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?"
"By the time you have been my guest for two or three days you will, no
doubt, prefer returning to court as Lady Beaudesert, the heroine of a
romantic marriage, to braving the scandal of a mysterious elopement as
the frisky Widow Brooke."
"Villain!" she ejaculated. "I would brave any scandal rather than marry
a wretch capable of such treachery!"
"We shall see," returned her captor, at the same time thrusting his head
out of the window and calling to the postilion, "Stop, fool, is not this
the ferry? See the inn yonder and the boats." The coach came to a
standstill and Sir Geoffrey’s man jumped down from the rumble. "Go
rouse the landlord and call up the ferryman," said his master; "bid him
hasten if he would earn a guinea for his services."
The moment the carriage stopped Prue began to scream, "Help—oh! help—is
there no one here to help a poor woman in sore distress?"
"No one, dearest," replied Sir Geoffrey, opening the door and alighting
in the dusty highway, "except your devoted lover and slave. Will it
please you to descend? We have but little farther to go, and that by
water."
Prue crouched back in the farthest corner of the coach. "I’ll not leave
this carriage until my cries bring help. Help—oh! help!"
"Call your loudest, pretty one; ’twill give me a good excuse for
smothering your cries with kisses. An’ if you force me to carry you, so
much the better for me: I shall enjoy the bliss of holding you in my
arms all the sooner."
"You think you can insult me because I am a woman and unarmed," she
cried, too indignant to be alarmed, "but I have ten daggers at my
finger-tips to defend my honor."
"Your honor, dearest Prue, is in no jeopardy from me. I seek, on the
contrary, to shield you from the disgrace of being pointed at as a
felon’s widow by making you the wife of an honorable gentleman."
"How dare you call my husband a felon?" she cried, "and his wife a
widow? He is not dead, and if he were, I would not marry you."
"I swear to you that Robin Freemantle is dead," Sir Geoffrey
asseverated. A voice from the shadow of the trees responded in sonorous
and tragic tones, "You lie!"
*CHAPTER XXVIII*
*THE DEAREST TREASURE*
Somewhere about the time that Prue was leaving Seven Oaks, Robin
Freemantle, accompanied by two friends and followed by the faithful
Steve, rode out of the stately gates of a country mansion a few miles
beyond St. Mary’s Cray.
At a short distance they left the highroad and plunged into a deep and
narrow lane, showing few signs of use and leading into others as
neglected and man-forsaken. When the lanes were wide enough the three
rode abreast, with heads bent together in earnest conference. Papers
were handed to Robin which he concealed about his person, and last
instructions reiterated, to which he listened attentively, but without
enthusiasm.
"You think I am sure of finding a boat at Hailing, Percival?" he
inquired, when the others became silent.
"We shall avoid Hailing and seek the ferry a mile or so above," replied
the younger of his companions. "The ferry is little used; indeed I do
not know how there comes to be one at all, for the road is unfrequented
and I know of no habitation but the little inn where, however, there are
always boats for hire—built possibly by the ferryman himself. The tide
serves about nine o’clock and with a favorable wind we should be below
Rochester by moonrise. No one will be looking for you on the Medway,
Captain, and before morning you will be safely past Sheerness and, I
hope, on board the _Petite Vierge_, while the spies of the government
are keeping strict watch for you between London Bridge and Gravesend."
"I would give ten years of my life," said Robin moodily, "for one more
day in England."
"Your life is not your own to give, Captain de Cliffe," said the third
man, who, even in this solitude, kept his wide-brimmed beaver slouched
so as completely to conceal his face. "It belongs to King James, and
should you be arrested with these documents upon you, hundreds of lives,
besides your own, may pay for the mischance."
"I do not need to be reminded of my duty, even by your grace," said
Robin proudly.
"I know it well," returned the other pacifically, "and when you return
with the king, in triumph—may it be soon—His Majesty will know how to
reward you."