The Masqueraders · Chapter 18 (2/2)

“Did I, sir? Well, that is he. I think you are one of those who have little faith in his claim.”

“To say truth,” remarked Sir Anthony, “I care very little whether he proves to be Barham or not.”

“But I care, Sir Anthony. If he is Barham indeed, and I am thus a woman of birth noble enough⁠—” She found it was impossible to continue.

“Then you would marry me?” Sir Anthony prompted. “Is that it?”

She nodded. It was not in her nature to deny she cared for him.

“And do you know what you will do if he is not Tremaine of Barham?” inquired Sir Anthony conversationally.

She made a gesture of fatalism. “I shall be off on my adventuring again, sir.”

“You may call it adventuring if you please, but I believe I’m a staid creature. You will marry me just the same, you see.”

She smiled a little. “This is madness, sir. You will be glad one day that I said you nay.”

“And will you be glad, Prue?” he asked gravely.

“I shall be glad for your sake, sir.”

“My dear, I want to take you out of this masquerade of yours at once. There’s danger on all sides, and⁠—I love you.”

“Ah, do not!” she made swift outcry. “It’s not possible, sir. More depends on the masquerade than you know.”

“I believe I may guess. You’ve a brother took part in the late Rebellion, dressed now in woman’s clothes. His name is, I think, Robin.”

She looked wonderingly up at him. “Do you know everything, sir?”

“No,” he answered, smiling. “Not quite. Marry me, and put both your fortunes into my hands. I can help this Robin, maybe.”

“Not even for that. I could not, sir. Grant me a little pride! You would be King Cophetua, but I’ve no mind to play the beggar-maid.”

He made no reply for a moment, but stood looking down at her. “I cannot force you to marry me,” he said at last.

“Sir Anthony⁠—I would have you marry a woman of whom you can be proud.”

“I have nothing but pride in you. In your courage, and in the quick wits of you. I have never known so wonderful a woman.”

“You can have no pride in my birth, sir. I do not know what my father is; we have never known, for he loves to be a mystery. If this claim is true⁠—if he is indeed Tremaine of Barham⁠—ask me once more!” Her eyes were wet, but her mouth smiled resolutely.

“I am to wait, then! You deny me the right to protect you now?”

“You have me at your feet, sir,” she said unsteadily, “but I do deny you. I must.”

“You at my feet!” he said. “That is a jest indeed!” He let go her hand, and took a turn about the room. She watched him wistfully, and at last he spoke again. “Ay, you’ve pride,” he said. “Did that spring of low birth? You must needs cleave your own path, and take no help even from the man who loves you. You ask me to wait. I will wait, until this father of yours has settled his affairs. But when that day comes, and whatever the issue⁠—believe me I shall take you then, by force if need be, and carry you off to Church. Is it understood?”

She smiled mistily, and tried to shake her head. He laughed and there was no laziness either in his face or in his voice. “Better come to me willingly then,” he said, “for, by God, I shall have no mercy!”