"For your own sake, dearest; merely to be ready in case you needed a strong arm and a skilled sword to defend you. And all I ask now is that you will accept that protection for life and give me the right to silence every malicious tongue with the public announcement of our approaching marriage. Who will dare," Sir Geoffrey went on, in his most grandiloquent manner, "to defame the lady of whom I am ready to say, 'This is my promised wife; her honor is mine?'"
"A truce to your braggadocio, my good friend," laughed Prue; "your tragic tones and frowning looks almost persuade me that I need protection! Believe me, you are in a far worse case than I; you stand greatly in need of a disinterested adviser, who would counsel you to leave me before too late, or at least take time—a year or two, we will say—to think it over."
"Was there ever a lover that listened to such counsel? Not if he loved as I do, dear one. So far from waiting a year, I swear that a week is too long, and that if you do not marry me to-morrow—"
He hesitated and Prue took him up sharply. "What if I do not marry you to-morrow? Pray finish your threat, so that I may know what fate awaits me, since I shall certainly not marry to-morrow, neither next week, nor, perchance, next year!"
"And does your ladyship imagine that I, Geoffrey Beaudesert, will swell the ranks of those whom the beautiful Viscountess Brooke has left lamenting at the church-door?" demanded the suitor, giving way at last to his long-suppressed fury. "No, no, you can not play with me as you did with Beachcombe, O'Keefe, Sutherland and a dozen others. To-day I love you to distraction; you may bend me to your lightest caprice with a kind word. But scorn me, and to-morrow you will have an enemy with the will, as well as the power, to cover you with shame. Aye, shame, Lady Prudence Brooke!" as she sprang to her feet with blazing eyes. "Where will you hide your head when all the world knows how and why you became the wife of an outlaw and a felon—the thief who stole the queen's necklace, for a nuptial gift to his bride! Ha, ha! that will be a feast indeed for the scandal-mongers of London Town!"
"And Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—how will he appear in the affair?" she retorted. "This is not the first time to-day that you have threatened me, Sir Geoffrey, but I advise you to let it be the last, for I warn you that if you drive me to do so, I may tell the story myself; and my version of it will not leave you entirely unscathed. How could I have done this thing—this shameful, scandalous thing, as you truly call it—if you had not helped; nay, pushed me into it? Who bought the ring and license, and hired the parson? He was an ordained Church-of-England clergyman, was he not? If I am not mistaken, it was you who ordered him to make the marriage-service 'brief and binding,' and bade him keep his own counsel until his evidence was needed to prove me Captain de Cliffe's widow? If the scandal-mongers of London Town feast at my expense, they will certainly banquet at yours! And if you talk of enemies—but no, we are not silly children to wrangle over trifles, and scratch and slap each other's face because we can not have our own way all the time. Let us forget this folly and talk of pleasanter things."
"No subject is pleasant to me but one—yourself," said Sir Geoffrey, with an effort to resume his ordinary manner. "Believe me, however impatient I may appear as a lover, as a husband you will find me a pattern of indulgence. But do not, I entreat you, try my patience much longer."
"No doubt, Sir Geoffrey, I ought to be flattered by your persistence," replied Prue petulantly, "but if you have so little delicacy as to press one husband upon me before the other is in his grave, you surely are not anxious to inflict upon me the possible fate of a bigamist? If, perchance, one of these twenty highwaymen escaped, and that one proved to be the one you helped me to marry, your hasty wooing might cause poor Prudence Brooke to blossom on Tyburn Tree or, worse still, to end her days on a cotton plantation. 'Tis strange how much more anxious you are to wed me since I became a wife, than you were when I was really a widow! Then I heard nothing about post-chaises and elopements—"
"Because then, dear Prue, I had not known the torture of Tantalus, the anguish of seeing you within reach of my arms, yet held at an inaccessible distance by the accursed phantom of a husband, who was no husband and never could be one. Pardon me if I am unable to restrain my jealous ardor, and believe me, if you will but set a time for rewarding my devotion, I will endeavor, however difficult the task, not to offend again."
Prue reflected a few moments. Then she rose, with an air that left Sir Geoffrey no choice but to follow her example.