turned for a last look in the mirror as Peggie hurried away, and the half-scornful smile with which she surveyed her own charming reflection had none of the levity with which she had so easily deceived her cousin. Yet it certainly was not a picture to provoke disdain. Never had the wilful beauty looked to greater advantage. The restless brilliancy of her sparkling eyes, the changeful color that flushed and paled her cheek with each quick-drawn breath, the nameless but irresistible charm that animated every feature, might have excused a more complacent glance. But Prue, though by no means prone to deal severely with herself, was a good deal more ashamed of her scheme than she would have cared to own, even to herself, and perhaps secretly longed for some insurmountable obstacle to stop her in spite of herself.
She was determined, however, that she would not be the one to raise a difficulty. She was so unspeakably mortified by the new light yesterday's events had thrown on Sir Geoffrey's wooing that the idea of placing a barrier between herself and him, gave her keen satisfaction. That the possibility of her inheriting a fortune from her grandmother should have influenced his pursuit of her ever so slightly, wounded her vanity, that nerve-center of her being; and that he should have lent his countenance and help to a scheme that would give her, even nominally, to another man, no matter how brief or indefinite the tenure, dealt it an almost mortal blow.
"He has yet a chance," she murmured. "He may have found on reflection that he can not bring himself to sacrifice me for the sake of a couple of thousand pounds' worth of debts, and he may implore me to refrain for his sake. I might not be persuaded—one can never answer for oneself—but he would come out of it without dishonor." She mechanically smoothed a ribbon here and adjusted a flounce there and, half turning, tried to obtain a full view of her back in a glass two feet square. "'Tis provoking to be obliged to dress by guess-work," she commented. "If I were to marry old Aarons I could have three or four tire-women, and a dressing-room with the walls all covered with mirrors, so that I could see every side of myself at once. Pah! what is coming over me that I could even think of such a creature? What with marrying criminals and receiving offers from usurers the Viscountess Brooke must be coming to a pretty pass."
With which she made a deep curtsey to as much as she could see of the Viscountess Brooke in the little looking-glass, and running out of the room met Miss Moffat coming up-stairs.
"Hasten, Prue," she whispered breathlessly. "All is arranged. Sir Geoffrey has the ring and license in his pocket and a parson in the carriage. If the bride is ready—" She had entirely recovered from her brief spasm of reluctance and was as merry as a child and as reckless of consequences.