Part 19

"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.