Let us do Mr. Foxwell justice. He had honestly believed that Everell would choose to renounce love and be set free. This indeed would have been the most humane event that any reasonable person could have expected Foxwell to bring about. He might, of course, have played the part of a beneficent deity, and at once aided the Jacobite’s escape, approved of his love, and sanctioned the future union of the lovers. But he was no Mr. Allworthy. Indeed it is more than doubtful whether Mr. Allworthy himself would have carried benevolence to that length. A flying rebel, with a price on his head, whose possessions in the kingdom, if he had any, were liable to confiscation, was not the suitor a young lady’s relation could be supposed to favour offhand. One even fears that the virtuous Allworthy would rather have interpreted the duties of loyalty in all strictness, and placed the captive in the hands of justice immediately. But Foxwell, with all his selfishness and callousness, was not the man to make patriotism a vice to that extent, unless there was something to gain or save by it. He might be a heartless rake, but he was too much a gentleman to practise that degree of Roman virtue without any personal motive of profit or fear.
So the best course had seemed to be to send the fugitive packing, and nip this love-affair in the bud. And that was what Foxwell had supposed would result from the alternative offers. In any reasonable issue of the matter, there must have been separation for the lovers and sorrow for Georgiana. Would that sorrow be ultimately greater for the postponement, and for the probable deepening of the attachment between the lovers? Perhaps; but Foxwell had not looked for this outcome. The cruelty of his little experiment upon the human passions, then, consisted in his exposing the young lover’s heart, and playing upon it, for the amusement of onlookers. The cruelty of the intention was not lessened by the fact that Everell himself, wholly concerned as to his fate and his love, did not at the time see himself as a man exhibited and played upon.
Perhaps Foxwell and his friends underwent some self-reproach. However that be, it is certain they had the delicacy to refrain from spying or intruding upon the lovers during the week for which Everell had so devotedly bargained. The party of four went their way, and the party of two, attended by the faithful Prudence, went theirs, both parties meeting twice or thrice each day at meals. On these occasions, a pleasant courtesy prevailed, and there was no rallying of the lovers, no inquisitive observation of them. Indeed it is doubtful if the feelings of young lovers were ever more nicely considered. The two found themselves always favoured by that conspiracy which good-natured people customarily form for the benefit of a young lady and her favoured suitor. Everell found that he was not even expected to remain at the table with the other gentlemen after the ladies had gone, nor was it required that he and Georgiana should join the latter at the tea-table or at cards. The lovers’ chief place of resort within the house was the library, a room quite neglected by the others, who preferred only the newest plays, poems, and magazines for their reading. In good weather the lovers sat in the old garden, or strolled in the park, Foxwell and his visitors going farther afield for their outdoor amusements, and receiving no company from the neighbourhood. Thus the young couple, from their meeting at breakfast to their parting at night, passed all the hours together, in a singular freedom from observant eyes.
We shall imitate Foxwell and his friends in this abstention from prying; not because the love-making of the two young people is sacred from us, but because such love-making, interesting as it is to the participants, is sadly tedious to the spectator. The love-stories of actual people are interesting for the events that give rise to their love, and to which their love gives rise; not (excepting the critical moments of the awakening, the unintentional disclosure, the first confession, and such) for the regular course of its own manifestation. The reader who has dreaded the slow account of a week’s love-making—the sighs, the gazes, the silences, the hand-holdings, the poutings, the forgivings, and all the rest—may breathe freely. The peculiar pathos of the situation of these young lovers—a pathos as yet perceptible only to Everell—did not much alter their conduct from that of other young lovers. For Everell made fair shift to put the future out of sight, to regard only the day: he was resolved not to look forward till the last hour of his term should arrive. As long as he was with Georgiana, he could keep to this: ’twas only when he had retired to his own chamber that visions of the approaching end would harass him in the darkness; only then would he count the hours that yet remained.
On the eventful night of his capture, and after Georgiana had retired, Everell had obtained Foxwell’s permission to communicate with John Tarby by means of the keeper, who, as he had learned from Tarby himself, was privately on excellent terms with the poacher. By this medium, then, Everell had taken leave of his former host with due expressions of thanks, both in words and in gold, and had obtained the cloak-bag containing his travelling equipment. Tarby had been left under the impression that the young gentleman, after being sheltered secretly for a time at Foxwell Court, was to proceed upon his journey.
That indeed was the impression of the servants at Foxwell Court, and of Georgiana herself. Everell did not tell her how long or short was to be his visit, and she, glad enough to postpone all thought of his departure, never broached the subject. Only once did he hint at the probability of his leaving her before many days. It was when, on Saturday evening, she spoke of going to church next day. “Nay,” he pleaded, with a sudden alarm in his eyes, “you will have Sundays enough for church-going, when I am not here.” It was not necessary to say more; but he had to feign excessive lightness of heart to quiet the vague apprehension his own earnestness had raised in her mind.
Foxwell and his friends appeared at church that Sunday without Georgiana. Her absence was noted by one important person, at least, for, after the service, Squire Thornby accosted Foxwell outside the church porch, with a lack of preliminary salutation, blurting out:
“How now, neighbour Foxwell, ’tis no illness, I hope, keeps Miss Foxwell home such a fine day?”
“No illness, thank you,” replied Foxwell, mildly; “nothing of consequence, that is: my niece slept rather badly last night, because of the wind.”
“I’m glad ’tis nothing serious. Tell her I said so, with my best compliments. Tell her she was missed. We could better ’a’ spared you, Foxwell,—and that’s a true word spoken in jest, if ever there was one.”
This pleasantry was accompanied by a smile of such confident insolence that the onlookers set their ears for the piercing retort they thought sure to come. It was on the tip of Foxwell’s tongue; but he checked it, dropped his eyes, and sought refuge in a feebly counterfeited laugh. His enemy looked around triumphantly, and walked off. Foxwell, who saw nothing in the Squire’s concern for Georgiana but a pretext for rudeness to himself, digested his chagrin in silence, though aware of the surprised glances of Rashleigh and the ladies, to whom he had mentioned his former method of dealing with this booby.
The next morning, as Foxwell was about to set forth on horseback with his friends, the gamekeeper sought an interview. Being ordered to speak out, the man said that Squire Thornby’s people had again broken down the fence on t’other side of the four beeches, and were busy putting it up again on the hither side. “Us were going to drive them back, and were a’most come to blows, when the Squire’s agent told us we’d best come first to your Honour, and see as if you hadn’t changed your mind about the rights o’ that bound’ry. He said it in such a manner, sir, as how I thought maybe there was some new agreement, or the courts had decided, or something—begging pardon if I’m wrong, sir. So, after a few words, I thought I’d better see your Honour afore us starts a-breaking heads.”
Foxwell had been able to keep a clear brow, and to stifle a bitter sigh, but he could not prevent his face from turning a shade darker. His visitors, who had heard the keeper’s tale, looked with curiosity for the answer. After a moment’s silence, Foxwell said: “Oh, damn the fence!—’tis no matter:—yes, we’ve made a new agreement; let Thornby’s men alone,” and turned his horse to ride off with his guests.
He was by turns morose and excessively mirthful on that day’s excursion. In the afternoon, as the four were riding up the slope toward the house, they saw a mounted gentleman emerge through the gateway. Nearing them, he proved to be Thornby. Foxwell dissembled his inward rage, and had sufficient self-command to greet his enemy with polite carelessness.
“I suppose you came to see me in regard to the fence,” he added, reining in his horse. His companions also stopped, on pretence of viewing the distant sun-bathed hills to the west; but they listened to what passed between their host and his foe.
“Fence?” said Thornby. “Oh no, sir,—no need to see you in regard to that. I don’t consult anybody as to what I do on my own land—not even such a wise fellow as you, Foxwell.”
“Oh, I merely thought it required some particular occasion to persuade you to visit us at Foxwell Court. I heard you were—rebuilding the fence by the four beeches.”
“So I am, that’s true enough. I intend to do a considerable amount of rebuilding of that sort; but I sha’n’t need to come to Foxwell Court on that account. No; ’twas just the whim brought me to Foxwell Court to-day—just a neighbourly visit, that’s all.”
“Then pray turn back with us,” said Foxwell.
“No, thankye, sir. I’ve got business awaiting me at home. Glad to find Miss Foxwell is quite herself again.—No, I won’t trouble you in respect of my fences, Foxwell,—not me. Good evening to you.”
The Squire’s assured, derisive manner made his speeches doubly exasperating. As Foxwell rode on with his guests, he could only suppose that his enemy had come to Foxwell Court for the purpose of exulting over him upon this new settlement of the old boundary dispute. As the reader knows, however, Foxwell Court had another attraction for Mr. Thornby. He had, in fact, rejoiced at Foxwell’s absence, and, upon arrival, had asked to see Miss Foxwell. The servant found her walking in the garden with Everell; but she sent her excuses to the visitor, whom she then casually described to Everell as a neighbour having some business with her uncle. But the servant presently returned, saying that Mr. Thornby declared his business important, and would come to her in the garden if it was a trouble for her to go to him in the house.
Fearing a second refusal might make the Squire too inquisitive, Georgiana obtained leave from Everell to go and get rid of this gentleman. As she entered the drawing-room, where Thornby waited, she began abruptly by saying that she was very much occupied, and that she hoped his business would not take many minutes.
“Why, now, I’ll tell you truth, Miss Foxwell,” was the reply, “’twas just for another glimpse of yourself that I came.”
“But you said important business,” answered Miss Foxwell, looking her displeasure.
“Well, and it was important to me. When I thought of you, I couldn’t let my horse pass the gate without turning in. To tell the truth again, ’twas the thought of you that made me ride in this here direction. You wasn’t at church yesterday—I’d been looking forward to see you there. For my life, I ha’n’t been able to get your face out of my head this whole week past, odd rabbit me if I have!—not that I ever wanted to, neither.” The rustic gentleman had lapsed into a state of red-faced confusion which at another time Georgiana would have pitied; but just now she was merciless in showing her annoyance.
“I’m vastly flattered, Mr. Thornby; but you have come at a time when I’m very much taken up with my own affairs—very much taken up. So I beg you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh, now, wait a minute, Miss Foxwell, as you’ve got a kind Christian heart. Why, rat me! if you knew as how I’ve pined to see you again since t’other day, I’ll warrant you’d never go to treat me so unneighbourly. If you knew as how—”
“Really I must go, Mr. Thornby,—really.”
“Why can’t we be neighbourly, Miss Foxwell,—us two? Your uncle and me ha’n’t always been sworn brothers, so to speak, but I think as how we shall be mending that; and if you’d only just—er—ah—be neighbourly like—”
“I’m perfectly willing we should be good neighbours, Mr. Thornby,—perfectly. But just now if you’ll do me the favour to excuse—”
“Ah, that’s what I hoped for from such a sweet, gentle face, Miss Foxwell. Perfectly willing to be good neighbours. You make me a happy man, by the lord Harry, you do that! Ecod, if you knew as how I’ve laid awake nights this week past—”
Georgiana, convinced that fair means would not serve, feigned a sudden dizziness, which threw the Squire into such embarrassment, as he knew nothing of what to do for a lady in a faint, that he was very glad to leave the field, though he manfully remained until she declared she was better and would entirely recover if left alone. As soon as she saw him ride out of the courtyard, she went back to Everell in the garden.
“How long you stayed!” said he.
“Nay, if you knew this gentleman!—so stupid, and repeating himself a hundred times:—and after all, ’twas nothing I could be of use in.”
Alluded to in this careless manner, the personality of Thornby awakened no curiosity in Everell’s mind. He vaguely remembered the name as that of a landowner in the neighbourhood, whom the innkeeper and John Tarby had mentioned. How glad Mr. Foxwell would have been could he have felt a like indifference with regard to the Squire! The reader is aware of their encounter as Thornby was riding down the slope that afternoon. As soon after that as Foxwell found himself alone with Rashleigh, his vexation broke out in words.
“Damn that Thornby! Damn, damn, damn him!”
“The gentleman you were accustomed to take down in company, didn’t you tell us?” said Rashleigh with marked innocence.
“Ay, George, laugh at me: I deserve it, I own. But something has happened since I told you that. No doubt you remember, the fellow came to see me the other day. Do you know what he showed me then?”
“Not I—unless it was a list of men he had killed.”
“Alas, nothing of that sort. To make a long story short, years ago in London, when I was in bad straits, I wrote a foolish letter—imbecile that I was!—wrote it in the madness of anger, poverty, imprisonment,—in the recklessness of drink.”
“We make such blunders now and then, certainly,” was Rashleigh’s sage comment.
“I soon enough realized my blunder. The recipient of the letter—he is dead now—told me he had burnt it. It contained things I should be sorry to have everybody see.”
“But if it was burnt?”
“It wasn’t: there was trickery somewhere. And the letter is now in the possession of this Thornby. ’Tis the real letter—I recognized it. He will show it to the world if I provoke him. Till I can get it from him—and heaven knows how that is to be done: he is a cunning fellow, and on the qui vive—well, now you understand my meekness. He really has me at his mercy—hardly less than I have the Jacobite yonder at mine.”
From the window the gentlemen could see Everell and Georgiana strolling within the verge of the park. As Foxwell evinced no mind to say more about Thornby or the letter, but rather seemed to dismiss them with a sigh of disgust, Rashleigh took the cue for a change of subject.
“Will you really hand over the Jacobite, after all, Bob?”
“I haven’t thought much of that matter,” replied Foxwell. “I frankly didn’t expect him to choose as he did.”
“His time is coming to an end,” said Rashleigh. “You will soon have to decide.”
“Why, deuce take it, has he not decided for himself? What can I do but hand him over? Were I to let him go free, he would probably be caught, nevertheless: in the end I should be in trouble for having harboured him.”
“You’ll pardon me, of course, for introducing the subject. We’ve all avoided it, as you set the example of doing. But to-day Lady Strange was hoping that you could find it in your heart to let the young fellow go.”
“Oh, I could find it in my heart; but should I find it to my interest? Several possibilities have occurred to me, but they all seem attended by risk or inconvenience. The safest and easiest course is clearly to observe both the law and our agreement. The man Filson is still in the village. He seems to have an instinct that his prey is in the neighbourhood—nay, as he looked at me yesterday at church, I could almost imagine he suspected something. He has a clue, perhaps. He told Caleb he might be hereabouts for another fortnight. So you see—well, I can make up my mind at the last moment if need be—one can always toss a coin. ’Tis time we were changing our clothes.”
On the afternoon of the last day of Everell’s week, something occurred to bring Foxwell to a decision without recourse to the toss of a coin. Georgiana having mentioned to Everell a miniature portrait of herself, he had eagerly expressed a desire to see it. He had thought she would send Prudence for it, but Georgiana, saying that she alone could find it, and that she would return in a minute, left Everell in the garden. As she entered the hall, on the way to her apartments, she saw her uncle there in the act of greeting Squire Thornby, who had evidently just dismounted from his horse. She curtsied, and essayed to pass swiftly to the stairs, but Thornby intervened.
“Nay, one moment, Miss Foxwell,” said he, with precipitation, and looking very red in the face. “I’m going to say something to your uncle that concerns you.” As he stood directly in her way, she had no choice but to stop. She did not conceal her impatience. “It needn’t keep you long,” Thornby went on, “for I won’t beat about the bush. Mr. Foxwell, I may say without vanity I’m a man of some substance as fortunes go in this here part of the world. And, in course, you know I’m a bachelor. Not because I’m a woman-hater, but because, to be all open and aboveboard, I never yet saw the woman in these parts that I thought fit to be mistress of Thornby Hall—damn me if I ever did!”
“I can understand your feeling, Mr. Thornby,” said Foxwell, while the Squire paused and glared at both uncle and niece.
“That is to say,” resumed Thornby, “never till a few days ago. Ecod, it seems more than a few days, one way I look at it! I mean, I saw your niece—yes, you, Miss Foxwell, I say it to your face. Now the secret’s out. I hadn’t thought to come to the point so soon—I thought to go softly, and court the young lady awhile, and so forth—but hang me if I desire to wait and give somebody else a chance to carry off such a prize.—Well, what d’ye say, Miss Foxwell?”
Georgiana was quite too confounded to say anything.
“She says you do us a great honour, Mr. Thornby,” put in Foxwell, discreetly; “a very great honour. My niece, I am sure, is fully sensible of the honour. But are you aware how small her fortune is?”
“Hang fortunes! I’ve enough for two!” cried Thornby.
“And then, sir,” went on Foxwell, with quiet frankness, “upon her marriage, you must know, the division of our estate will leave me rather ill provided for. That would not influence me, were she not so young; but, as it is, she can very well afford to wait two or three years, during which I may improve my affairs.”
“You sha’n’t suffer, Foxwell,” said the Squire, bluntly: “you shall come out of the affair as well provided for as both of you now are together. But what does the lady say?”
“The lady says, no!” And emphatically she said it, too, now that she had found her voice. “I thank you very much, Mr. Thornby; but ’tis not to be heard of!”
“Oh, come now, Miss Foxwell! Don’t be so determined all in a moment. Consider it—be kind—be—be neighbourly!”
“’Tis not to be heard of, I assure you, Mr. Thornby. No, no, no, I say! I will never consider it—I will never—” As Thornby still barred her path to the stairs, she turned suddenly and hastened from the hall by the way she had entered. After making sure she was not followed, she rejoined Everell, with an excuse for postponing her quest of the miniature. She trusted to her uncle to soften the refusal of Thornby’s offer; for she could not but think, although she had nobody’s word for it, that Foxwell had decided to favour Everell as her suitor—a turn she attributed to some assurance of Everell’s prospects in France, which, she supposed, the fugitive had given Foxwell on the night of the capture. Indeed in no other way could she account for the strange situation that existed; she was glad enough to accept without question a state of affairs in which she found joy for the present and hope for the future.
But her exit from the hall did not finish the scene there. Thornby, after staring open-mouthed a moment, addressed himself to Foxwell:
“Ecod, why should she fly out like that—well, well, I haven’t the gift of fine speech. You have that, Foxwell, and I look to you to persuade her, d’ye hear? I’ll make it worth your while. The day I marry her, you shall have back that there letter we both know of; but if she won’t have me, damme if I know what use I sha’n’t make of it!”
“I hold you to that promise,” said Foxwell, quickly, “and to what you mentioned in regard to terms of settlement.”
“As to providing for you, and so forth? You’ll find me as good as my word: I’ll have my lawyer ready for yours the minute she gives her consent.”
“’Tis but a girl’s coyness that stands in the way: we shall break that in a little time.”
“Nay, no force, neither!” said Thornby. “It must be of her own free will—she must tell me herself she takes me willingly—you’re to persuade, not compel.”
“Certainly.”
“I dare say I’d best not see her again to-day,” the Squire faltered.
“Not for a few days, at the least, I should advise.”
“Well, I suppose you know. I’ll do my best to bide patient for two days.”
“But I scarcely hope to change her mind within a week,” said Foxwell, thoughtfully.
“I’ll come to see how you fare, nevertheless.—If you do succeed sooner than you hope, send me word immediately.”
Left alone, Foxwell paced the hall, in cogitation. He was joined presently by Rashleigh.
“Egad, Bob, your meditations must have grown pleasanter, to make you smile to yourself.”
“Was I smiling? Well, you must know my excellent niece has received an offer of marriage—a mighty advantageous one. The little fool spurns it: the Jacobite stands in the way, of course, and will as long as he is alive to communicate with her. I shall have to do my duty as a loyal subject of King George, I see.”
“But will she be the more favourable to another suitor, while the one she loves is about being hanged?”
“Perhaps I can keep the Jacobite’s fate from her knowledge. ’Tis plain he hasn’t told her of our bargain: he probably will not tell her—probably will but announce his departure on some pretext—may indeed say nothing of it, leaving us to break it. I will deliver him up to-night, but not in her presence. At ten o’clock his claims cease. If he has meanwhile prepared her for his going, well and good: if not, she shall think he has taken sudden leave for his own reasons. Hearing no more of him, she will put his silence down to inconstancy; in that case, pride may incline her to the other man. If she learns the truth, she will be too broken to resist my persuasions long.—I’m sorry for the rebel: but there’s much at stake for me in the affair—and ’tis only what he agreed to and expects—what he risked before ever I saw him—his just deserts under the law. The girl will suffer, too,—but not for many days. I hope he will not tell her the full truth.”
Everell himself was in doubt as to what he should tell her. He was trying still to postpone consideration of the end so close at hand. He was sorely perplexed for her sake, for he knew now how far beyond mere compassion her love was.
Everell’s last meal at Foxwell Court was not marked by lively conversation. He had his own thoughts, or, rather, his own confused and whirling state of mind, so that he scarce knew whether the others spoke or were silent. Outwardly he still maintained a brave face, so that Georgiana might not yet be alarmed. The young lady herself had never taken much part in the table talk. Lady Strange and Rashleigh felt the occasion too sensibly to be capable of easy discourse, and Foxwell knew a gentleman’s part too well to intrude a gaiety either real or feigned. He quietly kept the ball rolling, however, with Mrs. Winter, who alone—save Georgiana—seemed untouched by the shadow of coming events.
As soon as the ladies had finished, Georgiana left the room for the library. Everell, with a bow to the company, turned to follow her.
Lady Strange, already risen, laid a gentle hand upon his sleeve and said, softly: “Upon my soul, sir, I pity you!”
He looked at her a moment; then, summoning a smile, answered: “I thank you from my heart; but ’tis not near ten o’clock. I have some hours yet remaining. Ladies, your servant.”
When he had gone out, Mrs. Winter said: “So you may keep your pity till ten o’clock, Diana. Sure the young fellow carries it off well. ’Twill be worth seeing if he does so to the end. Ten o’clock—’tis several hours off, and card-playing begins to be tedious. What a long evening ’twill be!”
“Short enough for those two young lovers,” said Lady Strange, with a sigh, as she passed to the drawing-room.
“I suppose you have made your arrangements, Bob,” said Rashleigh, when the two gentlemen were alone; “for delivering him up, I mean.”
“They are very simple. I will send Joseph with a message to Jeremiah Filson an hour or so before ten o’clock. Filson will require a little time to muster the justice’s men; he may have to go to Thornby Hall—no doubt Thornby’s clerk will command the party, to make sure that all is regular. So ’twill scarce be possible for them to arrive before ten: in any case, I’ll warn Filson they mustn’t do so. Till ten I may not call the rebel from Georgiana’s presence. I hope he will leave her in ignorance. Well, we shall see.”
In the library Georgiana sat reading to her lover. What the words meant, what the book was, he hardly knew; she would have preferred to be the listener, but in that case he would have had to keep his eyes upon the page, and he would rather keep them upon her face. He could interrupt when he chose, and then her eyes rose to meet his; so that he often interrupted. Suddenly he remembered the miniature she had started to get for him in the afternoon; and now the desire to possess it—to have that image of her beauty to carry with him to the end—grew strong in a moment. He reminded her.
She rose at once to go to her room for it, saying, as before, that only she could find it. He followed her through the dining-room; which was now deserted, as Foxwell and Rashleigh had soon joined the ladies in the drawing-room. In the wide entrance-hall, as Everell could accompany her no farther, he caught her hand lightly, and said:
“Don’t be long in finding it, I pray. Remember, every moment—” He checked himself, and turned the supplication to gaiety by a smile. “Be considerate of my impatience, dear.”
Struck by his manner, she looked searchingly at his face. But he kissed her hand in a playful way, and gave it a little toss toward the stairway; up which she hastened a moment later, reassured.
There was a footman stationed in the entrance-hall, and Everell, not wishing his mood to be observed, went back into the dining-room to await Georgiana’s return. He still held in one hand the book from which she had been reading. He turned the pages, gazing at the words, but receiving no impression from them. The table remained as the gentlemen had left it, except that the candelabrum had been removed, only two candles in wall-sconces remaining to light the room. The fire in the chimney-place was low, and the air rather chill, for the evening had set in with a cold wind. “Little do I care, though it freeze and blow,” thought Everell, standing by the fireplace. “Why does she delay? Cruel!—but she knows not. The minutes!—the minutes I am losing!”
But in truth she was expeditious, and so quiet in her return that she entered the room before he had heard her step. He went to her with a subdued cry, seized the miniature from her hand, and pressed it—and then the hand itself—with passionate tenderness to his lips.
“It shall never leave me,” he said. “It shall be the last thing I look upon—it shall feel the last beat of my heart.”
“But that will be many, many years in the future,” said Georgiana, with a half-comic air of complaint, “and meanwhile you don’t even look at the picture now!”
“Time enough for that!—Let me look only at you now.”
“What do you mean? There is time enough for looking at me, too. Tell me if the likeness flatters me.”
“Nothing could do that. ’Tis a lovely portrait—never was a lovelier; but the eyes are not as sweet as the original’s—nor the face as angelic—nor the hair as soft—nor the colour as fair—nor the look as tender. ’Tis nothing to the life—and yet ’tis adorable. ’Twas kindly thought, to give it me,—more kindly than you know, dear.”
He kissed it once more; then, having placed it carefully in the breast pocket of his waistcoat, took both her hands, and regarded her with an intentness that reawoke the vague alarm she had felt in the hall.
“Why do you look in that manner, Everell? Why do you speak so strangely this evening? You make me almost afraid—for you, that is—nay, for both of us. What is it?”
“Nothing—nothing, sweet!” But whatever he might say, it was no longer possible for him to counterfeit either gaiety or unconcern with any success. “God knows, I would be the same now—I would have us both be the same now—as we have been all this week. I grudge every thought that we give to anything but our love. Let us have the full worth of each moment, to the very end.—Nay, what am I saying? I rave, I think. Yes, yes, dear, I speak strangely—strangely was well said.”
“Everell, you frighten me! What is behind all this?—what is it you have in mind?”
“Only you, dear: you, as you are at this instant. There is nothing but this instant—no past, no future!—there is only now, with you in my arms, and your eyes looking into mine. Oh, if the course of time could be stopped, and this moment last for ever!”
“I should be content,” said Georgiana, taking refuge in the possibility that his manner might be the effect of a transient excess of emotion, such as ardent lovers sometimes experience. “But haven’t we all our lives in which to love each other? We must only guard against your being taken. But you’ll be safe once you are out of England—as you will be by and by—not yet, of course. And then after awhile we shall meet again in France. My only dread is of the separation meanwhile—’tis fearful to think of separation, even for a short time, but doubtless it must be—” She broke off, with a sigh.
“Ay, must be!” Everell replied, in a low voice.
“But it must not be long. I believe my uncle will be glad of an occasion to visit France. And then, when danger and separation are past, what happiness!”
She had, it will be seen, formed her own plans for the future; and had talked of them, too, more than once in the last few days, taking her lover’s acquiescence for granted, as indeed his manifestations of love gave her full right to do. Such initiative on the woman’s side is, by a convention of romancers, assumed to be indelicate; if it be so, then the world must grant that real women are not the delicate creatures they have been taken for. Be that as it may, Georgiana’s dreams of the future had been bitter-sweet hearing to Everell, though he saw nothing indelicate in her mentioning them. Yet he could not bring himself to disillusion her. But now at last, when the hour was drawing near—
“Nay, talk not of the future, dear,” he said, holding her close in his arms, and endeavouring to speak without wildness. “There is only the present, I say. Life is full of uncertainty. Who can tell? This separation—it may be final—we may not see each other again.”
“Now you start my fears again!” cried Georgiana. “You puzzle me to-night, Everell. There’s something in your thoughts—something in your heart. Look at me: you are pale—one would suppose a calamity was before us. What is it? Oh, in the name of heaven, tell me!”
“Nay, ’tis nothing, I protest.—And yet you must know too soon. Why not from me? Who has such love for you as I have? who can feel for you as I can? who would try so fondly to console?”
“You are right, Everell; let me hear it from you! Oh, speak, dear!”
“’Tis—only this, sweetheart,” he said, when he could command his voice: “we are to part soon. I am going away.”
“Soon? How soon? Certainly, you must go to France—but not yet.”
“Ay, that is it, dear: I must go, I know not how soon. Perhaps—this very night.”
“This night? Impossible! You have said nothing to me of going—’tis too unexpected!”
“Forgive me, dear,” he pleaded, simply. “I wished not to cloud our happiness with any thought of separation; so I never spoke of—my day of departure.”
“Nay, but I must have time—to strengthen my heart! And we have arranged nothing yet—in regard to meeting again—no particulars. There is everything to be discussed before you go. This separation—how long is it to last?” Her voice and eyes were on the verge of tears.
“Longer, dear, than I have the heart to tell!—Oh, sweet, forgive, forgive me! When I bargained for one blissful week, ’twas only of myself I thought—I weighed my happiness against only the price I was to pay. I considered not what you might feel—that a week might turn your fancy into love, and make our parting as cruel for you as for me. Forgive me, dearest, and charge the sin to my love of you—my unthinking, inconsiderate love!”
“Nay, dear, there is nothing to forgive,” she said, with sorrowful compassion. “Parting will be hard—heaven knows it will!—but I must set my thoughts on our next meeting. The separation will be—somewhat long, do you say?—ah, that’s sad to hear. How long, Everell?”
He turned his face from her.
“Speak, Everell,” she pleaded; “how long?—a year?”
“Longer than that,” he whispered.
“Longer!—oh, pity me, heaven!”
Besides the doors at either end of this dining-parlour, to the library and the hall, there was at one side a third, which led to the drawing-room. This door now opened, and Lady Strange appeared: seeing the lovers, she closed it gently behind her. They stood clinging to each other, with looks sorrowful and distraught.
“You have told her, then?” she said, in a tone softened by compassion.
“Almost,” replied Everell; and Georgiana began to sob.
“My poor child,” said Lady Strange, “from my heart I grieve for you. Sir, we are all much to blame. Had we foreseen this a week ago!—Would that this week could be recalled, for the sake of this child’s happiness! I have pleaded with Foxwell; but he is determined to deliver you up.”
“What!—deliver—” Georgiana became for a moment speechless; then uttered a scream, and was like to have fallen to the floor, had not Everell grasped her more tightly in his arms.
“Heaven pity her!—my dear love!”
“Why, then—did she not know?” cried Lady Strange.
“Not the whole truth—only that I was going away.”
He was about to carry Georgiana to a chair, but she suddenly regained her strength.
“Deliver you up!” she said, excitedly. “My uncle shall not! You shall put it out of his power! Escape now, while you may! Go—we’ll meet again.” She essayed to push him toward the hall, keeping her glance the while on the drawing-room door by which her uncle might enter.
“I cannot,” said Everell. “I’ve given him my word—’twas to purchase this week of love, sweet.”
“Your word! He shall not claim it of you! Your word!—oh, heaven help me, you would keep your word though it broke my heart!—honour, you call it!—’tis men’s madness, women are no such fools!—Nay, forgive me, I would not love you else. But he shall not hold you to your word. He shall not deliver you up. He shall release you.” She broke from Everell’s clasp, and flung open the drawing-room door, calling, “Uncle! Uncle!”
Foxwell appeared, with some playing cards in his hand. He was slightly pallid, and wore the frown of one to whom has fallen a vexation he has dreaded.
“Uncle, you will not deliver him up? You will release him from his word? You will let him go free, will you not? ’Tis no gain to you that he should die. Speak!—uncle, tell me you’ll not deliver him up.”
“My child, you do not understand these matters,” replied Foxwell, patiently resorting to a judicial softness of speech. “Mr. Everell himself, as a soldier, who assumed the chance of war and lost, knows what my duty is—knows I once even offered to forget that duty, had he but accepted the condition.”
“Certainly I have but myself to blame,” said Everell. “For myself I make no complaint. For her, alas! my heart bleeds. I can but pray she will soon forget.”
“Forget!” cried Georgiana. “Indeed, no! I say you shall not die, Everell. Uncle, I beg you, on my knees—his life! Sure you can’t be my kinsman and refuse—you can’t be a sharer of the same blood as flows in me, and be so cruel. Answer me, uncle!—you will spare him, will not you? You say you once offered to forget your duty: if you could forget it once, you can again, cannot you?”
“‘UNCLE, I BEG YOU, ON MY KNEES—HIS LIFE!’”
“Nay, ’tis not possible now, niece; circumstances have altered. ’Twould be useless for me to explain. I can only beg you to end this supplication, Georgiana,—it will not serve you. I am not to be moved. Mr. Everell will say whether I have dealt fairly with him—would have dealt more than fairly, had he but willed. ’Tis all vastly to be regretted. Had he chosen so a week since, your sorrow had been much less. Had you bestowed your confidence upon me when he first came here, you might have been spared all sorrow. As it is, events must take their course.”
“Oh, my God, can one’s own kin be so heartless? To send him to death, who is more than life to me! What has he done?—what injury to you? He only fought for the prince in whose right he believed. Had his side won, he would have been merciful. What harm will it do you to let him go?—what harm to the kingdom, now the rebellion is put down? ’Tis profitless, ’tis needless, ’twill serve nothing, that he should die.—Oh, heaven, soften my uncle’s heart!—let him see as I see, feel as I feel!”
Foxwell, little relishing these vehement appeals, or the sight of the kneeling girl with supplicating hands, turned to Everell:
“Sir, this can accomplish nothing. I will leave you with her till the appointed time—though perhaps it were more kind to—”
“No, no!” cried Georgiana, grasping her uncle’s coat-skirt as he made to step back into the drawing-room. “Do not go!—uncle, hear me! Anything for his life!—only his life! I will do anything, give anything—only that he may not die!”
Foxwell looked down at her. The birth of a thought showed on his face, clearing away his frown of annoyance. Again he turned to Everell, and said, quietly:
“Sir, will you grant me a few minutes alone with my niece? The time shall be made up after, if you choose.”
Everell stood hesitating.
“Go, Everell,” said Georgiana, eagerly; “’tis for our advantage.”
“I pray it may be for yours, sweet,” replied Everell, gently, and went into the library, closing the door after him.
Lady Strange, conceiving herself not wanted, would have passed Foxwell to retire to the drawing-room; but he softly closed that door, and said:
“Nay, Lady Strange, don’t go. I had as lief you heard this. Georgiana, you ask for this gentleman’s life: now if that were all—” He paused for effect.
“All!” echoed Georgiana, now risen to her feet; “’tis everything! I ask no more. You will grant it, then?—you will make me happy?”
“If you would indeed be content with that—and his freedom—” Foxwell still seemed to halt in doubt.
“I will be,” Georgiana declared, emphatically; “only say he shall live.”
“If you would abandon any dreams you may have entertained of marriage—of future meetings with him—of correspondence, in the event of my saving him from the gallows—”
“I will abandon whatever you require,—only to know that he goes free, only to feel that somewhere in the world he lives!”
“Well,” said Foxwell, slowly, “I will let him go free—”
Georgiana uttered a cry of joy.
“—if,” continued Foxwell, “you will accept the proposal—the very advantageous proposal—which Mr. Thornby has done you the honour of making.”
“Accept the proposal—of Mr. Thornby?” repeated Georgiana, in utter surprise.
“Yes—give your consent to the marriage, of your own free will, letting it be clear that there has been no force or compulsion to influence you.”
“But,” Georgiana faltered, looking distressedly toward the door by which Everell had left the room, “I cannot love Mr. Thornby.”
“’Tis not absolutely necessary you should love him,” replied Foxwell, dryly.
“Oh, no, no!” cried Georgiana, as her imagination fully mastered the case. “I cannot! ’Twould be like—’twould be horrible!”
“’Twould be saving your Everell’s life,” said Foxwell, dispassionately.
“’Tis an excellent match, dear,” put in Lady Strange, softly, “if Mr. Thornby’s estate is what I take it to be.”
“Oh, but, Lady Strange,—you are a woman—you should understand.”
“I do, child,” replied the elder lady, with an inward sigh, “but—these matters reconcile themselves in time. ’Twill not be so intolerable, believe me. And who knows—” Whatever it was that who knew, Lady Strange abruptly broke off to another line of thought. “The point is, to save your lover’s life, my dear.”
“Ay,” said Foxwell, beginning to show impatience, “ere the opportunity is gone. Now lookye, Georgiana, I must hear your answer without more ado. I am going to have a horse saddled at once. It shall carry either your acceptance to Mr. Thornby, or word of this rebel to those who will not be slow in securing him. ’Tis for you to say which, and before many minutes.”
Instead of calling a servant, Foxwell went out to the hall to give the order, consigning Georgiana by a look to the persuasions of Lady Strange.
“Come, my dear,” said that lady, bending kindly over Georgiana, who had sunk weeping into a chair by the table; “’tis but marrying him you love not, for the sake of him you love.”
“’Tis being false to him I love,” sobbed the girl.
“False to him, but to save his life—a loyal kind of falseness, poor child!”
She continued in this strain, though with no apparent effect upon Georgiana, who presently flung her arms upon the table and, bowing her head upon them, shook with weeping. In this attitude her uncle found her when he returned from ordering the horse.
“Nay, persuade her no more, Lady Strange,” said he, testily. “God’s name, miss!—be true to your lover, if you think it so, and send him to die for your truth. I am going now to write a line for my messenger to carry. It might have been a line to Thornby, accompanied by a few words of your own inditing. But, as it cannot be so, it must be to those who want news of the rebel.” With that, Foxwell was about to go to the drawing-room.
“No, no!” exclaimed Georgiana, rising to stop him. “I will consent—I will save the rebel. False to him, for love of him!—he will understand.”
“Nay, but he is not to understand,” objected Foxwell. “He is to know nothing of this. Do you not see, he might rather give himself up than have you marry another?—might refuse to be saved by such means. For his own sake, he mustn’t know the condition. You had best not see him again: leave me to dismiss him. I make no doubt he will accept his liberty now for your sake, and agree to the voiding of our compact, whereof he has had near the full benefit. Best not see him: you might betray all.”
“Not see him!” wept Georgiana.
“’Tis best not. If he stand to our agreement and demand to see you, why, then, so it must be, and I know not what will ensue. Do not fear I shall misrepresent you to him. He shall know you have won his life by your pleading, upon condition he goes away forthwith—that is all. ’Tis agreed to, then?”
“Yes,” said Georgiana, faintly; and added as if speaking to herself, “I shall know that somewhere he lives!”
At this instant the door from the library opened, whereupon Foxwell looked around sharply, thinking Everell had taken it upon himself to reappear unbidden. But the intruder proved to be the waiting-woman Prudence, who had fallen asleep over her sewing while Georgiana was reading to Everell, and whom the lovers had left unnoticed in her corner. Having just now wakened, and seen Everell alone before the fireplace, looking strangely pale and excited, she had come forth in quest of her mistress. In obedience to Foxwell’s imperious motion, she shut the door, and hastened to the half-swooning niece.
“Then,” said Foxwell to Georgiana, “I beg you will go to your room and write a brief letter to Mr. Thornby, informing him you accept his proposal of marriage, conditionally upon such terms as your representative—and so forth. Lady Strange will perhaps be so kind as to advise you in the wording—the form matters little, only let it be plain you act of your free will.”
“Of my free will—yes,” murmured Georgiana, wearily, accepting the guidance of Lady Strange’s hand.
“When the letter is finished, send it down to me straightway; and best keep to your room for the rest of the evening,” added Foxwell, as Lady Strange and the girl passed out to the hall.
Prudence followed them up the stairs, but stopped for a moment outside Georgiana’s anteroom, to give oral expression to her feelings: “Marry Mr. Thornby! Oh, lor! What will the Jacumbite say to this, I wonder?”
Left alone in the dining-room, Foxwell first indulged in a momentary smile of satisfaction, as who should say, “For once has circumstance been kind to me;” and then, setting himself to the task yet remaining, he opened the library door, and called Everell.
The young man came without delay; looked swiftly around the room, and then at Foxwell with eyes that said, “She is not here!”
“She has gone to her room,” said Foxwell, very quietly. “I have granted her request: you are to go free.”
“Go free!”
“At her solicitation, and solely for her sake. For her sake, then, and for mine, too, if you consider not your own, I beg you will be secret in your departure—and above all, speedy. You must be especially on your guard against Jeremiah Filson, who still lodges at the public-house in the village yonder. Were I in your place, I wouldn’t pass through the village, I would go to Burndale and take conveyance there. But however you proceed, though I may seem inhospitable to urge it, you should set out immediately. You have money, I believe: if not, my purse—though I could wish it better lined—”
“Nay, a thousand thanks, but I have enough. As to this release, I know not what to say: I never would have asked it—”
“But you must accept it, for the sake of her who did ask it. I well know you would have stood to our compact. Stay not for protestations or thanks: the sooner you are gone, the better for us all.”
“But ’tis not yet ten o’clock.”
“Good heaven, sir, does it not follow that our agreement is annulled by your release if you accept it?—and your duty to her leaves you no choice but to accept. Will you stand upon an hour or two, when you’ve had near full benefit of the bargain for nothing, as it turns out?”
“You are right,” said Everell, with humility. “I will go as soon as I have said farewell to her.”
“But, my dear sir, that very ordeal is one you must spare her. Do you not see how the case stands? She was in great terror lest you should be given up: relieved upon that point, she asks no more. She is content with having gained your life: in that mood, she is willing to forego another meeting. It would only start her grief afresh: for that reason, I advised her to go to her room. As you value her peace, you must depart without seeing her.”
“Depart without seeing her!” Everell looked wistfully toward the hall, through which she must have passed to reach her apartments. He fetched a long and tremulous sigh; then bethought him of the miniature, and, taking it out, stood gazing on it with moist eyes. He gently kissed it, and replaced it in his pocket. “Well, sir, heaven knows I wouldn’t cause her fresh grief. But this I may ask—nay, must know:—when shall I be permitted to see her again?”
“’Tis not in my power to answer, your own future being unknown to me. Certainly you mustn’t see her during your present stay in England—which, if you are wise, you will devote entirely to getting out of England. As to the future more distant, all depends upon how matters shape themselves.”
“At least, then, I may hope! She will be true, I know. There will be an amnesty some day, and I may return to England without danger. In the meantime, you—and she—may be coming to France. I will write to her from there.”
“And not till you have arrived there, I trust. Until your safety is assured, any communication from you must give a new edge to her anxiety. But I demand no promises.” Foxwell intended to expedite the marriage: once his purposes were secured, Georgiana’s conduct would be Thornby’s affair. Now that her consent had been obtained, haste was possible. Meanwhile, he could intercept any letter that came by regular post. Therefore, ’twas better not to force Everell to secret means of correspondence.
“Then, sir,” said Everell, with a wan attempt at a smile, “as you demand no promises, I will make none. On the hope of meeting her again, in safer times, I shall live. In that hope, I must go. Tell her—” he paused a moment, but his thoughts were in a tumult—“Nay, words are too feeble! I thank her, not for my life, which is hers to use as she will; but for her love, which gives my life all its value. Adieu, sir!—no more!”
With that, he hastened abruptly, half-blindly, to the hall; and thence to his chamber, where he donned his sword, hat, cloak, and riding-boots. He threw his few other belongings into the bag, made sure his money was safe in pocket, and returned to the hall, thinking to leave by way of the courtyard and thus soonest gain the road. There was the darkness for his safety, and the whirl of his thoughts to speed him on to Burndale, where he could knock up some innkeeper, and take horse for the South at dawn.
Caleb and another servant, charged by Foxwell to attend the departing guest to the gate, were at the door. Everell handed each a coin, and the second man ran ahead to open the gate. Everell was following across the dark courtyard, when he bethought him of the services of Prudence. He turned back to the light of the open doorway, selected a gold piece, and asked Caleb to convey it to the maid.
“If it please your Honour, sir, asking your pardon, may I call Miss Prudence to receive it herself?” said Caleb; “’twill take but a minute.”
Perceiving that the valet was averse to the trust, Everell acquiesced. The idea then came to him that he might utilize the brief delay by writing a message of farewell to Georgiana: there could be no objection to a few written words of love and faith, which Prudence might deliver at a suitable time. Everell strode into the dining-room.
Nobody else was there, for Foxwell had returned to the drawing-room to pen a letter which should accompany Georgiana’s to Thornby. He had begun to apologize to Rashleigh and Mrs. Winter for the long trial he had put upon their patience.
“You might at least have left the door ajar, that we could have heard your fine scenes yonder,” said Mrs. Winter.
“So I might have done, I own,” replied Foxwell.
“Yes; as you didn’t, we thought ourselves justified in listening at the keyhole.”
“We?” exclaimed Rashleigh, in protest.
“Well, if you didn’t listen, Rashleigh, you certainly didn’t stop my telling you what I heard.”
“Then you know what has happened?” queried Foxwell.
“I could make a good guess at the general event,” answered the lady. “The rebel goes free, and pretty Georgiana marries for love.”
“For love!” said Foxwell. “Hardly so, I fear.”
“Certainly. For love of one man, she marries another. ’Tis often done—especially in France. ’Tis a plan that has its beauties.”
“I’m afraid Georgiana is too English to see its beauties,” said Rashleigh, as Foxwell sat down to write his letter.
Return we to another writer, in the adjoining room. Everell had found the book from which Georgiana had been reading to him, which he had dropped in going to support her when she seemed about to faint. He had scarce begun to pencil his message on a blank leaf, when Prudence looked in at the door.
“Oh, ’tis here your honour is, sir; and sure I’m sorry you’re going away so suddent,” she said, advancing. “When Caleb told me just now, I couldn’t believe my ears, and I wouldn’t yet, neither, if I didn’t see your cloak and bag, more’s the pity.”
“Yes, I am going,” said Everell, handing her the reward of merit.
“Oh lor, sir, what princely generosity! I’m sure I aren’t no ways deserving of such! It reely breaks my heart, begging your Honour’s pardon, to see how things have come about. After all that’s took place this past week, to hear of this marriage—’tis enough to make one think of witchcraft—”
“This marriage? What marriage?—whose?”
“Why, this here marriage, in course. Bean’t that what sends your Honour away all of a suddent at such a time o’ night?”
“Whose marriage? Speak, Prudence!—in a word, whose?”
“Why, mistress’s marriage, to be sure. Whose else in the world—”
“Mistress’s mar—! What mistress?”
“Mistress Georgiana Foxwell, in course: I don’t own to no other mistress, I’m sure.” The maid drew back from Everell, wondering if the loss of his sweetheart had affected his wits.
“Mistress Georgiana! Are you mad, Prudence? What do you mean?”
“Mad, sir? Not me! I scorn the word. ’Tis my betters I takes to be mad, to go and make a match of it with a gentleman she’s scarce set eyes on, be he ever so rich.”
“What gentleman do you speak of? Truly I think you are mad.”
“I’m a-speaking of Squire Thornby, sir, who but he? Sure then, haven’t they told your Honour?”
“Squire Thornby?” repeated Everell, with but vague recollection of the little he had heard of that person. “A neighbour of Mr. Foxwell’s, isn’t he?”
“Yes, with a large estate, I’ve heard say. ’Tis all I know of him, barring they’ve arranged he shall marry my mistress; though that’s quite enough, heavens knows, and you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard as much.”
“But ’tis impossible! They little know her: let them arrange as they will, she will never consent.”
“Indeed, sir, but that’s the strangest part of it; for didn’t I hear her consent in this very room, with these ears, not ten minutes ago? ‘Excep’ Squire Thornby’s proposal of marriage,’ them was her uncle’s words, and she said yes, and Lady Strange is with her now, a-tellin’ how adventidjus a match ’twill be. And if you think a poor waiting-woman’s word can’t be took, you’re free to go and ask for yourself.”
“Marry Squire Thornby!—after all that has passed—her grief at my going—her appeal for my life! It can’t be; I’ll not believe it, unless she tells me.”
He went swiftly from the room, and ran up the stairs. Before he had time to reflect upon the impulse he obeyed, he was on the landing outside her antechamber, calling through the closed door:
“Georgiana!—my love! Come and deny this slander! Come, let me hear the truth!”
The door opened, and Georgiana appeared, pale and sorrow-stricken. Lady Strange was at her side, with a gently restraining touch upon her arm. But Everell seized the girl’s hand and led her down the stairs, partly as if he claimed her from any other’s possession, and partly that he might see her face in the better light of the hall below. “Sweet, what blundering tale is this?” he asked, as they descended;—“of a marriage with Squire Thornby, and that you have given your consent?”
Georgiana was silent, with averted glance.
“Why don’t you answer?” he said, as they reached the foot of the stairs.
She lifted her eyes to his, but could not bring her lips to frame a word.
“What!” he exclaimed; “’tis true, then? Oh!”
His cry was like that of sharp pain; he dropped her hand, and walked a few steps from her. “Who would have believed it?” he said, plaintively; “I would have staked my soul upon it that you loved me.”
“Loved you!” she said, in a faint whisper.
“But what can it mean, then?” he asked, touched alike by her words and her look. “Surely you don’t put wealth and convenience before love? Do you fear I may never come back to you? And to give your consent at such a time—but ten minutes ago, the maid says! Why, you had just been pleading for my life.—Ah! now I understand!—blind fool that I’ve been, not to see at once! forgive me, dearest love! ’Tis your uncle’s doing: he has sold you my life for your consent to the marriage!” With that, Everell grasped her hand, and started toward the dining-room.
“Hush, Everell!” said Georgiana, fearful lest all might be undone; “go, for heaven’s sake, for my sake, ere it be too late!”
Fortunately Caleb had stepped out to the courtyard to gossip with his fellow servant who had opened the gate, and, as the house door was but slightly ajar, there were no witnesses to what was passing in the hall, save Lady Strange and Prudence, who had both followed down the stairs. Holding back from the dining-room door, Georgiana still begged Everell to go.
“Go, on those terms?” he said. “Not I! Rather die the worst of deaths. Let you marry another? I’ll give myself up first!”
“Nay, Everell—my love—I implore—on my knees! Must I plead with you as I pleaded with my uncle? You should know I cannot endure the thought of your death. Only that you live, that is enough! Go, I beseech!—let not my sacrifice be in vain.”
“You sha’n’t make the sacrifice,” he said, fiercely.
“’Tis made already: my uncle has my promise.”
“Your uncle!—where is he?” And Everell strode into the dining-room, followed by the three women. Before he had time to reach the drawing-room door, it was opened from the other side, and Everell had no farther to go to meet Foxwell, who had heard the young man’s loud-spoken words. At sight of Georgiana, her uncle made an ejaculation, and advanced toward Everell with a resentful look: he held in one hand a pen, in the other the letter which the sound of Everell’s voice had interrupted; and this time both Mrs. Winter and Rashleigh took the liberty of intruding upon the scene.
“Ah, you come in good time!” cried Everell. “I refuse my liberty at the price you set. She shall not marry another to save me.”
“’Tis too late, sir,” said Foxwell, with forced quietness; “she has already bound herself by her promise.”
“Then give her back her promise, as I give myself back to you!”
“Pardon me, but you have no part in the covenant: ’tis between my niece and myself—your liberty for her promise. Even were she inclined to cancel the agreement, she cannot do so now: I have given your liberty, have performed my part: she is bound by her promise.”
“You see ’tis too late, Everell,” said Georgiana, in whom every other feeling yielded to anxiety for his safety; “you cannot mend matters now. Save yourself—at least that!—for my sake!”
For a moment her lover was thoughtful. He threw back his cloak at both shoulders, so that it hung behind him. To enforce her plea, Georgiana laid her hand upon his arm: she stepped forward so that she now stood beside him.
“But I am not bound by her promise,” said Everell to Foxwell.
“You are no longer bound by anything, sir, to me,” Foxwell replied. “If you insist upon staying in this neighbourhood, ’tis at your own peril. And I warrant you ’twill avail nothing: I shall see that my niece neither leaves her apartments, nor communicates with any one outside them, until her marriage; you force me to that use of my authority.”
Before Everell could answer, a voice was heard in the hall doorway behind him—Caleb’s voice, addressed to Foxwell: “Please, your Honour, Joseph has the horse ready, sir.”
The word “horse” shot through the confusion of Everell’s thoughts.
“Tell Joseph to wait,” said Foxwell, glancing at the unfinished letter in his hand. Everell heard Caleb walk away through the hall to the house door. He knew there was a mounting-block at the side of that door: would Joseph let the horse wait there, or walk it up and down the courtyard? “And now again, Mr. Everell,” resumed Foxwell, “I bid you farewell; and I beg that this leave-taking may be final.”
Everell drew a deep breath; then replied: “I am willing it shall be final, sir. But one word before I go. I have pondered what you have said: ’tis clear I am no longer bound to you by any obligation: as for your niece, I am not bound by her promise.”
“I grant you,” replied Foxwell, “’tis for her alone to keep that.”
“But if I should prevent her keeping it?”
“’Tis not possible; or, if so, not to a man of honour.”
“Why not, pray? I am answerable only for my own promises. She is bound by hers, and will keep it—if she can. But if I prevent her, by force, she’ll not be to blame for that. There will be no breach of honour then.”
“I must end this, sir.—To cross another’s promise is no better than to break one’s own—”
“Not in this case, sir,” replied Everell, his voice rising in spite of himself, as his heart rose to the wild attempt he was about to make—rashness had brought him to this pass, let rashness bring him out!—“not in this case, for the promise concerns me, yet I was not consulted in its making—there’s reason for you! As for possibility, let’s put it to the test! Prevent her? Yes!” He had half-drawn his sword, but he quickly slid it back; flung his arms around Georgiana’s waist, and, lifting her high, made a dash for the hall, passing between Lady Strange and Prudence on the way; ran on out to the courtyard, where, by a lantern in Joseph’s hand, he saw the horse at the mounting-block; thanks to which, he gained the saddle in two steps, with the slight form of Georgiana still in his arms; jerked the bridle from Joseph’s hold ere the groom or the two other servants knew what was happening; applied the spurs, and was off at a gallop through the open gateway before Foxwell had got as far as to the house door in pursuit.
Foxwell had lost no more time through sheer astonishment than most men would have lost. But, as he started to go after Everell, the maid Prudence also started, apparently upon the impulse of concern for her mistress: being nearer the doorway, she arrived first; tripped at the threshold, and dropped on all fours, filling up the opening so that Foxwell was delayed for some seconds ere he could pass to the hall. He had hope that the servants about the house door would stop the fugitive; but they were taken by surprise, they knew that Everell was to leave, and they did not know for what purpose the horse had been got ready. So now the lover, with his prize in his arms, was galloping away in the darkness. Foxwell ordered two horses saddled, and sent Caleb to listen as to which direction the fugitive was taking.
For the first few moments, Everell left matters to the horse, merely keeping the rein in hand while he adjusted his burden so that Georgiana might be as free from discomfort as necessity allowed. He dared not trust to placing her behind him, as if she had been a consenting partner in his flight. For the time being, she must remain prisoned between his arms. He worked his body as far back on the horse as agreed with his sure control of the animal, thus giving Georgiana the benefit of the saddle: he could dispense with stirrups. The horse plunged wildly down the slope, finding the unbarred opening at the bottom rather by its own sense than by Everell’s guidance.
The sky was black with clouds, but by the time he had thus gained the road, the young gentleman had become sufficiently used to the darkness to make out something of his way ahead. He was at an instant’s hesitation as to which way he should turn. Remembering that Foxwell had advised him to go by Burndale, and might suppose this advice taken, he decided for the other—in itself less safe—direction. So he reined his steed toward the village, as was presently advertised to the listening Caleb by the thump of hoofs on the bridge. At the entrance to the village, there was again choice of two ways. The road ahead, passing the public-house, led to the town at which Everell had first met Georgiana. As he now recalled, it passed in sight of Thornby Hall. The other road, turning off at the right and skirting the churchyard, eventually arrived at the great highway for London some miles farther south than the first road: so the ale-house keeper had told Everell. For more than one reason, then, it seemed preferable. The ale-house keeper had not mentioned, however, that this road was in great part little used and much neglected; nor did it occur to Everell at the moment that some such consideration must have made the Foxwells use the other road in returning from the South.
The young man, then, turned to the right, and, passing the church, quickly left the village behind. He had not met a soul, nor heard a human sound: doubtless people kept within doors on account of the nipping air; as for noise, most of the habitual producers thereof were probably at the ale-house. Presently the way bent to the left, and seemed for awhile to run nearly parallel to the other road. Everell felt Georgiana shiver slightly in his arms. He stopped his horse, and, hearing no sound as of anybody in pursuit, he undid his cloak and contrived to wrap it around her. He then set forward again, though at a less mad pace.
In all this time Georgiana had not uttered a word; nor Everell to her, his only exclamations having been addressed to the horse. What were her feelings? We know that she was being carried away by force, in a dress certainly not designed for travel on a cold and dark night, and without bag or baggage; carried away on horseback, without her consent, by a reckless young gentleman whose neck was now doubly in danger—nay, trebly so, for at that time abduction and horse-stealing were both hanging matters, no less than treason; carried away by sheer strength of arm, even as any Sabine or other woman who ever underwent the experience of marriage by capture; carried away unceremoniously and suddenly—but by the man she loved! Was she entirely shocked, indignant, and terrified? Let us leave it to the imagination of other young ladies of her age—and perhaps of young ladies a few years older. Whatever Georgiana’s feelings may have been, they were constantly mingled with the questions, “What next? Where now? What is he going to do?”
Everell was proposing to himself that same riddle. He wondered what he was going to do. For the present, the only thing was to push on. Not until a considerable distance lay between him and Foxwell Court would he dare seek shelter. How long could Georgiana endure the cold and fatigue? How long could the horse travel? No doubt a stop must needs be made during the night, at some village inn or farmhouse, where a plausible story would have to be told in order to account for their situation and to obtain admittance—a story of the lady being robbed and left for dead by the roadside, and found there by her present custodian; or some such tale. Would Georgiana deny his account, and seek to frustrate him, as in honesty she ought to do? He must prevent that by dire threats, must enforce her to silence upon penalties of wholesale disaster, so that she must feel bound by every womanly fear, by conscience itself, to avert the greater evil of tragedy to all concerned, by obeying his commands. She must be in terror of him, and of the consequences of resisting his will. If he frightened and offended her, he must hope to make his peace and atonement later. Would she really need such thorough intimidation? would not mere formal compulsion suffice—such as might serve as a woman’s excuse for not making the protest that strict duty required? He could not be sure, and he dared not ask her: he resolved to take no risks; she should have ample reason to feel justified in non-resistance. But should all his commands and menaces not avail?—would he make good his threats? He knew not: so far, he could only hope the occasion would not arise.
So much for his course with regard to Georgiana’s possible opposition. Wherever they should stop, he would allow her no chance of speaking to anybody out of his presence: when she slept, not even a maid should have access to her room, and he himself would rest outside her door, with the key in his pocket. At the first town they should enter on the morrow, he would take measures to supply her with the necessaries she now lacked; he would have to provide a few things for himself also, for he had left his cloak-bag at Foxwell Court. At the same town, he would abandon the horse, and hire a post-chaise for the continuance of their journey. His ultimate aim must be, to reach the small seaport to which Roughwood had gone before him, and thence be conveyed with Georgiana to France. Whether circumstances would permit him to make her his wife on their Southward journey, he could not know; if not, the ceremony should be his first concern upon setting foot in France.
So the future took general form in his thoughts as he rode. But meanwhile, only the first step had been made. A thousand difficulties, a thousand dangers, stood in the way. He saw himself at the beginning of a long and toilsome business, which would make incessant demands upon his wit, resolution, and endurance. He could allow himself little time for rest. All depended upon his retaining the start he had gained; upon his keeping ever ahead of the pursuit that would be made, and of the news which, spreading in all directions, would follow close upon his heels. He now thanked his impulse for having led him into this road. If Foxwell had set out as soon as horse could be saddled, he must lose much time by taking the wrong road, which Everell, still hearing nothing behind, assumed that he would surely do.
But this advantage, if it really existed, might be more than offset ere all was done. A sudden sharp sense of this caused Everell to urge the horse to its former pace. The animal responded readily enough; sped most gallantly for a furlong or so; then, without any warning, stumbled upon its knees, almost throwing the riders. It rose trembling, and started to go on—but with a limp that made Everell’s heart sink within him.
“Curse upon the bad road! The horse is lamed—hopelessly! Poor beast! brave fellow, he would bear us still in spite of his pain! Well, he can serve us no more to-night! There’s nothing for it but going afoot till I can get another mount.”
He lifted Georgiana from the saddle, threw his leg over it, and slid with her to the ground. For a few moments he let her stand, but kept one arm around her, while he looked up and down the road in search of a habitation. But the darkness baffled him. He remembered having passed a few scattered cottages, but the nearest was a good way back. He was likely to find a house sooner by going ahead, which seemed on other accounts the better course. As for the poor steed, Everell was first of a mind to leave it to its will; but he feared it might thus serve to inform his pursuers of his enforced delay in the neighbourhood, and cause more particular search to be made near at hand. Retaining the halter in his grasp, and taking up Georgiana so as to carry her as one carries a child in long clothes, he started forward. He hoped he might discover a house before the young lady’s weight became too much for him; in other case, he must subject her lightly shod feet to contact with the rough road. Fortunately, he soon beheld a light, which by its steadiness and position he judged to belong to a house not far ahead, on higher ground, a little way back from the left-hand side of the road. Everell stopped, and again set Georgiana on her feet.
“Do you know whose house that is?” he asked, curtly.
“No,” she replied, in the lowest audible voice.
“Good,” said he. “From its situation I think it may be a gentleman’s. At all events, I intend to borrow a horse there—perhaps a pair of horses, or—who knows?—a chaise and pair. I shall tell what story I see fit; and you will say nothing—or at most a mere yes or no to confirm my account. You are under my compulsion, which I am ready to enforce by desperate acts. Remember, my life is not worth a farthing, in the eye of the law; nothing more that I may do can add to the fate I have already incurred; so if all’s lost I’m determined to stop at nothing. I warn you then, once and for all, attempt not to thwart me in the slightest matter, unless you wish to bring down such a catastrophe as you dare not even imagine. You are not to quit my side unless at my command. It may be, your face is known to the people we shall see in that house: you must have been closely observed the day you appeared at church. So I must bid you take your neckerchief and veil your face with it—I’ll tie it myself when you have it arranged. And you will on no account remove it—nor the cloak, either, which hides your figure. For all this concealment and silence, I shall contrive to account. All depends on whom I have to deal with yonder; till I see what manner of person, I know not what tale I must invent. Whatever you find it, you will support it by silence and obedience. Bear in mind, you are not your own mistress: you are under my enforcement. If evil come of your obedience, the consequences will be upon my head; but ’tis nothing to the evil that will come if you disobey. So beware, then, of causing such disaster as I will not even speak of!”
He then fastened behind her head the neck-handkerchief, which she had already begun, with slow and trembling fingers, to adjust over her face. Taking this compliance as a sign of submission, he next arranged his cloak more carefully around her, clasped her once more in his arms, and walked on, leading the horse, till he arrived at a small cottage which manifestly served as lodge to the house from which the light shone. The gate was closed, but from between its tall pickets Everell could make out an avenue of tall trees leading up to the mansion. He knocked and halloed, and presently a man, half-dressed, carrying a lantern, came out of the lodge and inspected him through the gate.
It occurred to Everell that he had best speak, at this stage, as if he were a friend, or at least an acquaintance, of the master of the house: he was thus more likely to obtain prompt admittance, and, secondly, he might thus better secure the gatekeeper against betraying him to the inquiries of pursuers. Upon this later point, moreover, he took a grain of comfort from the fact that Foxwell was not liked by the gentry in the neighbourhood.
“Is your master at home?” he said. “We have met with an accident. Pray do not keep us waiting in the cold—the lady is shivering. We have had to leave a horse behind, and this one is quite lame. ’Tis lucky we were so near a friend’s. Come, my good fellow, open quickly!—this lady must be got indoors—your master is at home, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, he’s at home,” said the fellow, and dubiously scratched his head. “As to opening the gate at this time of night, why, if your Honour will but let me take your name to master, I make no doubt—”
“Rascal! Dare you think of keeping us here to freeze? Names, say you?—dog, if you but knew our names!—knew whom you are delaying!—or if your master knew! Open at once, I command you, and lead us to your master, or bitterly you’ll rue it!”
The imperiousness of the manner exceeded even that of the words. The man, convinced that the speaker was some great person whom his master would be fearful of offending, opened the gate with much bowing and apology.
“Now shut the gate,” ordered Everell, when he and his company had entered. “And if any one comes inquiring for a lady and gentleman on horseback, say you know nothing of them. Remember that. And have the horse taken care of.”
Emphasizing his commands with a coin, and letting Georgiana walk beside him, Everell proceeded up the avenue, the gatekeeper leading the horse. The mansion proved to be a large house in the square-built style nowadays called Georgian. Arriving before the great central door, the guide summoned a rustic-looking footman, to whom he resigned the visitors with a whispered recommendation that caused them to be received with as much respect as surprise. Their appearance was indeed sufficient cause for the latter, Everell still having an arm clasped around Georgiana in her masculine cloak and improvised veil.
They found themselves in a dimly lighted hall, at the farther end of which was a door matching that by which they had entered. There was the stairway usual to such houses, beginning along one side of the hall, crossing at the end, and finishing the ascent along the other side in the return direction. Having closed the door, the servant asked by what name he might announce my lord and her ladyship to his master.
“Tell him a gentleman and lady,” said Everell, “who are in great haste, and will not trouble him long.”
“A gentleman and lady, sir,” repeated the servant, obediently. “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but master, being in his cups, may wish to know—I mean to say, master is main hard to draw from his comforts at this time o’ night—though I dare say when I tell him you be friends of his—”
“Friends? Certainly—unless I am mistaken as to the house. But that’s easily set right:—who is your master?”
“Squire Thornby, sir; and this house is Thornby Hall.”
From Everell’s look, the servant concluded that the gentleman probably was mistaken as to the house.
“But how can that be?” cried Everell. “Thornby Hall is on the other road.”
“’Tis on both roads, so to speak, sir. The two run near together just hereaways; the house looks on each. There’s two gates, you know, sir, and two lodges; the gardener lives in one, and Jenkins in t’other.”
Everell took a moment’s thought. Resolution appeared on his face.
“’Tis just as well,” he said. “Mr. Thornby is known to me by reputation. Tell him I am here, and must needs beg he will see me without delay.”
This was spoken with such an air that the servant conceived it best to carry the message at once, without a second attempt to elicit the speaker’s name. As soon as the man was gone, Everell said to Georgiana:
“I must brave it out with this Squire Thornby, there’s nothing else for it. We must have horses, and soon: ’twere folly to go on afoot, heaven knows how far, till we found another house. As well solicit this gentleman’s help as another’s—’tis all one, he may be no harder to persuade. He has never seen me, and now he shall not see you. Take good heed you don’t show your face, nor shift the cloak, nor let your voice be heard: or ’twill go ill, I promise you.”
Georgiana made no answer, nor gave any sign of existence save to draw a long breath. Was it of helpless resignation to the compulsion she was under? was it to brace herself for resistance to that compulsion? or to steady herself against anxiety as to the outcome? Did she really see through his show of dark threat? Was her scrupulosity of conscience so great, that so much intimidation was required to keep her from opposing her abductor, in the interests alike of her given promise and of maidenly propriety? Oh, woman, woman!—
The footman returned with word that his master would attend upon the visitors in a minute; and showed them into a large room, which appeared, by the candles he lighted, to be devoted to the exercise of his master’s functions as justice of the peace. Near one end was a large table whereon were an inkstand, pens, and a few weighty-looking books. The walls were paneled in oak, and the bare floor was of the same wood. There were two armchairs drawn up to the table, and two before the fireplace, while oak settles stood against the wall. The servant fanned the smouldering fire into a blaze, put on a fresh log, and left the apartment.
Everell had been looking at a door in the side of the room, near the table. It was slightly ajar, and its key was in place,—two indications that it sheltered no secret. As soon as he and Georgiana were alone, Everell led her hastily to it, and, throwing it open, discovered a large closet containing a disorderly array of shabby cloaks, wigs, whips, hats and such, on pegs; and old record books piled in a corner.
“’Tis none so roomy, but ’twill do at a pinch,” said Everell. “I think it best you should be out of sight altogether, miss. I can tell my story better. I must command you to enter.” And he gently pushed her into the closet. “Do not dare to cry out; and when I open the door to fetch you, be veiled, cloaked, and silent, as you are now. Remember!—or injury will be done.—Stay, those books will serve you to sit on—you will be tired standing.” He guided her to the pile of old volumes, and then came out of the closet, and locked the door. The key, long unused save as a door handle, turned hardly, and he had difficulty in getting it from the lock in order to pocket it. As he was in the act of drawing it out, a heavy step made him glance around. He beheld a robust-looking man with a red face, who stood regarding him with pugnacious astonishment.
“Your servant, sir,” said Everell, with an easy bow. “Mr. Thornby, I believe.”
“That’s my name, sir,” said the Squire, bluntly. “Might I ask what you’re doing at that there closet door, sir?”
“Closet door, sir?” repeated Everell, lightly.
“Only locking it, sir,—that’s all.” And he held up the key as evidence of the truth of his assertion.
“And perhaps I have a right to know what the devil you’re a-locking it for? Who asked you for to lock my doors, sir? Ecod, I must say this is rare manners in a stranger. I don’t remember as how I ever had the honour of seeing your face afore, sir.”
“’Tis quite true we have never met before, sir. The loss has been mine,” said Everell, resting upon courtesy till he could see how best to deal with his man. At the same time, he carelessly pocketed the key.
“Are you trying to put a game on me, sir?” said Thornby, wrathfully. Though he had evidently been called from his bottle, he was in full possession both of his legs and of his usual wits. “Look ye, ’tis mighty suspicious, poking your nose into my closets. I have a shrewd guess what you came into my house for—passing yourself off as a lord to my fool servants. And the lady?—I don’t see any lady here!—ecod, perhaps she’s poking her nose into the silver closet! Hey, Jabez, the plate!” With that, the Squire started for the door by which he had entered.
“Nay, sir, you wrong us!” cried Everell, striding to intercept him. “The lady is in that closet—I took the liberty—she desires not to be seen. Upon my honour, sir, we had no purpose in entering your house but to ask your aid.”
Thornby, having been stayed by Everell’s first declaration, gazed at the closet and then at the young gentleman. “But what the devil does the lady please to hide in a closet for?”
“She desires not to be seen, as I tell you. ’Twas the nearest place of concealment. I locked the door lest you might open it before I could explain.”
“And why doesn’t she desire to be seen? ’Tis the first of her sex afflicted that way, as ever I heard on. Is there aught the matter wi’ her looks? Ecod, what o’ that? There’s a plenty in the same boat amongst the she-folk hereabouts. There’s only one beauty in these four parishes, if I be any judge.”
“’Tis for no such reason,” said Everell, with a smile, as he began to see his way. “Sir, I perceive you’re a blunt, outspoken gentleman, given to plain dealing yourself, and no doubt preferring it in others. I’m resolved to throw myself on your confidence, as far as I think safe, and tell you my story, or as much as I dare. Perhaps then your fellow-feeling—for your words imply a gallant sense of beauty in the tender sex—may impel you to assist me.”
“H’m!” ejaculated the Squire, dubiously, though his relaxed countenance showed him to be decidedly mollified. “Perhaps—and then again, perhaps not. Let’s hear your story, howsomever. ’Tis all devilish curious—the lady desiring not to be seen, and the rest of it. Please to take this here chair.” The Squire moved an armchair from what was evidently the clerk’s place to where it faced across the table to the seat of judgment. He then went around and assumed the latter, having meanwhile rung for a servant. “And just to be on the safe side,” he added, “in case it is a game you’re a-trying on, I’ll be prepared.” He drew a bunch of small keys from his pocket, opened a drawer in his side of the table, and fetched out a pair of pistols, which he laid before him; he then closed the drawer, all but a few inches. “Yes, sir, I keep ’em always loaded,” he said, as he looked to the priming. “I’m a blunt, outspoken man, as you observe, and I take my precautions.”
“I have no right to complain, sir,” said Everell, who sat with his face to the Squire, and his back to the door of the apartment; “a stranger intruding at this hour of the night must take what reception he finds.”
“Very well said, sir. And at the same time I’ll show you as I know how to treat a gentleman, too, in case you be one.—Jabez,” for the servant had now entered, “tell Bartholomew to fetch a bottle of what I’ve been drinking. And tell the gentlemen at table—no, they bean’t gentlemen neither, and damn me if I’ll call ’em so!—tell ’em to make the best of it without me, I’ll be with ’em when I see fit.—A man is hard put to it for proper company sometimes, sir,” he explained, when Jabez had gone. “Though if some beggarly attorney, or worse, can do justice to his bottle, and tell a good tale or so, talk intelligently of dogs and horses, and listen with respect to his betters, why, some things may be winked at.”
It was manifestly Thornby’s wish to postpone matters till the wine came; so Everell answered in the strain he thought likely to command the other’s favour. Bartholomew presently appeared with bottle and glasses, observed the pistols with mild wonder, and retired.
“Now, sir,” said Thornby, “we’ll drink the lady’s health, and then for your business. Nay, don’t trouble yourself to reach; keep to your own side of the table.” And the Squire pushed bottle and glass to Everell’s hands, preferring that these should not come too close to the pistols. “The lady’s health, as I said. Shall we have her name, sir?”
“Not at present, if you’ll excuse me.”
“As you please. Health of the fair unknown in the closet—eh?”
“The fair unknown in the closet,” said Everell, and the glasses went to the lips.
“And now, by the Lord,” said the Squire, “you shall return the compliment. I’ve drunk to your fair companion: you shall drink to a lady of my proposing.”
“With all my heart,” replied Everell, and dissembled his impatience while the glasses were filled anew.
“Yes, sir,” said Thornby, “a lady of my proposing: the beauty of the four parishes—nay, the beauty of the county—damme, I may as well say the beauty of England! I’ll give her name, too: there’s no reason, as I know of, for to keep it back. To Miss Georgiana Foxwell!”
“Miss Georgiana Foxwell,” echoed Everell, wondering, as he drank, whether she could hear herself thus twice honoured in so short a time.
“I suppose you never saw that young lady I proposed, sir,” said Thornby, as he put down his glass and resumed his seat, for the toasts had been drunk standing.
“I am a stranger in this part of England, sir,” Everell answered.
“I take you for a town-bred man. Maybe, then, you’ve met an uncle of hers in London aforetime—one Mr. Robert Foxwell?”
“I have met a Mr. Robert Foxwell—but I cannot truly say I know much of him.”
“The less the better, if truth must be told; he’s a damned supercilious fop! A rogue, too. He hates me like poison, but, for all that, he’ll let me marry his niece.”
“How so, if he hates you?”
“Because,” said Thornby, tapping the drawer of the table with his fingers, “I have that in my possession which makes him consider my wishes. Yes, sir,” and he thrust his hand carelessly into the drawer, till Everell heard a rustle of papers, “I hold the means of keeping Mr. Robert Foxwell in his place. But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s hear your petition, friend; and you might begin with your name, which I don’t remember as how you’ve yet mentioned.”
“I would rather finish than begin with it,” said Everell, “if, when you’ve heard me, you still require it. You may not wish in the future to admit having helped me: if you remain ignorant of my name, you can never be sure.”
“’Tis by no means certain that I shall help you,” declared the Squire, bluntly.
“I have good hopes of you,” said Everell. “Frankly, sir, I am running away with that lady.” Thornby stared and blinked; finally threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Oho, that’s how the wind sits, eh? Ecod, I might ’a’ guessed as much.”
“You are a man of spirit, with an eye for beauty,” Everell went on rapidly: “therefore you will not blame me. I love her, she loves me; but her nearest relation wishes her to marry another—one whom she does not love.”
“Devil take her nearest relation!” said Thornby.
“Amen! He has so worked upon her mind, by threats of ill consequences to me, as to obtain her consent to marry this other gentleman, much against the dictates of her heart. She is a lady who, having once given her promise, would fulfil it: she was thus barred from eloping with me of her own will. What then was I to do?”
“Ecod, sir,” Thornby replied, heartily, “you was to take matters in hand, and carry her away, of your own will!”
“Precisely what I have done, sir! I knew I could rely upon your approval.—Well, sir, I seized her under her guardian’s very nose, set her upon a horse that stood waiting, mounted behind her, and was away at a gallop before anybody had the wit to stop me. I made what speed I could, over roads unknown to me; how far we have ridden, what adventures we have had, I beg you will excuse me from relating. So far, no pursuit has come within sight or hearing: though, if her relation was prompt, he need have lost no time but to saddle his horses. Our own beast, which kind fortune had placed ready to my hand, at last broke down; but within a short distance of your gate, which I take as another circumstance of fortune’s favour.”
“That’s as how it may be,” said the Squire, who had followed the lover’s recital with lively interest. “But first I’d give something to know who ’tis you’ve—ha, ha!—carried off. Ecod, perhaps ’tisn’t the first time a woman has been carried off against her will but not against her wish! Who is it, man?—come, who is the lady?”
“I beg you will not insist upon knowing just now. Doubtless the news will travel all too soon. Meanwhile I would have your help without a scruple. Should you be acquainted with her family, you might feel bound to cross my purpose.”
Thornby, after a moment’s thought, admitted there was something in that. Still, “I wonder who it can be:—how far do you say you’ve rid?”
“I do not say,” replied Everell, smiling.
“There’s Miss Hollowfield,” mused Thornby, aloud; “her grandfather’d be opposed to a stripling like you—but nobody’d run away with such a face as hers. And there’s Miss Marvell—why, I’ll wager ’tis Dick Birch they want to marry her to. Sukey Marvell, that’s who ’tis.”
“I must not tell,” said Everell, shaking his head.
“Yes, ’tis Sukey,” declared Thornby: “well, she’s not as bad as t’other. And old Dick Birch, I’ll be glad to see him done out of her!—damned coxcomb! serves him right for the trick he played me at York races. Oh, I’ll have the laugh on Dick next time we meet!—I’ll have him here for some shooting, a-purpose. Ha, ha! These conceited fellows think they can marry any pretty girl they set their minds on. Well, young sir, I wish you joy. I’ve owed Dick Birch a grudge these many months.”
“The favour I have to ask,” said Everell, “is the loan of a chaise, with horses and a man, to the nearest town from which I can travel on by post.”
“Why, damn me, that’s not so much to ask, neither,” said Thornby, still vastly good-humoured over the discomfiture of Dick Birch.
“I thank you from my heart. And, as every minute counts, I hope I may be set on my way as soon as possible.”
“H’m!—many a man, sir, would think twice afore sending out his horses—but I don’t want to spoil sport. In for a penny, in for a pound. I’ll give orders; and meanwhile my housekeeper can show Sukey to the guest-chamber—she may like to make herself trim in front of a glass—you know the ways o’ that sex—while the horses are being put to.”
“A thousand thanks, but I daren’t allow the lady so far out of my control. She may be shown to a room, if she will; but the room must have but one door, and I must wait outside that door. Pray bear in mind, she is travelling under compulsion.”
“Compulsion!—oh, certainly—ha, ha! I’ll send for Mrs. Jenkins, and for old Rodge; he shall drive you—’twill need a careful man with the horses.” Thornby, who had risen from the table, pulled the bell-cord. “And meanwhile we’ll drink confusion to Dick Birch. Dod, to see him bubbled out of a bride this way!—it does one’s heart good! But, man, we’d better let Sukey out o’ that closet, now ’tis all settled. Come, you’ve got the key: unlock, unlock.”
“But there must be a condition: you’ll not ask the lady to uncover her face: she must still remain unknown.”
“Oh, be it so: let Sukey remain unknown; it may save me trouble, to be sure. But let her out, let her out.”
Everell unlocked the door, and, peering in before he opened it wide, saw that Georgiana was still cloaked and veiled. He led her forth with a whispered “Remember!—not a word!”
“Your humble servant, ma’am,” said Thornby, bowing with all the elegance at his command.
Before there was time for either speech or silence, a noise of steps and voices arose outside the apartment. Thornby turned, with a look of wrath at the interruption, toward the door. It was flung open, and a man in cloak and riding-boots walked in, followed by a servant of his own, and by the footman Jabez.
“To horse, Thornby! we must scour the country!” cried the newcomer as he hastily approached. His glance now fell upon Everell and Georgiana, and of a sudden he stopped short, with an ejaculation of surprise.
“What’s the matter, Foxwell?” inquired Thornby. “Why d’ye stare like that?”
Thornby’s words indicated surprise at Foxwell’s surprise. Foxwell shot a keen glance to see if the other’s surprise was genuine. There could be no doubt of that. This occasioned new surprise in Foxwell.
“Egad, sir,” said he, “I should think I might be pardoned for staring. How come they to be here? It puzzles me, I own.”
“Who here?” blurted Thornby. “This gentleman and lady, d’ye mean?”
“Ay, the gentleman and lady I’ve been in search of.”
“Why, you don’t desire to stop ’em, do you? What the deuce is little Sue Marvell to you?—and Dick Birch? Captain Marvell is no friend of yours. Rather help these young people away, if only for the joke on Dick Birch.”
“Of what are you talking?” cried Foxwell. “Can it be possible you don’t know who these young people are?”
“I don’t know much of the gentleman,” Thornby admitted; “but the girl is Sukey Marvell.”
“Sukey Marvell!—Sukey devil!” exclaimed Foxwell, and, striding up to Georgiana, he snatched the handkerchief from her face. Everell had left her standing at the end of the table, himself having moved around to Thornby’s former place a moment earlier for a purpose of his own. Checking an impulse to go to Georgiana’s side, he now stood between the magisterial chair and the table. Despite all that was at stake, he was amused at the sight of Thornby gazing with mouth wide open at the face so unexpectedly revealed.
“It seems you find reason to stare now,” said Foxwell to the Squire. “Egad, Thornby, had they bamboozled you?”
“Mr. Thornby, I hold you to your promise,” Everell put in; “a chaise, horses, and a man.”
“Chaise, horses, and damnation!” was the reply of Thornby, as he at last found a voice. “I never knew ’twas she you was a-running away with. You said ’twas Sukey Marvell.”
“Pardon me, no; you said ’twas Sukey Marvell. And I hold you to your promise.”
“HE SNATCHED THE HANDKERCHIEF FROM HER FACE.”
“Hold and be damned!—And Foxwell, you’ve deceived me, too. You said you’d persuade her to have me.”
“So I have done,” asserted Foxwell, “and she has given her consent.”
“Given her consent? Then you was the relation—and I’m the Dick Birch! What?—and this here stripling would ’a’ had me help to do myself out of a bride! Oh, you shall all pay for this among you!”
“Softly, softly, Thornby,” said Foxwell. “She has promised to marry you. Have you not, miss?”
After a brief hesitation, Georgiana uttered a reluctant “yes.”
“Then you forced the promise from her,” said Thornby.
“She gave it willingly,” returned Foxwell. “Did you not, miss?”
“Yes—willingly,” said Georgiana, in the faintest of voices.
“And yet you ran away with this here other man,” said Thornby.
“I was—carried away,” she replied, in a tone as frail as before.
“And you are still willing to marry Mr. Thornby?” said her uncle.
“Y—yes.”
Thornby’s brow cleared. “Then, ecod, not much harm’s done, after all. ’Tis all well that ends well.”
Everell again put in, addressing Thornby: “She is willing to marry you, perhaps. But ask her if she will ever love you, man.”
“Eh! Well, what about that? D’ye think you’ll ever love me, miss?”
“No, I do not, sir,” cried Georgiana, suddenly emphatic of voice. “I shall always love this gentleman! For ever, and ever, and ever!” And she moved toward the man of her choice.
Her manner of speech, her look of disdain, and Everell’s smile of triumph were too much for Thornby’s savage vanity. “Then don’t flatter yourself I’ll marry you,” he answered, with retaliatory scorn. “A white-faced vixen, when all’s said and done! Mistress of Thornby Hall, after this night’s business?—dod, I’m warned in time!”
“Oh, say it again!” exclaimed Georgiana, rejoiced.
“I do say it again! Ecod, I know my value!”
“I am freed of my promise!” she cried.
“Ay,” said Thornby, with a swelling wrath which had to be discharged upon somebody, “and your blundering uncle may go whistle.—You shall answer for this, Foxwell, d’ye hear? I’ll see to that. ’Tis all along o’ your mismanagement. But I’ll be quits wi’ ye. I’ll make use o’ that there letter!—rat me but I will!”
“You are quite unreasonable, Thornby,” said Foxwell, patiently, and, turning to his attendant, “Joseph, wait without.”
Joseph left the room, whereupon Thornby had the grace to order his own servant to be off; so that the four principals were left alone. Foxwell made sure that the door was closed against espial, and thrust into the keyhole a part of the handkerchief he had taken from Georgiana. He then returned to Thornby, who had meanwhile been fuming and pacing the floor.
“You have cause for anger, I admit,” said Foxwell; “but you are bound to own I have done my part.”
“Don’t talk to me, sir,” roared Thornby. “I’ll make you smart afore I’ve done! See if I don’t!”
Foxwell’s own temper gave way. He had been put to much exercise of self-command this evening, and had scarce yet regained his bodily composure after his ride. Of a sudden, now, his face darkened. “Then by heaven I’ll not smart alone! You shall suffer, miss,—and your lover, too! Let all come out. You say you know little of this young gentleman, Thornby. Would you know more?—who he is, what he is?”
“Uncle, you will not!” entreated Georgiana. “With my promise I bought your silence—remember that!—and I have not broken my promise. ’Tis Mr. Thornby has released me.”
“Very well. Let us stick to promises, by all means! But I have your Romeo upon other grounds.—Before you as a justice of the peace, Mr. Thornby, I charge this gentleman with the abduction of my niece.—That, too, is a hanging matter, miss.”
“Not so, Mr. Thornby,” cried Georgiana; “for, now that I am free, I go with this gentleman of my own consent. ’Tis not abduction, ’tis on my part a voluntary flight.”
“You forget you are not yet your own mistress,” said Foxwell. “Besides, the abduction has been committed. Moreover, Thornby, the gentleman has appropriated to himself a horse of mine. I demand of you to act upon these charges.”
Thornby underwent a sudden accession of magisterial dignity. “I know my office, Mr. Foxwell. Nobody has ever accused me of failing there. Sir,”—this to Everell,—“when the case is put to me in that form, I must do as my commission requires. I must needs hold you for a hearing.—I’ll send for my clerk, Foxwell; I left him at the table, but I dare say he’s still sober enough for what’s to be done.” Relapsing then into his more usual puerility, he added, “Dod, such impudent young strangers sha’n’t carry off our ladies with impunity, neither!”
Georgiana had hastened to Everell’s side. “Oh, save yourself now,” she besought him in a whisper.
“Not without you, sweet.—Gentlemen,” he cried, in time to stop Thornby’s movement toward the door, “one word. I am in a desperate position. Abduction, horse-stealing, the other business,—any one of them is the price of a halter. With but one life to lose, then, what is a crime or two more? ’Tis but getting the more value for my neck.” He took up the pistols left on the table by Thornby, who had lost all thought of them on being convinced of Everell’s honesty. Dexterously cocking them as he spoke, the young man went on: “If I must die, be sure that one or both of you shall go before me—’tis fair precedence, cedant arma tog?! But first I will have one more venture for my life—and for my love.” By this time, he had each of the gentlemen in line with a different pistol. “Mr. Thornby, move or call out, at your peril. Mr. Foxwell, the same to you; and this also: I think I can persuade you to withdraw your charges, and, furthermore, to lend me the horses that brought you and your man to this place.”
Foxwell’s only weapon at the moment was his sword; he had left his pistols outside in the holsters, thinking to spend but a minute in Thornby Hall and foreseeing no need of them there. He perceived from Everell’s manner of handling the pistols that the young man was of perfect assurance in their use. The same circumstance found speedy way to the mind of Thornby, who was unarmed. So the two gentlemen stood as they were requested. Foxwell, for want of a better temporizing answer, feigned to yield with a good grace, saying: “You present so strong an argument, that I know not how to oppose you.”
“I fear if the pistol were my only argument,” said Everell, calmly, “my victory would end as soon as my back was turned. I will try an argument that may have more lasting effect. Miss Foxwell, I must bid you pull out this drawer of the table,—stay where you are, Mr. Thornby!—which the owner has carelessly left open.” Everell moved a step to the side, giving Georgiana closer access to the drawer. She obeyed in wonder, for she had overheard little of the talk while she was in the closet, and nothing of Thornby’s allusion to that in the drawer which gave the power of keeping Mr. Robert Foxwell in his place. Everell now told her to empty the contents of the drawer upon the table, and to spread them out so that each document might be seen. “Not a step, Mr. Thornby! You, Mr. Foxwell, come near enough to see if there be anything of interest to you. That will do—no farther! Look carefully.”
Foxwell’s keen eye had already begun to range the various papers as they lay separately exposed. Suddenly he uttered a quick “Ah!” and stepped forward, reaching out. Everell checked him by a sharp “Back!” and a movement of the pistol; then followed with his glance the line of the extended arm.
“Miss Foxwell,” said Everell, “be good enough to take up the paper your uncle reached for. ’Twill be one of those three the shadow falls athwart,—the shadow of the wine-bottle;—ay, those.—Don’t move, Mr. Thornby.—Open them out, Georgiana, and hold them where I can see. H’m; apparently a legal document concerning one William Hardy. The next, please: ‘a new cure for the glanders.’ The other: a letter signed ‘R. Foxwell.’—Back, Mr. Foxwell. Is that all you see here of importance to you?—Mr. Thornby, if you take a step toward the door—! Is that all, Mr. Foxwell? I will not read it unless I am forced to.”
“That is all,” replied Foxwell, “and ’tis something Mr. Thornby has no right to possess. I ask you, as a man of honour, to restore it to me.”
“In proper time, sir. Meanwhile, Miss Foxwell, fold the paper as it was, and place it in my waistcoat pocket.—’Tis well done; though I dare not thank you, for you do this under compulsion.”
“By the Lord, sir,” Thornby burst out at last, “this here’s robbery, sir!—rank robbery under arms! You may carry it off for the moment—I’m not moving, I’m only warning you, for your own good—but this sort of thing is bound to end in a halter, sir.”
“Possibly; but, as I have said, a crime or two more can make no difference to a man in my situation. You were kind enough to tell me that in this drawer was the means of making Mr. Foxwell consider your wishes. Let us see if it will make him consider mine. Mr. Foxwell, whatever the document contains, I’m not like to use it against Georgiana’s kinsman. But if I am taken prisoner here, ’twill no doubt fall into Mr. Thornby’s hands again. Your interest, then, lies in my escape.”
“Damn Foxwell’s interest!” broke in Thornby. “I’m the man to bargain with. If you restore that letter and them pistols—’tis my property, that letter, for all he says; mine, bought and paid for, as I can prove by Jeremiah Filson—”
This name, in relation to the letter, was another surprise to Foxwell. But ere Thornby could proceed farther, Everell commanded silence.
“You are very good, Mr. Thornby, but I will not bargain with you. I will forego the chaise and horses, release you from your promise,—on condition of your entering that closet. Come, I mean it. You shall be let out in good time. ’Tis no such bad place—the lady suffered no harm there. Into the closet, if you please. I’ll return your pistols—by and by.” Everell, while speaking, had come around the end of the table, and was now threatening Thornby with both pistols at close quarters. “Into the closet, sir! By heaven, don’t try my patience!—a man who may be hanged three times over doesn’t balk at the chance of a fourth. In, in!”
Slowly retreating from the weapons as they were thrust almost into his face, Thornby backed into the closet, glaring futile wrath.
“’Tis well,” said Everell; “if you keep silence there, I engage not to fire through the door.” Having put one pistol in his coat pocket, he locked the door and repocketed the key. He turned now to Foxwell, who had been pondering. “I must borrow your horses, sir, to the first posting-place. I will send them back from there, with these pistols and this key. You can then release this gentleman, if he be not freed by other means before that;—he will soon begin to make himself heard. I think you will now see fit to speed my parting; for, look you, if I am taken in my flight, Heaven knows whose hands this letter may fall into.”
“And if you are not taken?” inquired Foxwell.
“I will not read it, nor let anybody else read it; and will send it to you from France as soon as I am married to your niece. Regarding that matter, I will only say now that I am a man of honour, of good family, and some fortune.—I must still carry you off, sweet. ’Tis the one safe course, despite the dangers and discomforts you must share.”
“Better the dangers and discomforts with you, than the anxieties if I were left behind,” said Georgiana.
“Then, Mr. Foxwell, may I beg you to conduct us to the horses?—your servant might dispute our taking them.”
Everell had now put the second pistol into the opposite coat pocket, believing that the letter gave him sufficient control over Foxwell’s actions. But he kept his hand upon his sword-hilt, intending that Foxwell should walk in front of him to the horses.
“A moment, pray,” said Foxwell. “Consider the legal position I shall be left in if I assist you. It does not suit me to fly the country, as it does you.”
“Who will trouble you on that score? Certainly this booby justice will not desire to publish a matter in which he makes so poor a figure. He knows not who I am. In what crime can he then accuse you of aiding me? The abduction and the horse-stealing you need not pursue—you have signed no charge, sworn to none.”
“The theft of the letter,” said Foxwell. “If I help you to escape, I shall be accessory to that.”
“But you say he has no right to its possession. In any case, you can show him how ridiculous he will appear. I think you run little risk; but be that as it may, I must think of my own risk. Every moment adds to it; and to the danger of this letter coming to wrong hands. So, if you please, to the horses.”
A curious look was on Foxwell’s face. It was true that any struggle with Everell in the presence of Thornby or his people might result in the letter’s falling again into that gentleman’s hands. But there was now no such person to interfere. A quick sword-thrust—which could be justified as against an escaping rebel—might win the letter in a moment; Foxwell could destroy it immediately at the fire, and make his peace with Thornby by releasing him and showing his outrage avenged. No danger, then, of the letter’s capture in the long journey of a fugitive, or of Thornby’s attempting retaliation by course of law. It was all seen in an instant. Foxwell’s sword flashed in the air, and Everell had to spring aside to save himself.
“Ah, treacherous!” cried the young man, as his own blade leaped out.
Foxwell’s second thrust came with surprising swiftness, but was fairly met; and the two swords darted and clashed again and again. Georgiana, with every impulse to rush between the fighters, dared not do so, and was indeed compelled to move rapidly to keep out of their way, watching them with fear and horror. While the noise of their quick feet, their loud breathing and sharp ejaculations, and the clashing steel filled the apartment, there came from some other part of the house a sound of half-drunken singing. This was unheeded, even when it was evidently approaching. Foxwell, perceiving that he had counted too much upon the suddenness and sureness of his attack, and feeling that he was entitled to little mercy if he lost, fought with the impetuosity of desperation. His arm at length grew heavy; and Everell, who on his side used a concentration of faculties worthy of the issue at stake, found opening for a lunge that pinked the other’s forearm, causing him to lower his hand with a cry of chagrin. The next instant the young man struck the weapon from Foxwell’s weakened grasp, sending it flying to the door; which at that moment opened, letting in two men who walked arm in arm and bawled a bacchanalian song.
From their dress and appearance, it was evident that these newcomers were Mr. Thornby’s table companions, doubtless come in search of him. One of them, a short, heavy-set person with a wig awry, was plainly very drunk indeed. The other, a slim, prudent-looking fellow, seemed in good command of his senses. This man, having nearly tripped over the sword, picked it up, and looked with astonishment at those in the room.
“Eh!” he exclaimed. “My Jacobite, by all that’s holy! Here’s providential work! Call your men, Mr. Potkin.”
The stout little man pulled himself together, blinked at Everell, and then bolted from the room. “The justice’s clerk, gone to bring varlets of the law,” thought Everell, who stood regaining his breath. Foxwell withdrew panting to the other side of the table, dropped into Thornby’s chair, and began pulling up his sleeve to examine his wound. Filson put himself on guard with the sword before the doorway, with the manifest intention of disputing Everell’s escape from the room till help should come. Perhaps the courage of wine, the excitement of beholding his quarry at last, or the sight of Everell’s winded condition, emboldened the man: at any rate, he showed resolution, and his manner with the sword was that of some practice in fencing—not a surprising thing at a time when gentlemen’s gentlemen imitated the accomplishments of their masters.
“What! you menace me!” cried Everell; “then be careful of your other ear, hound!” With this he rushed upon Filson, thrusting along the side of the latter’s head, and running the point through the wig, though not touching the ear.
Filson turned pale, but made a pass, which was narrowly avoided. Everell gave a second lunge, and this time the weapon pierced the somewhat extended auricular shell.
“Help! help, Mr. Foxwell!” shouted Filson, clapping one hand to the injured ear, but still wielding his sword against Everell.
“Call for help to those who buy letters from you, cur,” replied Foxwell, scarce looking up from his task of binding his arm with a handkerchief, a business performed by his left hand with the aid of his teeth. Georgiana had looked an offer of assistance, which her uncle had repelled. Her attention instantly returned to her lover.
On hearing Foxwell’s answer, Filson shrank back; but Everell pressed him close, parried a desperate lunge, and sent a swift long thrust for the region of the heart. Filson dropped like a log, and lay as still as one, a result somewhat unexpected by Everell, to whom the resistance had seemed only that of the man’s loose coat.
“Come!” cried Everell, and, while Georgiana hastened to his side, he added to her uncle: “All that I said awhile ago still holds true. I wish you good night.” He then led Georgiana around the prostrate body of Filson, and through the doorway. Just outside in the hallway stood Joseph and the footman, who had been attracted by the noise to peer into the room, which as yet they dared not re-enter. Everell waved them aside with his sword, and the lovers quickly passed. The two men, not knowing what to do, again looked into the room, Joseph expectant of his master’s orders, and the footman wondering at the disappearance of Thornby. Nobody else was in the hall, and Everell and Georgiana were in a moment at the door opposite that by which they had entered the house. It was not fastened. Throwing it open, Everell found that he was right in what, from his present knowledge of the roads and gates, he had assumed,—namely, that Foxwell’s horses were waiting at this entrance. They were in charge of a boy who evidently belonged to Thornby Hall, perhaps to the gate-lodge. On the door-step was a lantern.
Everell sheathed his sword, and said, quietly, to the boy: “We are to use Mr. Foxwell’s horses, my good lad.” He coolly helped Georgiana into the saddle, mounted the other horse, and bade the boy hand him the lantern. The lad, ignorant of Foxwell’s purposes and of the fighting in the house, and obedient by habit, complied. “Now run before, and you shall receive a crown at the gate,” said Everell, grasping Georgiana’s rein and his own. He was at the same time wondering to what part of the house or vicinity the clerk had gone for his forces. He trusted that Foxwell would now see his interest in passively aiding the flight, and would find means to keep Joseph and Thornby’s servant from interfering or giving alarm.
In this he was not deceived. Foxwell saw all chance gone of obtaining the letter by force of his own; and now feared that, if taken by Thornby’s men, Everell would rather entrust it to them than suffer Foxwell to possess it after what had occurred.
Foxwell, therefore, upon noticing the two servants at the doorway, called Joseph to assist in binding his wound. He then assigned the footman to the impossible task of prizing open the door of Thornby’s prison with a poker. This apparent concern for Thornby’s comfort was partly for the future conciliation of that gentleman; and Foxwell intended to employ his wound to the same end, on the ground that he had received it in the Squire’s interest. As he sat thinking the matter out, and watching Joseph’s bungling attempts to fasten a bandage, Foxwell heard a loud tramping, as of several heavy feet, in the hall.
“The men whom the clerk went to fetch,” thought he; and, without turning his head, considered how he might delay them with perfect safety to himself. But, just as they seemed about to enter the room, there was a brief pause in their movements; and then they were heard rushing away and out of the hall. It was as if they had learned at the very threshold that the person they sought was gone elsewhere. Foxwell turned his eyes upon the doorway, near which Filson had fallen. To his amazement, the body of that rascal was not to be seen. This enabled Foxwell to account for the movements of the justice’s men: the knave had yet life enough to crawl out and indicate the way the fugitive had taken. The trampling of the men in the hall, the footman’s noise with the poker, and certain incoherent words of inquiry and command which Thornby had begun to shout from his closet, had covered the sound of Filson’s exit.
Meanwhile, Everell and Georgiana had ridden down a driveway of considerable length, following close upon the heels of the boy, whom the lantern enabled them to keep in sight. The gate had swung to after Foxwell’s entrance. As the lad went to open it, and Everell put his hand in his pocket for the promised crown, there came a noise of men issuing from the house they had left, followed by a cry: “Stop them! gate, ho! let nobody pass!”
The boy gave a startled look at the riders, and stood hesitating. Everell, who had been holding the lantern high so as to see the way, quickly handed it to Georgiana; drew one of the pistols from his pocket, pointed it at the lad’s head, and, at the same time offering the crown piece with his left hand, said: “Lead or silver, which?”
“THE HORSES DASHED FORWARD.”
The boy, whose mind had probably never worked so rapidly in his life before, flung the gate open. Men were now heard running toward them from the top of the driveway. Everell threw the coin at the boy, and the horses dashed forward. Once in the road, the lovers turned to the right, thus aiming for the town wherein they had first met. Everell put away the pistol, but allowed Georgiana, at her own suggestion, to retain possession of the lantern, that he might be the readier with his weapons, should occasion arise. Of this there was not much immediate likelihood, for, now that the gate was passed, Thornby’s men must needs resort to horses if they meant to give chase.
“Do you ride well, sweet?” Everell called to Georgiana, as they galloped along the road.
“Well enough,” she replied, as cheerily as she could.
He now observed, for the first time, that she was riding man-fashion; his cloak, which she still wore, enabling her to do so with less loss in appearance than addition of safety.
“You will not soon forget the night of your abduction,” said he, gaily.
She reminded him it was no longer an abduction, but a flight on her part as well as his. And both of them, though they said nothing, wondered what would be the end of it.
After a mile or so, the riders slackened speed, and kept an easy pace thereafter till they were near the town. Two or three times they had made a momentary halt to listen, but had heard nothing to indicate that they were followed. Everell had frequently asked Georgiana how she did, and she had declared, “Very well.” He now inquired whether she could travel much farther without stopping to rest, and begged her to be perfectly honest in her reply. She assured him she was equal to a dozen miles, at least.
“Then it is a question,” said he, “whether we should stay a few hours at the place we are coming to, or go on to the next town southward. I conceive we have naught to fear from your uncle. As for Thornby, I know not. He may desire that nothing of all this shall become known; on the other hand, his wrath may outweigh his vanity. ’Tis not likely his men would give chase so far without his commands. The clerk would certainly go to consult him before ordering a long pursuit, and Thornby’s first care would be to get himself liberated from the closet. No doubt all depends on his state of feeling at that moment. Were Jeremiah Filson still a factor in the case, I should count on pursuit. Men of that persistent sort, having once set themselves a task, are not to be thrown off, however slight be the gain or the motive. They know how to make such as Thornby the servants of their wills. But without Filson’s egging on, I doubt if Thornby or his clerk will give themselves much trouble concerning us. Your uncle, I think, will find means to dissuade them. In any case, we have a fair start, so that if you feel the least fatigue or discomfort, sweet,—And yet, ’twould go hard to lose all, after coming off so well hitherto. Certainly Thornby will be in a great fury:—to be locked in his own closet, after being robbed of you and of his power over your uncle! At first he will be for revenge at any cost. And who knows but he may linger in that mind? He may make it a great matter, inform the sheriff of the county, and raise a general hue and cry. ’Tis a possibility we must reckon with. Our only security against it is a long start at the outset. And yet you’ve already undergone too much to-night. Perhaps two or three hours of rest—But, devil take it, Filson has been at this town!—’twas here you warned me of him. No doubt he has left accounts of me. I may be recognized if I show my face at any house. But, if we pass through the town in this darkness—”
He was going on to consider the alternatives further, but Georgiana, having waited in vain for a pause, now interrupted with the most positive assertion that she would not think of stopping at the town they were about to enter. So they walked their horses through such of its narrow streets as lay in their route, and were soon upon the open road again, having encountered no light nor other sign of life. They improved their speed, and, having passed the spot where Everell had taken leave of Roughwood a fortnight before,—though its location could not be certified in the darkness,—arrived at another town of silent streets wherein no lamp or candle relieved the night. By their own lantern, the lovers were enabled to inspect the house-fronts, and to select what appeared to be the chief inn of the place. After much imperative calling for the landlord, Everell was answered by a half-dressed man, of whom he demanded accommodations in the tone of authority that had imposed upon the servants at Thornby Hall. Here, as there, it availed, and, as soon as the travellers were admitted, Everell curtly explained that the lady had met with an accident; he added, carelessly, that they had come from the South.
The half-dressed man proving to be the landlord, Everell bespoke a chaise and fresh horses for an early hour in the morning; and, as there was only one sleeping-room available, saw Georgiana conducted thereto; after which he made his own bed, with the aid of his cloak, on a settle in the bar-parlour. He passed the night in a half-sleep, ready to take alarm at any sound of later arrivals. In the morning, when the time set for departure was near, he summoned a maid and was about to send her to Georgiana, when that lady herself appeared on the stairs. She was quite ready to travel, having interviewed the innkeeper’s wife, and acquired a hat, a mantle, and some other articles, all in a fair state of preservation, in exchange for one of her rings.
Everell complimented her upon this timely regard for appearances while travelling by daylight, and declared that no other woman in England could look as well in the costliest finery as Georgiana did in the second-hand wardrobe of a country landlady. Georgiana was pleased at this; but not entirely so, until he added that she should supply herself in better accordance with her own taste at the first opportunity. He then handed her into the chaise, entrusted to the landlord the despatching of the horses and pistols to Foxwell, and gave directions to the postilion. Hearing these, the innkeeper was much puzzled, for Everell had designedly given him the impression that the journey of the couple was Northward. Ere he could scratch a probable solution of the problem into his head, the chaise was rattling away.
The freshness of the morning had its effect upon the lovers at first; but Everell soon perceived that Georgiana was pale and languid. He urged her to try to sleep, and offered his shoulder as a pillow. She, on her side, observed that his voice was quite hoarse, and insisted upon arranging his cloak so that he, too, could rest. Presently, in spite of herself, her eyes closed. He pillowed her head as he had suggested, and softly kissed her hair. The next fact of which he was distinctly conscious was that the chaise had stopped before a roadside inn, and the postilion was telling him that here was a good place at which to breakfast. Glad to find, on inquiry, how many hours and miles they had got rid of in sleep, Everell awakened Georgiana, and they were regaled with bread, cheese, and fried bacon. They were now quite cured of fatigue, though Everell’s hoarseness was increased.
The journey was resumed. A few towns and many villages were left behind. Finally, at the end of a stage, Everell thought the time of changing horses might safely be utilized in visiting some shops near the posting-inn. When the travellers returned with their purchases, their new conveyance was ready. They set out immediately, putting off dinner to the late afternoon rather than make a longer stop at present. As they drove out of the yard into the street, Georgiana uttered a quick “Oh!” and drew back from the chaise window, at the same time laying her hand on Everell’s breast to make him do likewise.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“The man on horseback,” she replied; “don’t look out! ’Tis Jeremiah Filson!”
“Impossible! I left him as good as dead. You are mistaken, sweet. How could you know him?—you have scarcely seen him.”
“I saw him well enough at Thornby Hall last night; and this I am certain was he. He was riding up the street; there was another horseman with him. He looked tired, and the horses seemed fagged. ’Twas he, I could swear,—the same clothes.”
“Then the dog must have feigned, last night, to save himself from a coup de grace. Did he see us, I wonder?”
“He didn’t appear to. He was looking at the houses, I thought.”
“Looking for the inn, probably. Well, if he stops there, he will inquire for us. If not, he is close behind us. In either case, he is on our track. Thank heaven, we are almost out of the town.”—The new postilion, as soon as the chaise was safe in the street, had whipped up his horses to a gallop, in order to make the showy start affected by artists in his craft.—“Filson’s experience last night has given him a respect for my sword,” Everell went on; “he will not dare come within reach of it himself. I at least pinked his other ear, as I promised to. He will now act with caution; will attempt to hunt me down without showing himself, and, if he finds me tarrying anywhere, will apply to the local authorities. He will be no less dangerous for proceeding in that way—he will be the more so, rather. We shall not dare stop long anywhere. We had best take our meals at solitary country inns, where he cannot come up unperceived, nor set the authorities upon me without time and trouble. We must travel night and day till we are safe: to sleep at an inn would give him his opportunity. I see ’tis possible for you to sleep as we go. So then, barring accident, we shall doubtless keep our lead to the end, if he hangs on so far.”
“But if we are delayed at the posting-houses?” said Georgiana. “Sometimes one cannot get horses immediately.”
“Ay, there is one danger,” Everell replied. “But we must gain such a distance that we may lose time and yet be away before he can steal upon us; or at least before he can bring officers about us. We must not tarry long in a garrison town. Military officers would be too ready to act upon information in such a case as mine. He cannot get the civil powers to move so quickly. Well, we must keep our lead. In the country he will not venture too close upon our heels. We are out of the town, at last. I wonder if he stopped at that inn.”
Everell thrust his head out of the side window and looked back. Nobody was following. He then called to the driver, and gave instructions in regard to the pace of travel, hinting at the reward in store for obedience. The lad was so compliant, the horses so fresh, that in due time Everell thought a pause might be made for dinner without much risk of their being overtaken. At the next suitable house of refreshment he ordered a halt, somewhat to the disapproval of the postilion, who would have preferred to stop at an inn of his own suggesting. Everell chose this, however, because it had as neighbours only two or three brick houses and a half-dozen thatched cottages, all looking drowsy behind ragged hedges, while its chief window commanded a view of the road over which the fugitives had come.
They caused a table to be placed at the window, and there, on a soiled cloth, were served with boiled eggs, cold bacon, and bread, by the frowsy woman who had taken the order, set the table, and done the cooking. But the eggs were fresh, and the bacon good, so that little was left on the table when the travellers rose from it. The postilion had evidently found the ale, bread, and cheese better than he had expected; and the horses apparently had nothing to complain of in their refreshment. At all events, the journey was resumed in good spirits, and, as no sign of Filson had appeared upon the stretch of road in sight, the lovers began to feel more secure. Georgiana now recalled Filson’s jaded appearance. Perhaps, as on a former occasion, he had yielded to the dictates of tired nature: perhaps he had thrown over the pursuit, and was merely bound for London. As for the horseman with him, that might have been a postboy or a casual fellow traveller. While their own chaise went rolling along at good speed, the lovers felt hope increase within them. Nevertheless, they were still determined to go on by night.
Dusk had risen—or, rather, fallen, to be accurate in spite of the poets—when they arrived at the place where they would have to obtain the horses and vehicle for their night journey. It was a small town, with a High Street enlivened by the humbler inhabitants strolling up and down in the light from the shop windows. A lamp hung over the entrance to the principal inn. As soon as the chaise was in the yard, Everell called for a fresh conveyance.
The landlord was very sorry, but there were no horses. How soon would there be any? Certainly not that night: he wouldn’t send out tired cattle, not for love or money. Would there be a stage-coach, or even a carrier’s wagon? Not before morning. Everell turned to the postilion, who was now busy with his own fagged horses. No, sir; this was as far as he dared go: he knew his orders; his cattle were done for, and he was done for, and he wouldn’t let his beasts go another mile, not for love or money or the King himself.
“Mind how you speak of the King, booby,” a voice broke in, pertly; and Everell, looking around, saw three or four trim young fellows at the taproom door, all in red coats.
“Soldiers in town?” said Everell to the landlord.
“Yes, your Honour; two companies waiting orders. You’d ’a’ had the pleasure of meeting the officers at dinner if you’d come a little sooner, but now they be all gone to a ball at a gentleman’s house in the neighbourhood. Most of them lodge here; but I have a very good room left, at your Honour’s service.”
“I don’t want a room. I want horses. Where can I get them? Is there no other place in the town?”
The landlord shook his head sadly; but one of the soldiers said: “There’s a house across the way, sir,—the Red Swan. I’m not sure you can get horses there, but ’tis there or nowhere if this house can’t supply them.”
Everell thanked the man, pressed a shilling into his hand, settled with his own postilion, and had his luggage carried before himself and Georgiana to the Red Swan. This was a smaller house than the one they had left. It had no driveway through the middle; the entrance to the yard was by a side lane. The travellers, entering by the front door, found a corridor leading to the bar—and to the landlady. Could one hire horses and some sort of light vehicle? Yes, to be sure; but not that night: all the horses and carriages in the town were taking people to the ball a few miles out. Everell looked blankly at Georgiana. The landlady could offer his Honour the best rooms in the house. On the morrow there would be horses a-plenty. They would be returning from the ball by midnight.
“Ah, then, if we wait till midnight, we may have the first horses that come in?” said Everell.
The landlady was not sure. She would have to ask John, who was now driving to the ball. When he returned with his horses, he might be willing; the cattle would be fresh enough, but John might not be. At this, Everell spoke so eloquently, despite his hoarseness, of rewards and of his confidence in the landlady’s ability to influence John if she would, and Georgiana supported him with such sweetly anxious looks, that the good woman thought she could almost certainly promise a conveyance and John’s attendance at midnight or thereabouts. As for the intervening time, it was decided that Georgiana should lie down dressed, while Everell should remain on the alert. He saw her to the door of a room at the head of the stairs, and returned to caution the landlady against acknowledging their presence to possible inquirers. He relied on the woman’s good-will and evident belief that they were an eloping pair fearful only of parental discovery. He then went by a rear door to stretch his legs in the inn yard, which he thought to find deserted.
The yard was for the most part in darkness, its only light being that of a lantern hung against the gate-post. To Everell’s surprise, a pair of horses attached to a post-chaise were feeding under the care of a small boy. Everell was promptly inquisitive, but the undersized hostler had no gift of communication, and could say no more than that the chaise had arrived awhile ago and would be going on pretty soon. Everell returned to the landlady.
“Oh, ay,” she said, in reply to his remark about the horses. “They belong to a gentleman with a toothache, who stops only long enough for supper.”
“You didn’t mention him before.”
“Why, sir, from his coming to this house instead of t’other, and from his ordering a private room to sup in, I took it he’d rather nothing was said of his being here. But, come to think of it, he might want to keep out of sight because of his face being swollen up—’tis all tied round with a yankerchief. Yet that wouldn’t account for his having his postilion eat in the same room with him, would it, sir? It looks as how he was afeard the man would say too much if let eat in the kitching. Well, I hope as I’ve done him no harm by what I’ve told your Honour.”
“Not in the least. I wish I had his horses. I would even accept his toothache, if I could have the horses with it.”
He entered the small public parlour, and dropped into a chair at the head of the long table. He had the room to himself, and could flee to the darkness of the yard if anybody intruded. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, he lapsed into a drowsy state which seemed, in the circumstances, the state best calculated to cheat the time. He had remained therein for more than half an hour, when his ears, on the alert, informed him of a soft step outside the room. He rose, and beheld Georgiana in the half-open doorway. Finger on lip, she approached and whispered:
“I have seen him. I think he knows we are here.”
“Who?” asked Everell.
“Filson. I happened to look out of my window—”
“Impossible! He couldn’t have followed so close.”
“He must have gained upon us toward nightfall, and arrived at the inn across the way a little while ago. I happened to glance out of my window just now—not putting my head out, but looking through the glass—and I saw four men standing under the lamp before that inn—the lamp over the entrance. Three of them were the soldiers we saw in the yard. The other was Filson. He was talking with the soldiers, and he and they were looking at this house. I am sure they were telling him we had come here.”
“Did they see you?”
“I think not. They weren’t looking at my window when I first saw them, and after that I watched from behind the curtain.”
“Well, then, he knows we are here. The fellow who carried our luggage across would have told the soldiers we failed to get horses. I should have taken some pains to cover our track. We are too easily described. I might have known Filson would inquire before even entering the inn; his fear of coming suddenly within reach of my sword would make him do that. Well, the evil is done. What steps will the fellow take?—that is the question. Fortunately, those soldiers can do nothing without orders, and their officers have gone to the ball.”
“But hear me through,” said Georgiana. “After they had talked a minute or so, Filson and one of the soldiers walked up the street, so fast that I soon lost sight of them. The other two soldiers remained—to watch this house, perhaps. And then I came to tell you.”
“H’m! Without doubt Filson has gone in quest of somebody in authority. We must be gone from this house, at all events. Filson may return—who knows how soon?—may return with a gang of constables or a file of soldiers. Come, we must leave this inn, at least.”
“But those two are watching: they will see us go.”
“We’ll go through the yard. It opens to a lane, which may have two entrances—else we must find some back way, or scale a wall, if need be. Come; I’ll see the landlady as we go.”
“Oh, heaven! In the passage—footsteps—of men!”
Everell listened a moment, his hand on his sword-hilt. “Nay, ’tis all well. Two men walking from the stairs to the yard: they are a guest and his postilion. ’Tis a gentleman with a toothache. The landlady has been telling me of him. I would to heaven—Ah, perhaps—Come, sweet! come!”
Seizing her hand, Everell led her swiftly from the room, along the passage, and through a back door, to the yard.
The forms of the strange gentleman, the postilion, and the small hostler were dimly visible at the darker side of the chaise. The postilion was evidently about to light his lamps. Everell left Georgiana standing in a shadowed corner by the house door, and advanced to the other gentleman, keeping as much in the darkness as he. The stranger’s head presented a very bulky appearance, thanks not only to the handkerchief encircling it, but also to its being thickly muffled up to the mouth. His hat, moreover, was drawn down to his eyes. So, indeed, was Everell’s.
“Sir,” began Everell, inwardly cursing the hoarseness that prevented a more ingratiating tone, “pardon the intrusion of one who means no offence. ’Tis a matter of life and death that moves me, a stranger, to address you as I do. There is also a lady whose fortunes are at stake. ’Tis of the first importance that we leave this place immediately. We have not been able to obtain horses. Seeing you about to depart alone, I am impelled to throw myself on your generosity. Will you take us as passengers, to the next town, at least? If you will take the lady in the chaise, I can sit on the bar in front. The postilion shall be well rewarded.”
“Why, sir,” replied the other, in a thick voice, the more indistinct from his much muffled condition, “if you are travelling in my direction—”
“Southward,” said Everell, eagerly.
“I am sorry, then, for I am going North.”
“North? What ill fortune! For an instant I thought myself happy. North!—but surely, sir, your necessity for going on at once is not as great as ours: it cannot be. If you knew the case—the lady is waiting yonder in the darkness, trembling with anxiety as to our fate. Our whole future, sir, hangs upon the next few minutes. Dare I ask you—nay, dare I refrain from asking you—to resign this conveyance to us? There will be another available at midnight. Your business certainly is not so urgent.”
“My business, sir, is as urgent as any can be. It has the first claim on me, much as I would fain serve you. I dare not lose an hour.”
“But, good heaven, sir, have I not told you my affair is one of life or death?”
“And so is mine,” said the strange gentleman, stepping back to be out of range of the chaise-lamp, which the postilion had now lighted.
Everell followed into the darker gloom, pleading desperately: “But consider, sir, my case concerns the happiness of a woman.”
“Mine concerns the safety of a man.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Everell, maddened at the other’s phlegmatic brevity of speech. “To see these horses ready for the road, to need them as I do, to know how she must suffer if I—Sir, I entreat you: I must have these horses: I demand them in the sacred name of love.”
“I require them in the sacred interest of friendship,” was the answer.
“Friendship!” laughed Everell, scornfully. “The love of man and woman—do you know what that is?”
“None knows better; but at present I serve the friendship of man for man. One task at a time. Were I not entered upon this, I would do much to oblige you. I can only wish you better fortune than you expect; and—good night.” With that the stranger went toward the chaise, all being now ready for departure.
“Not yet good night, either!” cried Everell, stepping into the other’s way. “’Tis a rude thing I do, but necessity compels me. If your mission is all to you, mine is all to me. Let our swords decide for us—I see you wear one.”
“I wear one,” said the gentleman, patiently, “but I had rather not draw it now.”
“You had rather be commanded, then,” said Everell, drawing his own. “You have a toothache, I hear. A gentleman with a toothache ought not to travel at night. For your own good, I must forbid you.”
“And you have a bad cold, as your voice betrays. A gentleman with a bad cold ought still less to travel at night.” And the stranger now calmly drew. “Make way, sir, if you please.”
“Stand back, sir,” replied Everell, “till I call the lady to enter the chaise.”
The stranger’s retort to this was a sword-thrust at Everell’s groin. Though the men were in too great darkness to distinguish faces, a certain sense he had acquired by much training enabled Everell to parry this attack. When he returned the thrust, his adversary showed an equal instinct for judging the movements of a barely visible weapon. Several passes were exchanged, to the great affright of Georgiana, who could only make out the moving forms in the gloom and hear the clashing of the steel. She had the presence of mind to close the house door, lest the sound might bring other spectators. As for the postilion and the boy, they stood astonished at a safe distance, not daring to raise an alarm for fear of incurring the vengeance of the combatants. The fight was hot and equally maintained. Unexpectedly Everell struck his left hand against the chaise door. For greater safety of movement, he stepped back a few paces, and so came, without thought, into the lamplight.
The other gentleman, in the act of following, uttered a cry of surprise, and held his sword motionless. The voice was quite different from that he had previously used.
“Eh!—who are you?” exclaimed Everell, lowering his own weapon.
The stranger advanced into the light, pulling down his muffler.
“Roughwood!” cried Everell, springing forward to embrace the man he had just been trying to wound.
“H’sh!” warned the other, cautious as ever.
“Good heaven!—if we had killed each other!”
“We should have been served right for not knowing each other. But till this moment I didn’t rightly see you. Your husky voice deceived me: I should never have thought it your voice.”
“’Tis the best voice I can muster at present. But you seem to have two voices.”
“The other was put on—like the muffler, handkerchief, and toothache. I was recognized on my way South after leaving you; and now, coming back through the same country—”
“But why coming back? I supposed you safe in France.”
“I saw her whom I wished to see; but I could not persuade myself to sail without you, or knowledge of you. As days passed and you arrived not—In short, I feared your rash resolve had got you into trouble—”
“And you were coming to my aid! Dear Roughwood!”
“But we lose time. You spoke of a lady.”
“You will recognize her,” said Everell, and hastened to conduct Georgiana into the light. Leaving her and Roughwood to mutual surprise and explanation, he returned to the bar of the inn, and, having overcome the landlady’s refusal of payment, possessed himself of his and Georgiana’s luggage. When he reappeared in the yard, his friend had already handed the young lady into the chaise, and was giving directions to the postilion. Everell was for Roughwood’s taking the place beside Georgiana, but that gentleman cut short all dispute by mounting the bar in front and allowing Everell ten seconds in which to enter the chaise. Before less time had passed, Everell was seated at his Georgiana’s side, her hand was stealing into his, the hostler had closed the door of the chaise, and the postilion had given the word of starting. He drove carefully out through the gate with the solitary lamp, slowly on through the lane to the street, and then for the open road southward, the horses getting up speed at the crack of the whip.
“And so, Jeremiah Filson,” said Everell, as the lights of the houses ceased and the night lay blue and misty over the fields, “we have left you behind once more.”
Thanks to the careful arrangements of Roughwood, no time was lost on the rest of the journey, day or night, and the lovers never saw Jeremiah Filson again. A man answering to his description arrived a day late at the fishing village from which they had set sail; and lingered for a week or more, questioning the inhabitants, and often, from the highest cliffs, gazing far out to sea with a puzzled expression. This they learned from Roughwood’s future wife, when she and her brother came to them in Paris.
From Prudence, for whom Georgiana sent as soon as she conveniently could, the lovers—for lovers they remained after marriage and through life—heard the latest news of Foxwell Court and Thornby Hall. Mr. Foxwell had come to a better understanding with his neighbour Thornby, so that the pair now frequently got drunk together at one or the other’s table; they spent considerable time at cards, with results apparently to Foxwell’s satisfaction; and it was settled that he should lend the distinction of his presence to the Squire’s approaching nuptials. For the Squire, as if to show the depth of disappointed love by an urgent need of consolation, had suddenly—and successfully—resolved to marry Sukey Marvell.
The End