Chapter IX: Part 9

"And you think that having no wife and leaving no—heir—to his claim (you acknowledge that he has a claim) it will cease with his death, because there is no one to pursue it?"

"My dear Lady Prudence, a lawyer could not have put it more clearly! That is exactly his position; I think mine is pretty safe, even if those redoubtable documents should still be in existence. It will then be merely a matter of money—some one will bleed me more or less copiously—but that will be the end of the trumped-up claim of Captain—Freemantle."

"Well, Lord Beachcombe," said Prue, smiling up into his face, "now I ask you, as a favor to me, to liberate Captain Freemantle, and to molest him no further. I will answer for it that he will leave the country immediately and abandon his claim. Surely, you will not refuse a favor that is so hard to ask and so easy to grant!"

Beachcombe laughed unpleasantly. "Come, dear Viscountess," he said, and his tone, though bland, was tinged with insolence, "I know of old your thirst for adventure, but surely it has been slaked by the romantic episode of the queen’s necklace and the mysterious spiriting-away of your cavalier—your Knight of the Road—by Barbara Sweeting! The excitement of the affair has evaporated; its novelty has staled. Waste no more of your enchanting wiles on so sorry a subject. I have made up my mind, and even for the sake of the most charming of women, I will not change it."

"Yet I think I may induce you," said Prue undauntedly, "because to my certain knowledge Captain de Cliffe has a wife and those precious papers are in her possession. She knows their value, too, and will only give them up on her own terms. If you will not grant _me_ this gentleman’s life as a favor—will you make a bargain with _her_?"

Astonishment and doubt struggled with Lord Beachcombe’s self-command, but he kept an unmoved face, although an inkling of the truth began to force itself upon him. Not the whole incredible truth, of course, but enough to make him suspect that Lady Prudence Brooke was more than commonly interested in the subject of their discussion.

"And what might be the terms of the bargain?" he demanded, after a brief hesitation.

"You had better settle them with Captain de Cliffe," she said, "and I pledge my word that his wife will agree to whatever will satisfy him."

"I will make no terms with him," said Beachcombe sullenly. "If I listen to any proposition it is entirely for your sake, Lady Prudence, and must come from you and be carried out by you alone."

She reflected a few moments, while he watched her intently.

"This is my proposal," she said, at last. "That you will liberate your captive, giving him such time to reach a place of safety as he considers necessary. And that when you have received the packet you will engage not to take any steps to prevent his leaving the country. In return I promise that his wife will consider the whole matter at an end, and regard the claim as though it had never existed."

"And when I have liberated him and given him every opportunity to elude justice, what security have I that those papers will be delivered to me?" he demanded.

"I myself will be hostage for him. Send Steve with him and when he returns, having left his master in safety, I will hand you the packet. Does that satisfy you?"

Robin, sitting on the corner of a table, a little apart, could only guess from a word here and there that rose above the low-voiced colloquy, that Prue was making terms for him, the conditions of which it was not difficult to divine. Cruelly as it irked him to see her pleading with his bitter enemy for his life, he resisted the strong temptation to interfere, as he certainly would have done, could he have known that she was offering to remain a hostage to this unscrupulous man, until his safety had been purchased by her acknowledgment of their marriage. She was too well aware of that to admit him to the conference.

Lord Beachcombe, sullenly balancing pros and cons, found it no easy matter to decide between the gratification of his revenge upon Robin and the fear of losing what might be his last chance of securing the coveted documents.

It is impossible to say how long he might have fluctuated between two desires equally importunate, but it was at last borne in upon the sluggish current of his intelligence that the certificates were possibly that moment in the possession of Lady Prudence Brooke, who certainly would not hesitate to use them for his humiliation if he exasperated her.

"What will you do if I refuse?" he said at last.

"Then," said Prue, with spirit, "I shall go straight from here to the Duchess of Marlborough and lay the whole story—including the _documents_—before her. She has pledged herself to grant me any request I make of her, and will not consider the life of a highwayman too high a price to cancel her debt to me."

"The duchess is no longer the power behind the throne," said Beachcombe, with a scowl. "If you rely upon her influence—"

"I do not rely upon that _alone_," said Prue, retaining her patience with the greatest difficulty; "I will go to the queen herself and plead with her—oh! when I show her my heart, she can not resist the appeal of my prayers and tears—" She forgot for the moment where she was and who was her listener, and in imagination was already at the feet of her royal mistress. Beachcombe regarded the sapphire eyes sparkling through unshed tears and the piteous tumult of the lovely bosom beneath the laces of her ball-dress, and his pulse quickened dizzily.

"If her Gracious Majesty were a king, I think he would give you whatever you were pleased to ask," he breathed. "Ah! Prue—"

"And can _you_ refuse me, when with a word you can secure my gratitude—my friendship—for life?" She stretched out her hands with a gesture so alluring, and turned upon him a look of such compelling appeal, as might have melted even a colder heart than his. He could not altogether resist her, but he still sought to temporize.

"You have those—that packet?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"Have you examined the contents? Surely woman’s curiosity—" The lightness of his words could not veil the anxiety in his voice.

"The seals are still unbroken," she assured him, "and, if you agree to my terms, will remain so until you break them yourself."

"But you know somewhat of the contents? No doubt," with intense bitterness, "Captain Freemantle has given you his version of their importance?"

"Whatever I know about them, Lord Beachcombe, will be forgotten—absolutely—from the moment that Captain—Freemantle—is out of danger."

Beachcombe still hesitated. His curiosity was strongly roused. He had had more than one experience of Prue’s unbridled caprice, but this one bewildered him. He could not grasp the only explanation; its improbability baffled him. She had led so many eligible suitors—himself one of them—a lively dance to the very altar-rails; was it believable that this man—outlaw, fugitive, proscribed, penniless—could have won the wayward beauty, and won her so completely that having actually married him, she was ready to sacrifice the future she expected to share, for his present safety?

"How am I to know that his wife, if there be such a person, will keep the promises you make for her?" he said, with his crafty eyes upon her.

"I will answer for his wife—as for myself," said Prue. "Question me no further, Lord Beachcombe, but accept my terms—or refuse them if you deem it more to your advantage."

It is doubtful whether even then he would have taken the decisive step, but for a sudden recollection that flooded his mind with rapture. If Prue were married, Sir Geoffrey had lost his bet, and five thousand pounds, plus a glorious revenge, would fall into the hands of his bitter foe! Unable to conceal his excitement, he seized Prue’s hand and drew her reluctantly farther away.

"Tell me," he whispered, "are you his wife? If so, I will make no further demur. For your sake," he added as an afterthought, "I am willing not only to free this—gentleman—but to aid his escape, although, by doing so, I play the traitor to my sovereign."

Prue gazed steadily into his eyes, as though she would read the depths of his mean soul. Then she replied firmly, "I am his wife."

"He is free! I pledge you my word I will not pursue him. Let him go where he pleases; your husband is sacred in my eyes." The sinister light in them was not in accordance with the bland, congratulatory smile that played over his lips, as he turned to Robin.

"The Lady Prudence has proved irresistible, as usual, Captain Freemantle. You are free. Take my advice and use your freedom to put as many leagues as possible between yourself and London. _I_ shall not pursue you, but there are others who seek your life, on whom the charms of Lady Prue might be exercised in vain. Untie his hands and set him free."

When he was obeyed and Robin had returned his pockets to their proper place, Beachcombe restored their ravished contents, reserving only one object. With his eyes fastened upon that, Robin pocketed his well-furnished purse, his handkerchief and other belongings, and then held out his hand once more.

"Your pardon, Lord Beachcombe, you have forgotten my wallet."

"The contents of that wallet, Sir Highwayman, concern matters of too great importance for either of us to deal with. It shall be placed in the hands of those most interested—when you are out of their reach," was the reply, pompously delivered.

"I can not leave this place without that wallet," said Robin resolutely. "It is worth more than life to me, and rather than purchase my freedom at the price of its surrender, I will remain here, and risk the worst."

"Robin!" cried Prue, in a voice of anguish. "Have pity on me if not on yourself!"

"Would you have me sacrifice a hundred lives to save my own?" said Robin unflinchingly, though pale to the lips. With drooping head she sank upon a bench, her courage for the first time failing. Lord Beachcombe looked from one to the other with a scowl as black as thunder, then with a sudden impulse snatched up the wallet and almost flung it into Robin’s hand.

"Go!" he shouted; "go quickly, before I have time to repent my folly, and remember that other swords will soon be thirsting for your life," and he laughed harshly, as he turned abruptly away and walked to the farther end of the hall.

Then Robin approached Prue and taking her hand, said gently, "A thousand pardons, dear Heart of my heart. I must seem an ungrateful churl; but oh! if you could know—I will write—"

"Yes, yes!" she interrupted feverishly; "but now go quickly—every moment’s delay is fatal to you—and to me—" the last words were murmured inaudibly. "How soon can you reach some safe concealment?"

"Very soon; in less than an hour," he said. "I leave you in Steve’s care; he will conduct you home and protect you with his life."

"First you must take him with you and send him back when you are on the road to safety. I have pledged your precious packet," she said, smiling bravely up at him, "and when Steve returns to say you are safe, I shall give it to Lord Beachcombe. It is the price of your ransom."

"But you—"

"Don’t you yet understand," she cried impatiently, "that I am like a cat? No matter where I am thrown, I always fall on my feet. Do not fear for me, but begone, and if you love me, do not attempt to see me again. Farewell."

It was no place for the tender adieux of parting lovers. He pressed her hand passionately to his lips, threw his cloak round him, and with a brief salute to Beachcombe—who took no notice of it—strode away, followed by Steve.

When their footsteps ceased to reverberate under the colonnade, Beachcombe approached Prue with a friendly smile.

"Permit me, dear Viscountess, to offer my congratulations," he said. "You have indeed prepared a charming surprise for your friends—and enemies, if one so adorable could by any possibility have any such."

Her answering laugh had the old ring of sweet, contagious mirth. "Circumstances have forced me to reveal my secret rather prematurely," she said, "but I can trust your lordship’s discretion not to share it—with my dear friends—and enemies."

"Oh! we will give your husband time to escape before we impart the joyful news to—Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, for example!"

Prue experienced an unpleasant shock as he pronounced this name, in a tone of malevolent triumph. This man, who had no cause to love either herself or Robin, evidently purposed using the secret he had torn from her in some hateful scheme of retaliation, of which Sir Geoffrey was to be the victim and executioner.

"Why Sir Geoffrey?" she murmured, half to herself.

"Because I hate Sir Geoffrey," said Beachcombe, with cold bitterness. "He has insulted me and triumphed over me—who can know how so well as you? He has worsted me in a duel and boasts that he will tame the lovely sorceress who has bewitched so many—myself among them—to their undoing. I hate him, and I shall never be satisfied until I see him reft of what I also have lost—impoverished—in a debtors’ prison—" he checked himself at the sight of the indignant horror his words had roused. "I can wait, however," he went on, less vehemently. "It will satisfy me, for the present, to feel my power over him, without using it. How can I accommodate your ladyship while you wait for the captain’s messenger? You can not wait here; will you honor me by accepting the poor hospitality of my house?"

"I can perfectly well wait here," she replied, reseating herself on the bench. "Your countess would be somewhat amazed to receive a visit from me at five o’clock in the morning—in my ball-dress! Even the Widow Brooke must draw the line somewhere!"

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY*

Mr. Moses Aarons sat in his private office. His pen hung idle between thumb and finger, and for perhaps the first time within his memory, his thoughts were very far from post-obit and mortgage. For once something more engrossing than money occupied his busy brain, and calculations more abstruse than compound interest furrowed his brow and contracted his eyes into a glittering line.

A night’s reflection, so far from softening the bitterness of his anger against Prue, had intensified it to a pitch that positively shocked him. While he despised himself for the unaccustomed tumult of emotion into which he had been plunged, he was amazed to discover that the desire of possession was vastly augmented by the obstacle which he did not for one moment dream of surmounting. He was too shrewd to indulge in futile hopes, but he was weak enough to crave after revenge.

Only a week ago she had visited him, attempting to obtain a loan on the announcement of her speedy marriage with Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert. Was it possible that only a week had passed since she stood in that very room, indignantly championing one lover and that when she was already married to another? What were women made of, and who could anticipate the caprices of creatures so irresponsible? And yet, who could look into her eyes—those limpid sapphires—and not long to look again? Who could hear the thrilling voice and gushing laughter and not listen ever after for the echo of that divine music? The vision of that lovely face, smiling archly at him over the diamonds he had deemed irresistible, floated before him—sleeping and waking—yet it never occurred to him to claim them back or demand the payment he had refused. More, far more than that was necessary to assuage the fury that raged in his breast.

She had made him suffer, had humbled his pride, befooled him and made him ridiculous in his own eyes. For that _she_ must suffer; _her_ pride must be dragged in the dust, and she who had made sport of hearts and reputations must find her own in the pillory of public derision.

The wife of a highwayman—a malefactor who had been sentenced to die for his crimes, and had narrowly escaped the gallows! Married in Newgate Prison by a drunken Fleet-parson—"Lady Prudence Freemantle!" It was incredible! He laughed at the mere idea, a harsh, croaking laugh more evil than a curse. It would certainly be enough to publish such a mad freak, to cover the perpetrator with undying shame. But many considerations restrained him from taking a prominent part in her exposure. Some one else must be employed, some one whom his money could buy, and yet who would not be suspected of too base a motive.

Goodridge was too mean a tool. The indomitable Lady Prudence Brooke would surely find weapons to defend herself triumphantly from so paltry a foe, even could he be brought to attack her, which was far from certain. Aarons’ thoughts reverted time and again to Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert. A spendthrift at his last gasp for a guinea, no doubt he had a price, though it might be a high one. The money-lender was no miser. Money he worshipped less for itself than for its influence, and one factor in his successful accumulation of vast wealth, was his intuitive knowledge of when to spend and how. But this was probably the first occasion in his life on which he contemplated an outlay, without counting the cost or discounting the return.

How could he buy Sir Geoffrey, and how could he use him? And in the first place, how could he reach him without arousing suspicion as to his own motive?

Aarons threw down his pen, and leaving word that he would be back in about an hour, went on ’Change, in hopes of diverting his mind by the exciting scenes of "Bubble" speculation, then at its frenzied height. But his mind was out of tune to its ordinary interests, and within the appointed time he returned. At his office door stood a handsome chariot, and with boundless satisfaction, he recognized Sir Geoffrey’s liveries.

Within, impatiently pacing the narrow office, he found the man he was so anxious to see.

During the few minutes he consumed in slowly mounting the stairs, Aarons had resumed complete mastery over himself. He was again the smooth, wily, impenetrable man of affairs, equally prepared to baffle the craft of his clients or profit by their lack of it.

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert! This is an unexpected honor," he said. "I trust I have not kept you waiting long?"

"Time is always long when one is waiting for so dear a friend, Mr. Aarons," replied Sir Geoffrey, in his jauntiest manner.

"Pray be seated," said Aarons, indicating the only easy chair, and taking his usual place at the desk. "You are well, I can see for myself. How goes the wooing of the fair viscountess?"

"The _wooing_ speeds gloriously," said Sir Geoffrey, "but the wheels of Hymen’s chariot do not run fast enough to satisfy an impatient lover. Truth to tell, they need greasing, and that quickly. Women are proverbially fickle and I would fain secure my lady while she is in a yielding mood."

Aarons with difficulty repressed a sneer. This fatuity at the same time gratified him and excited his contemptuous amusement.

"The Lady Prudence has great temptations," he said suavely. "I understand that there are several rivals in your honor’s way. With high titles and vast fortunes at her feet, I do not wonder at your eagerness to secure the prize before it is snatched from you. Yet without ready money—" he shook his head regretfully as he met Sir Geoffrey’s clouded eyes.

"You will not believe in the wealth of old Lady Drumloch without positive proof, I suppose?" the baronet hinted, "yet I give you my word of honor that my information is from a source impossible to discredit. And furthermore, I shall receive five thousand guineas on the day I marry Lady Prudence—entirely independent of the fortune she will inherit from her grandmother."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Aarons. "Five thousand guineas on her wedding-day! I was not aware of this change in her fortunes, and yet," an idea struck him suddenly, "to tell you the truth—this is in sacred confidence between us, Sir Geoffrey—yesterday I returned her ladyship’s necklace which I have held as security for moneys advanced a long time ago, and I have reason to know that, although she tried to borrow from me last week, she now has money to redeem her diamonds, and tossed hundred-pound notes about like curl-papers!"

Sir Geoffrey’s eyes sparkled. "What did I tell you?" he exclaimed. "Who but Lady Drumloch can have redeemed her diamonds (I saw them on her fair neck last night) and paid her debts? The old lady has done it before, and can do it again. Come, Aarons, open your heart and your purse-strings, and let me have a few hundreds on my note-of-hand, if you will not increase the mortgage. I’ll pay you out of the five thousand guineas—that’s a positive certainty—the day I marry Lady Prue."

"And suppose—I am bound to be cautious—suppose, by any chance, you should not, after all, marry the viscountess?"

"I will marry her, if I have to carry her off by force!" cried Sir Geoffrey, suddenly savage. "She shall not jilt me, by Heaven! or if she does, no other man shall care to take her afterward!"

Secretly delighted at this outburst of ferocity, Aarons assumed a deprecatory air, and with uplifted hands, entreated his visitor to be calm.

"We all know," he said insinuatingly, "how dearly the ladies love to think that they have been won in spite of themselves. The most tricksey of coquettes may turn out the meekest and most devoted of wives to the man who has the courage to prove himself master. At least, so I have heard, but of course I should not presume to advise so experienced a lady-killer as Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert."

"Well, Aarons, if you will furnish the sinews of war, I will undertake to carry the citadel by storm. A few hundreds for a week or less, and if I fail you may clap me in the Fleet, an’ you will, and put everything I possess under the hammer."

Aarons still, for the sake of form, protested, but allowed himself to be coaxed and reasoned into a compliant mood, and finally accepted Sir Geoffrey’s note for a substantial sum, on the tacit understanding that, by fair means or foul, the Lady Prudence Brooke was to be made Lady Beaudesert without loss of time.

Leaving the money-lender to gloat over the unexpectedly efficient tool he had found for his vengeance, and to wonder whether Prue would confess her reckless marriage and take the consequences, or defy Sir Geoffrey and drive him to extremities, the latter made his way westward with all speed. Although the hour was still early for social calls, he presented himself at Lady Drumloch’s and learning that Prue was somewhat indisposed and had not yet risen, left a message that he would return later, and having still some hours to spare before his parliamentary duties claimed his brief and perfunctory attendance, repaired to the Cocoa-Tree.

With a pocketful of crisp bank-notes, the card-table irresistibly attracted him, and finding, as he expected, a little coterie of congenial spirits, he passed a pleasant and profitable hour or two with the luck steadily on his side. Then, flushed with victory and in something of a boastful humor, he ran almost into the arms of Lord Beachcombe, on his way out.

"Your pardon, my Lord!" he cried, retreating a step, and bowing low; "’tis a pity you were not here sooner. Nat Bedloe and Lord Eustace have been throwing dice, and the ace came up sixteen times running! ’Gad I never saw such a thing before."

"I never throw dice—can’t see any sport in it," drawled Beachcombe; "but that must have been worth seeing. Have you been playing? With your usual good luck, no doubt?"

Sir Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. "I must make the most of my few remaining days of bachelor freedom," he said. "I intend to settle down when I am married, and become a model man of family. But I am still a gay bachelor, and very much at your service at the club or elsewhere."

"You forget that _I_ am already married—and a father, no less!" Beachcombe replied, in his friendliest manner. "Still, I have not entirely given up worldly pleasures. I still book a little wager from time to time, and as my lady has a passion for Ombre, she can not grumble if I still take a hand at écarté or whist. Is your wedding-day fixed? No doubt the marriage of so charming and popular a lady as the Viscountess Brooke will be a brilliant function. All the court will wish to do her honor; perhaps even her Gracious Majesty intends to be present?"

"I fear that the state of her grandmother’s health will prevent Lady Prue’s indulging her natural desire to shine on this occasion. As the old lady’s heiress, of course she can not risk offending her; even at the last minute wills may be changed and fortunes lost for a trifle."

"Ha! is the venerable countess so wealthy as to make her will a matter of importance? Yet she passes for poor, and when I was—when I had the privilege of standing in your present enviable relations to Lady Prue, she assured me—yet these old women are often miserly—no doubt she will give the world a surprise when her hoards are unearthed. I congratulate you upon your prospects! A bride so incomparable and a great fortune to boot! You are indeed the favored of the gods! With such a prize in your grasp, you will scarcely think it worth while to remember our little wager."

"Five thousand guineas will come in very handy to start housekeeping!" cried Sir Geoffrey gaily. His laugh was echoed with a boisterous merriment that startled him like an explosion. Lord Beachcombe was so little given to mirth, his laughter was so noiseless and so rarely responsive to another man’s hilarity, that the jovial shouts and gleeful contortions with which he received Sir Geoffrey’s retort would have disturbed less susceptible nerves than his.

The sinister sounds rang in his ears all the afternoon as he sat through a dreary debate which did not interest the few members present sufficiently to interrupt the general conversation. What was Lord Beachcombe laughing at? he asked himself a hundred times, with ever-increasing irritation. He was not a man to take the loss of a large sum of money cheerfully. Yet it was impossible for him to have any suspicion of a serious impediment to the marriage. Still, Sir Geoffrey decided that delay was perilous and a secret known to five persons has fifty loop-holes to escape through, so for a vast number of reasons Prue must be induced, by fair means, if possible—but somehow, anyhow—to marry him immediately.

To reassure himself, Sir Geoffrey carefully read the record of the wager and satisfied himself that it merely required him to marry Lady Prudence Brooke within one month of a certain date. There was no stipulation of what kind of marriage it should be, and even should it be contested later. Lord Beachcombe could not repudiate a wager that had been settled, even if the method of winning it were open to criticism. He heartily cursed Robin for failing to be hanged according to reliable calculations, and was even inclined to blame Prue for lack of foresight, but he pooh-poohed the possibility of danger in ignoring the Newgate wedding and the idea of Robin as a serious rival brought a contemptuous sneer to his lips.

At the first opportunity he slipped away and hurried back to Mayfair, where he found Prue and Peggie in a state of pleasurable excitement, and the anteroom thronged with milliners and mercers as in the early times of Lady Prue’s lively widowhood.

Surrounded by obsequious tradesmen, anxious to atone for their late importunities by reckless offers of unlimited credit to the reinstated favorite, Prue was in her element. Over her graceful shoulders a chattering, little Frenchwoman draped a filmy scarf, while gloves and ribbons, sacks and "heads," silken hose and rainbow stuffs were spread before her on every side and half-a-dozen voices, raised in laudation of these and other wares too numerous to mention, filled the air with confusion.

Barbara Sweeting, as high-priestess of fashion, criticized, selected, condemned and approved, while Lady Drumloch, installed on her favorite sofa, half-buried in her choicest cashmeres, voiced an occasional opinion in her crisp, decisive way, to which Prue gave more than usual heed.

"A fair day to you, ladies!" cried Sir Geoffrey. "’I faith, I feel like a stag-beetle among the butterflies." He bent over Prue as though examining a trinket in her hand. "Are you choosing the nuptial garments, dearest?" he whispered. "May I have a voice in the selection?"

"What do you think of this?" she replied, indicating a skirt ruffled to the waist and surmounted by full paniers of brocade stiff with silver embroidery. "’Tis the latest from France and vastly becoming to a slender shape. I shall be glad of advice as I have but little time for selection. The queen’s physicians have hurried her off to Tunbridge and she is even now on the road. The royal command to attend her there without loss of time reached me but an hour ago, and to-morrow I must follow post-haste, so I am just gathering a few necessaries. Barbara, would you decide on that blue train or do you think the pink stripe will go better with the silver-gray?"

"What are you going to do with that lace flounce?" interposed Peggie. "You ought to trim the silver brocade with it; it is too lovely for a petticoat."

"Lady Drumloch’s lace!" cried Barbara, pouncing on it with cries of ecstasy. "I protest ’tis the finest I ever beheld! You should keep it for your wedding-dress, Prue."

Prue glanced at her grandmother, and the slight smile that passed between them caused Sir Geoffrey an uneasy thrill, though he could not have explained why.

"I wish Prue to look her best," said the old lady. "It is a great opportunity for her to be in waiting upon the queen at this particular time. Her Majesty is to be kept very quiet on account of her gout and few people will have access to her; Prue may be fortunate enough to become indispensable, and the queen can be very indulgent to those who win her favor."

"And after Tunbridge there will be a summer at Windsor, I hope," said Prue, "and mayhap a few weeks at Bath—and who can tell what may happen before next winter?"

Barbara, nothing loath, chimed in with various suggestions, by no means calculated to soothe Sir Geoffrey’s temper, which by this time was almost out of control. This was what a man might expect who built his hopes on a shallow coquette without a thought above frills and furbelows, and entirely devoid of a proper sense of duty to her future lord! He felt that to subdue her tricksy spirit was a sacred duty, and that any means would be justified with such a laudable aim in view.

"Do you actually leave for the Wells to-morrow?" he inquired. "Is it possible for such elaborate preparations to be so quickly achieved?"

"Why, I must do the best I can," she replied regretfully. "This silver brocade can be fitted to me in a couple of hours. Mrs. Buckram has all her women at work upon a couple of morning frocks and a traveling dress, and with those I must be content. There will be no court at any rate for a few days and I am not journeying into a desert. London is not inaccessible, nor is there a better milliner here than little Madame Prim on Tunbridge High Street. Yes, my post-chaise is ordered for to-morrow morning, and I shall start at nine o’clock if I have to go barefoot and bareheaded."

"Might I be permitted to offer you the use of my chariot? Posting is far from agreeable or safe in a hired rattletrap."

She gave him an arch glance. "A thousand thanks!" she laughed, "but I am growing wise in my old age, and I fear that there would be a rare wagging of tongues should I be known to travel in Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert’s coach."

"I regret deeply that no service I can offer is acceptable to you, my dear Lady Prudence," said Sir Geoffrey, with grave dignity. "Yet I pray you to remember that should you find yourself in any unpleasant predicament, there is a sword at your service and a hand not unaccustomed to use it—_for that purpose_."

Her eyes fell and he was gratified to observe a passing embarrassment in her manner. Taking the propitious moment for his departure, he rose, and while bending over her hand, murmured, "Have you forgotten that you promised me a favorable answer in a week?"

"If I mistake not I said that ’on my return,’ I would hope to be ready with my answer. You see for yourself that my return is uncertain; but when it takes place I promise not to keep you in suspense. Do not forget that in the meantime you are free to—"

"Free to blow my brains out, if you drive me to despair," he interrupted, in a low, tense tone. "But not until I have exhausted every other means of bringing you to reason, dear Lady Prue. Tunbridge is not at the other end of the world, and as you may see me sooner than you expect, I will not say farewell, but—Until our next happy meeting!"

Something in his manner restrained the petulant rejoinder that rose to her lips, and she allowed him to kiss her hand in silence. He lingered a few minutes beside Lady Drumloch, inquiring after her health and condoling with her approaching loss of Prue’s delightful company, and then, with a few passing compliments to Peggie and a brief skirmish with Barbara, he bowed himself out with consummate aplomb.

"Dear Gossip," said Barbara, when he was out of hearing, "be on your guard; there goes one who will not wear his willow submissively."

"He must wear it as he pleases," she replied, "or not at all if he prefer. I protest I’ll not contradict him, if it suits him to say he jilted me."

"Is his successor chosen?" queried Barbara archly. "Do I know him?—is he—"

"There is no successor," Prue interrupted hastily; "no more lovers for me. I am sick of courting and compliments, sick to death of ’hearts at my feet’ and ’swords at my service,’ and tongues more false than the one and sharper than the other ready and waiting to stab me in the back; or, worse still, in the reputation!"

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*A DIFFERENT HIGHWAYMAN*

After all, Prue’s departure was by no means as early as she had intended. Quite a number of little hindrances contributed to the delay. An indispensable garment was not forthcoming at the promised time, another must absolutely be altered at the last minute. Messengers were despatched in hot haste for trifles unaccountably forgotten, and lingered upon their errands in the most provoking way. And when, at last, the packing was finished, Prue disappeared into her grandmother’s chamber and remained so long in conference there, that Peggie, on guard to ward off interruptions, at last ventured to knock at the door and suggest that noon was swiftly approaching.

Receiving no reply, she gently opened the door, and there was Prue, at Lady Drumloch’s feet, weeping bitterly, while the old lady comforted her with caresses and tender words.

"I do not blame you, child," Peggie overheard her say; "a brave man and a loyal soldier—what better could any woman hope for? Let him serve his king first, and meanwhile your influence may, perhaps, open the way for his return. And mayhap I may find a way to help you, though I am very old and useless now. Come in, Peggie; don’t stand there letting in the draft. Is it time for Prue to depart? Is the post-chaise ready packed?"

Peggie exclaimed and ran out to find that the post-chaise had not yet arrived. Then there was scurrying and scampering, and James, bareheaded and bereft of his stately deliberation, hurried to the livery-stable, and presently returned in the belated vehicle. The postboy, with many oaths and strange-sounding asseverations, protested that his master had mistaken the order for noon, and that he had been loitering about the yard all morning, waiting for the appointed time. Another explanation might have been afforded by Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert, who could also have cleared up the mysterious presence of two golden guineas in the postboy’s pocket.

Thus it was within an hour or so of noon, when Prue, having received Lady Drumloch’s blessing and exchanged many kisses and last words with Peggie (from whom she had rarely been parted even for a week at a time), took her seat in the post-chaise with her two substantial leather valises strapped on the roof and her valuables in the dressing-case under her feet.

She had often traveled the Tunbridge Road before in attendance upon Queen Anne, whose physicians were in the habit of recommending the Tunbridge waters as a corrective to the royal indulgence in the pleasures of the table. So when she had amused herself by observing the queer little stalls on London Bridge, where the closely packed throng compelled the chaise to proceed at a foot-pace, and wondered why everybody and everything looked so strange and different in Southwark, from those on the more fashionable side of the river, she soon grew tired of the squalid streets and dreary country beyond and still more bored by having no one to talk to, and composing herself in a corner of the carriage, courted such uneasy slumber as the rough road permitted.

During the earlier stages of the journey there was no lack of company. In those days travelers, unless well armed or otherwise protected, were greatly averse to solitude even in broad daylight, and Prue, though far from timid, was not displeased to find that the queen’s visit to Tunbridge, in the balmy springtime, was drawing thither quite a rush of visitors.

Gallants on horseback, lumbering family-coaches and dashing chariots followed one another in quick succession, some forging ahead, only to be overtaken, perhaps, in a ditch with a wheel off, or at the post-house waiting for relays—a mishap that kept Prue waiting a couple of hours at Seven Oaks, to her great chagrin. However, the inn was hospitable and a good dinner compensated in some measure for the delay, though the afternoon shadows were perceptibly lengthening when the journey was resumed.

The road was more lonely now, those lucky folk who had secured the earliest relays having hurried forward to make the most of the daylight, and others, whose turn was yet to come, lingering impatiently behind or resigning themselves to the dire alternative of spending a night at the inn.

When Prue, after the first mile or so, put her head out of the window and surveyed the long stretch of road, with dense woods on one hand and a desolate vastness of uncultivated common on the other, she rather wished that she too had taken the better part of valor and broken her journey at Seven Oaks, instead of risking the worst part in the declining day. However, looking back, she saw another carriage at no great distance, and the sense of companionship relieved her fears so thoroughly that she once more settled herself in her corner and fell into a pleasant train of thought.

Planning how to exercise her most winning arts upon the queen, who for a whole week of semi-invalidism would be chiefly dependent upon her for amusement, Prue mentally acted half-a-dozen charming little scenes in which she would relate Robin’s adventures in so moving and pathetic a fashion that the queen would be only too ready to applaud the climax and bestow her sanction and blessing upon the romantic pair. Robin would be recalled and pardoned, and perhaps his devotion, combined with her own eloquence, would bring about a reconciliation between the queen and her half-brother, who, in gratitude, would shower honors upon his loyal follower in the happy days when King James the Third was come into his own.

Prue was roused out of these pleasant fancies by the rough jolting of the chaise. She looked out on the desolate landscape, rendered still more dreary by the rising mist that veiled the sinking sun. On one hand was a vast common, stretching away into the vague distance, on the other rose a steep incline, thickly wooded and already gloomy with twilight shadows, though all else was still bright. No habitation was in sight, nor any sign of life except the carriage she had previously observed and which, she remarked with some surprise, kept almost within hailing distance without any apparent haste to overtake her. She reflected that perhaps the occupant was timid and even more anxious for company than herself.

The jolting and rocking of the chaise increased so much that at last Prue let down the front window and remonstrated with the postboys.

"Pray drive a little less recklessly," she cried; "I can not keep my seat and I fear you will land me in a ditch."

"’Tis a bad piece of road, my Lady," replied the senior, bringing his horses to a standstill. "’Ere, Jimmie," he added to his assistant; "’old the ’orses while I looks to that near hind wheel; ’tain’t none too staunch and this cursed cross-road is enough to shake the Lord Mayor’s coach to splinters."

"Cross-road!" cried Prue. "Have you left the highway—? in the dusk—?" she was about to descend, scarcely knowing what she did in her sudden alarm.

"Keep your seat, Lady," the man replied; "’tis but a bit of a short-cut I took, to save ’alf-an-hour ’cos it’s growin’ late." He fumbled a little with the hind wheel and then remounted his horse.

Meanwhile the carriage which had followed passed and went ahead in leisurely fashion.

Prue’s post-chaise resumed the journey, more shaky and jerky than before, although scarcely moving at a walking pace. Very wide-awake now, and extremely uneasy with vivid recollections of postboys in league with robbers, and other perils to unprotected females, Prue sat as quiet as the rough jolting would allow and tried to comfort herself with the assurance that the next post-house could not be far distant, and that she could certainly find means there to have the wheels looked to or get another chaise if this one were unsafe.

But scarcely a hundred yards farther on there was a crash and a shock and Prue was lying in a heap in the overturned chaise. The shouts of the postboys, the trampling of the startled horses mingled with her screams of pain and terror—then other voices added to the tumult and in the midst of it all the door was forced open and Prue lifted out and gently deposited on the roadside.

"The lady has fainted," said a voice that sounded familiar. "Search for water, one of you boys; is there no brook or stream near by?"

"Nothing nearer than the river that _I_ knows of, your Honor," said the man, "’less there’s some in yon ditch—"

"You need seek no ditch-water for me," said Prue, sitting up and struggling with the wraps in which her head was entangled. "Since you are there, Sir Geoffrey, you may as well lend me some assistance."

"Good Gad! Lady Prue!" cried the baronet, with a vast show of astonishment. "By what happy chance am I fortunate enough to be of use to you? Methought you were safe in Tunbridge hours ago."

"No doubt that is why you have been following my carriage ever since I left Seven Oaks," she retorted. "’Tis strange you should also have taken a short cut which seems to lead to nowhere in particular!"

"It has led you into an awkward predicament, my dearest Prudence," he replied gravely. "I shudder to think of the straits to which you would have been reduced, had I not been—quite providentially—passing at the critical moment."

"Well, as Providence has been kind enough to send me a knight-errant, perhaps he will tell me where I am and how far it is to the next post-house," said Prue, not very graciously, for Sir Geoffrey’s presence was too opportune to appear quite unpremeditated.

"The next post-house?" he reflected. "Post-boy, how far is the next post-house?"

"Four mile or thereabout, your Honor," the man returned, beginning to unstrap the valises.

"Is there any inn or cottage near, where I can wait while you take horse to the post-house and fetch me another chaise?" inquired Prue. The man scratched his head doubtfully and looked at Sir Geoffrey as if for instructions.

"Well, fellow, can not you answer the lady? You surely know what houses of entertainment there are on the road to Tunbridge," said Sir Geoffrey.

"There’s a pike a mile or so ahead," said the man, "but ’tis no place for a lady to sit down in—a bit of a wooden cabin, and the pike-keeper’s a rough blade."

Prue’s dismay was unutterable. A mile to walk along a rugged country road in the dusk, and an indefinite period of waiting in the hut of a turnpike-keeper! She was silent for sheer lack of words to do justice to the situation.

"There is an alternative that will relieve you of all embarrassment," said Sir Geoffrey, after a sufficiently long pause to allow her to realize the horror of her dilemma. "My coach is not many yards away, and if you will not honor me by accepting my escort to Tunbridge, permit me, at least, to carry you to the nearest post-house, where no doubt you can obtain a conveyance for the rest of the journey."

Prue looked down at her little feet in their dainty, high-heeled slippers, and wondered how far they would support her along that rough, uneven road. She rose from the grassy bank where Sir Geoffrey had deposited her and a little cry escaped her. Though uninjured in the breakdown, she was shaken and bruised, and would have fallen had not Sir Geoffrey caught her in his arms, from which she extricated herself with great promptness. Drawing back a pace or two, she raised her lovely eyes searchingly to his, and though, in their clear depths he could read a hundred swift suspicions, he met their scrutiny without flinching.

"Sir Geoffrey," she said, after a brief pause, "I thank you for your offer, and accept your escort as far as the post-house, on condition that if we should pass any decent cottage, you will permit me to seek its shelter until a chaise can be sent to me."

"Your lack of confidence wounds and astonishes me, Lady Prudence," he replied, with bitterness. "After my long devotion and the vows that have been exchanged between us, it is strange that you should impose restrictions upon me that would sound injurious to a stranger. But I submit—as I have always done—to your lightest caprice."

"This is no caprice," she returned, with cold reserve; "my circumstances are peculiar and I am bound to beware of appearances."

He bowed low and taking her hand without further resistance, led her to his chariot, upon which the men were already loading her valises. Her jewel-box and the other contents of the chaise having been safely bestowed, Sir Geoffrey took his seat beside her, his valet returned to the rumble and they drove off, leaving the postboys to patch up the damaged vehicle and convey it, as best they might, to the nearest inn.

Glancing back at them, Prue observed with satisfaction that another carriage had come into view, following the same road. Greatly relieved at this proof that the "short-cut" was not, as she had feared, an unfrequented by-road, she relaxed her austerity, and was soon chattering with her natural vivacity. Sir Geoffrey was not slow to respond to her friendly mood, which he mistook for a sign that her fears were allayed and that her inveterate coquetry, momentarily under severe restraint, was ready for fresh development. His tones soon became tender, and his eyes glowed with a passion that he no longer attempted to moderate. He seized her hands, and, regardless of her struggles, pressed them over and over again to his lips. Then growing bolder still, he attempted to draw her closer and clasp her in his arms.

"Let me go, Sir Geoffrey, you are taking a dastardly advantage of me!" she cried, repulsing him with all her strength. "Release me! I insist upon your setting me down instantly! If I can not walk, I can wait on the roadside for some honest passer-by—"

"Never, dearest angel; never shall you leave my arms until you promise to put an end to my tortures. I have endured more from you than mortal man can be expected to brook with patience! You are in my power, sweetest Prue! A lucky chance has given you to my arms, and if I were to let you go now, I should deserve to lose you for ever."

"You lost me," cried Prue, "the day you gave me to Robin Freemantle. Now I belong to him; before God and man I am his wife."

"Tush! a felon—a gallows-bird!" cried Sir Geoffrey angrily. "Let me hear no more of that farce. I believe the man is dead; but if not so in fact, he is dead to the law, and you are free—free, dearest, to make me happy and to be as happy yourself as the truest, fondest lover woman ever had can make you when he is your devoted husband. Come, my dear Prue, throw aside these coy humors and be your own sweet self once more—the adorable creature—"

"Oh! spare me these raptures!" protested Prue. "Even one’s own praises become wearisome by repetition. In very truth I am too tired to enjoy your conversation this evening, Sir Geoffrey. To-morrow, if you are in Tunbridge, and I am rested after this wearisome journey, we will discuss this matter and settle it finally. For the present, I beg of you not to disturb me until we reach the post-house; my head is dizzy and I ache from head to foot, and I fain would rest me."

"I grieve to discompose you, dearest, but to-morrow will be too late to discuss our marriage—though not, I hope, the happiness it will have brought us. I have a special license in my pocket and there is no reason that I know of, why it should not be used to-night."

Prue sat up so suddenly that Sir Geoffrey thought she was going to jump out of the carriage and laid a detaining hand upon her arm. She attempted, but unsuccessfully, to release herself.

"As to whether _we_ go to Tunbridge to-morrow—that will depend on you," he went on. "At present we are going, as fast as horses can take us, in the opposite direction. We shall arrive, presently, at a little church, where we can be quietly and quickly married, and can then, if you wish, resume our journey; or, if you are of my way of thinking, we can break it for a day or two, at a charming rustic retreat which has been placed at my disposal for the honeymoon. What say you, dearest?"

"I say that you must be mad to talk to me in this way," said Prue haughtily. "I insist that you take me at once to a post-house where I can get a chaise and proceed to Tunbridge. We can not be so very far out of the way."

"You are mistaken, love," he replied tranquilly. "At Seven Oaks your postboy, instructed by me, turned off the Tunbridge Road in the direction of the secluded country house which our good friend Aarons offered me the use of, for as long as you wish to occupy it. That is where we are going now: it depends on you how long we remain there."

"In that case," she retorted promptly, "we will not remain an hour—a minute—in fact, we will not go there at all. I protest that rather than go another yard with you, I would walk back, barefoot, to Seven Oaks, or even to Tunbridge."

"The choice is not yours, Prudence," said Sir Geoffrey, his smooth voice in strong contrast to the black frown, that shadowed his face at her imperious tone and the indignant energy with which she repulsed his advances. "This time I will not be balked; I am resolved to give you no further opportunity of fooling me."

Prue laughed contemptuously. "Do you think you can marry me by force?" she cried. "What priest would marry us when I tell him the truth?"