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!”