London (England) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Women -- Fiction
"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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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