Part 20

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."

"Aye, that he will," muttered Steve, who was close enough to catch some of the conversation, in which he was greatly interested. "’Virtue is its own reward’ is the motto of the Stuarts!"

"The highest reward King James can offer is to send me back as fast as horse and ship can carry me," cried Robin. "Even now—"

"Even now, Captain," Steve broke in, "you are lucky in getting away alive. Don’t forget there is a price upon your head and the law’s protection—save the mark!—will be withdrawn in a few hours. After that your life is forfeit wherever the flag of England flies."

"_My_ life! When has it not been forfeit?" returned Robin carelessly. "But your grace can be at ease; I have given my word to carry these letters safely to Paris and I will do so, God sparing me."

"Enough! I should never have thought of doubting you, had not mine own eyes seen you at the masquerade with a certain fair sorceress whose spells are far more dangerous than sword or bullet. Right glad am I that Fate drives you from her before we lose one of our most valued captains in the same snare that has entangled the feet of all heroes, ancient and modern. Let us lose no time, for the love of Heaven; your only safety lies in swift flight!"

And with malicious laughter, in which the other man heartily joined, he put spurs to his horse and urged the cavalcade to such speed as the heavy ground would permit.

In spite of their haste, the sun was sinking behind the mists that rose from the river, before they saw its shimmer through the trees. The road upon which they emerged from the bridle-path took a sharp turn at this spot and passed close to a little inn—a mere peasant’s cottage, for all the announcement on the creaking signboard of entertainment for man and beast, and further information as to the hire and sale of boats at the adjacent ferry.

"Go forward, Steve, and see what folks are about, and if there be a seaworthy boat to be had, while we keep within this thicket out of sight of passers-by," said the duke, backing his horse into the wood, while Steve and Percival dismounted to reconnoiter the premises.

Steve quickly returned alone. "The ferry is close at hand," he said, "but I can find neither ferryman nor landlord. However, there are boats a-plenty at the landing, and if we press one for the king’s service, ’tis no more than a loyal subject should rejoice to contribute to the cause! The wind is fair, the tide is on the turn, I can hoist a sail and handle an oar, and ’twill be strange if we leave not Sheerness in our wake at sunrise."

"You are sure there is no one spying about?" the duke inquired nervously. "How if they are merely hiding? Stay you here, Captain—I will examine the inn for myself—it will not do for you to fall into an ambush. And it would be well for Steve to stand sentinel at the bend of the road; he can warn us in time of any approaching wayfarer, for if I mistake not, the road over the waste lands can be plainly seen for several miles."

Left alone, Robin dropped the mask of careless gaiety under which he had hidden his dejection from his companions. About to leave the land that contained Prue, on a mission whose risks he had often braved without a thought except of audacious delight in danger and reckless defiance of the law from which he was an outcast, he was now beset by a thousand apprehensions for which he could have given no reason, but which chilled his loyal ardor and hung like an incubus upon his soul. How could he wish for his once-beloved Paris while Prue was in England? What cared he for the safe asylum of the French court while Prue in the English court was wooed by a score of suitors and pressed by dangers and temptations from which he was powerless to protect her? The setting sun seemed like an emblem of his own fate—except that it would surely rise again on the morrow, while he might sink for ever into forgetfulness. "Oh! my heart’s joy, my only love, shall we never meet again?" he murmured. "Oh! for one more look into those sweet eyes; one last kiss from those beloved lips! Must I go without a farewell word; without sure hope that she will ever bestow another thought on me? Before God she is my wife—yet the outlaw has no God—no country—no wife—and how dare I hope that she who took me for an hour’s frolic, would not some day gladly be rid of me for ever?"

Robin’s reflections, painful and absorbing as they were, did not prevent his keeping a close watch on Steve, who now turned, and, with many signs of caution, retraced his steps. At the same time the distant sound of wheels became audible.

"Conceal yourself, Captain, there are travelers coming this way; we must withdraw until they have passed," said Steve, pushing his way through the bushes and preparing to lead his horse farther into the wood.

"We are four," said Robin. "It would ill become us to turn tail without knowing what we fly from."

"Four! Would you attempt to draw his grace into a broil?"

"A broil! Pshaw!" cried Robin impatiently. "Some pursy citizen in a post-chaise, belike, or passengers for the ferry."

"There’s another carriage following the one you hear," said Steve. "Shall I warn the duke and Mr. Percival?"

"No, no! let us play highwaymen once more and frighten them away," laughed Robin, quickly adjusting a black mask and handing one to Steve. As he did so a hand was laid somewhat roughly on his arm and the duke, in low but emphatic tones, interrupted him:

"A truce to this headstrong folly; your rashness will ruin everything."

"I’m in the right temper for a tussle," returned Robin resignedly. "Yet if these travelers do not molest us they may pass on their way unchallenged for me," and, reluctantly, he withdrew a few paces farther into the thicket, just as a coach and four rounded the bend in the road and drew up not many paces away.

A man jumped out of the rumble, and hurrying to the inn-door, battered and kicked at it, loudly shouting, "Ferry—ho, Ferry—where is the Ferryman? Ho, Landlord, open your door quickly and do not waste our time."

An upper window opened cautiously, just wide enough to show a night-capped head within.

"Who calls for the ferry at this hour?" demanded a quavering voice.

"Why, ’tis early yet," replied the man; "we are travelers who would cross in hot haste."

"Your haste will have time to cool—the ferryman beds t’other side the river and comes not over unless he brings a fare," said the landlord.

"Is there no way of calling him? He will be well paid for his trouble; and you, too, Goodman, may find it worth while to come down and serve my noble master," cried the man.

"There’s a horn chained to yon post; blow it, if you will, an’ if he hears you, mayhap he’ll bring his boat across. If you want food and drink, you’ll find none fit for the quality nearer than Hailing. My wife is sick a-bed and I’m lame with the rheumatics, but I’ll come down and open if you’ll have patience." And the head was withdrawn and the casement shut.

In the meantime the carriage door was opened and a man descended. His figure, which a ray of the setting sun brought into strong relief, was immediately recognized by Robin, who muttered, "Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert! What brings him across my path again?" and pushing forward a little, caught the sound of his own name.

"I swear to you that Robin Freemantle is dead!"

"You lie!" shouted Robin.

Sir Geoffrey started and looked round. "What was that?" he exclaimed uneasily.

Prue instantly renewed her cries, "Help! help! If ye be true men, come to my rescue!"

Two masked and cloaked horsemen promptly advanced, leveling their pistols at Sir Geoffrey’s head.

"Stand and deliver!" commanded the taller of them, in deep, vibrant tones.

At the sound of that beloved voice, Prue, with a cry of joy, sprang out of the carriage, and rushing to Robin, who was already afoot, threw herself into his arms.

"Oh! joy—oh! Robin, dear, dear Robin, Heaven has sent you to deliver me from this villain!"

At the sight of their meeting and the maddening certainty of his own utter discomfiture, Sir Geoffrey could not contain his fury, but drawing his sword, would have hurled himself upon Robin had not Prue stood between them with outstretched arms.

"Stand aside, woman!" he vociferated, beside himself with rage. "Must I kill you to get at him? Coward! are you going to shelter yourself behind a woman?"

"Stand aside, Prue," said Robin, in a tone she dared not disobey, and drawing his sword he placed himself on the defensive.

Sir Geoffrey was an adroit swordsman and a practised duellist, but he soon found he had no mean antagonist in Robin. It was a match between the clever master of fence and the soldier accustomed to fight with his life in his hand, regardless of carte and tierce. At pose and trick Sir Geoffrey was the superior, but he was under the disadvantage of a tempestuous fury that prevented his making the best use of the dexterity that had brought him out victor from numerous encounters, while Robin’s coolness more than compensated for lack of finesse, and his skill as a swordsman soon proved itself. Sir Geoffrey, in spite of his passionate onslaught, was gradually beaten off the roadside and driven step by step to the door of the inn, where Robin, calm as though they had been merely fencing for amusement, goaded him into rashness with an exaggerated display of caution, and taking quick advantage of a wild lunge, disarmed him and sent his sword flying a dozen paces away.

At the clash of weapons and sound of warfare, the inn-door opened a few inches and a bald old head peered cautiously out.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" piped a trembling voice, "mine is a respectable house; pray you do not get me into trouble. I implore you, if there is murder to be done, for Heaven’s sake go a little farther up the road; there is a quiet spot, not five minutes’ walk away, where no one will disturb you while you kill each other."