THREATS
SOMETHING confident and overbearing in Thornby’s look went to Foxwell’s
intelligence at once, and checked for an instant the speech on his lips.
But he quickly recovered his nonchalance, and began as if he noticed
nothing unusual:
“Good morning, Mr. Thornby. I am much honoured. Pray be seated, sir.”
“I’d as lief stand, sir,” was the blunt answer. “Much honoured you feel,
I dare say!”
“And why not?” said Foxwell, pleasantly. “You do yourself a great
injustice, surely, if you don’t consider your visit an honour to the
fortunate recipient. You must not undervalue yourself.”
“Well, sir, you’ll see how much honour I mean by coming here, when
you’ve learnt what brings me.”
“That, I confess, I am impatient to know. But really, will you not sit?”
“No, sir! I sha’n’t stay long enough to tire my legs with standing. My
visit will be short, I promise you.”
“I perceive you are in a mood of shortness.”
“I can choose my own moods, sir,” said the Squire, rendered more savage
by every successive speech of his enemy. “And I choose short moods for
my visits to you. Not that I meant to pay you a visit when I left home
this morning. My business took me past your gate, and, as I have
something for your ears, I thought I’d as well say it soon as late.”
“A very wise thought; for accidents will happen, and ’twould be a pity
if anything so interesting should be left unsaid—for I know it must be
interesting.”
“Maybe you’ll find it so, ecod! As for leaving things unsaid, lemme tell
you, sir, that’s a policy I recommend to you in future, whenever you
feel inclined to try your wit upon me. If a witty thing, as you consider
it, comes into your head to say against me, leave it unsaid. That’s my
commands, sir, and I look to see ’em obeyed.”
“Commands? Upon my soul, Mr. Thornby,—pardon my smiling,—but you are
exceedingly amusing.”
“Smile your bellyfull; you may laugh, too: we’ll see which on us laughs
last. Ecod, we’ll see that! Try some of your town wit upon me the next
time we meet in company! Try it, and see what happens.”
“Can’t you spare my curiosity the suspense by telling me now?”
“Yes, I can. This is what’ll happen:—I’ll answer you back by asking what
you think of a man who robs the dead.”
“Robs the dead?” quietly repeated Foxwell, puzzled.
“Ay, a dead body, in some such place as Covent Garden, for example.—Eh,
that touches you, does it?”
Foxwell’s face had indeed undergone a change: for an instant he was
quite pale and staring. But he recovered his outward equanimity.
“Please explain yourself,” he said, with composure.
“A word to the wise is enough, sir. If ever again you try to put me down
afore company, or dare to take first place o’ me anywheres, I’ll tell
the world who got Lord Hilby’s money that night in Covent Garden.”
Foxwell drew a deep breath, and then replied as calmly as before, “Are
you walking in a dream, Mr. Thornby? Really, I don’t understand you.
What is Lord Hilby’s money to me?”
“No use trying that game upon me, Foxwell. You know all, and I know all,
and there’s an end. You’ve heard my commands: act as you think best.”
“Sir, I know nothing. Your words are gibberish to me, and I say but
this: if you attempt to raise any slander against me, be sure I will
make you answer—”
“And I’ll answer, ecod, by producing this here letter,” blurted Thornby,
bringing from his pocket the document we have already seen in the hands
of Jeremiah Filson, and holding it high, with the signed part in
Foxwell’s view, “which you wrote in the sponging-house to Sir John
Thisleford, and which anybody who knows your hand can swear to—as your
face owns to it now. ‘If you don’t help me out of this, I will confess
all, and let the world know who got Lord Hilby’s money that night,’ says
you, in black and white. ‘_Confess_ all,’ d’ye see? Signed ‘R. Foxwell.’
Your wit failed you that time, I’m a-thinking. What ’ud the county say
if I exhibited this here bit o’ writing? Even your town friends, as I
hear be a-visiting you, would find this more nor they could swallow, I
dare say.”
“Let me see the letter—closer,” said Foxwell, in a hushed and quaking
voice.
“I value it too much as a bit o’ your beloved handwritin’.” The Squire
repocketed it carefully, with a grim chuckle at his own humour. “As to
how I shall use it, that depends partly on how you use me. But I don’t
promise anything. I hold it over your head, neighbour Foxwell,—like the
sword of Dionassius in the story-book—over your head, ecod! Ha! Good
day, Foxwell. Go back to your pleasures—I’ll show myself out.”
Foxwell made an effort to regain his self-possession. “’Tis a forgery—I
defy you—this is a trumped-up tale—”
“We shall see. You’d go near killing to get the letter from me, I’ll
warrant.” With this parting shot, his heavy features stretched in a leer
of triumph, the Squire stalked from the room, leaving Foxwell—silent and
shaken—to his thoughts.
The victorious Squire had to pass through the wide entrance-hall to
reach the forecourt, where his man Bartholomew awaited with the horses.
He stopped in the hall, which was for the moment deserted, in order to
refold the precious letter and place it more securely. As he pocketed it
once more, he turned his glance toward the closed door of the
drawing-room, soliloquizing after this fashion, “I’ll make him play the
whipped cur afore I’ve done with him. He shall come when I call, so he
shall,—and go when I bid, and speak when I allow, and hold his tongue
when I command. You fine beau of the town, you’ll make a jest of us
country gentlemen, will you?—you’ll teach us manners, will you?—Eh,
who’s this?”
The hall was panelled in oak, decorated with heads of stags and foxes,
provided with a large fireplace, and furnished with chairs and settles.
At one side, the stairway began which led to the upper floors, and the
Squire’s ejaculation was caused by the appearance of somebody on those
stairs—a young lady, rather slight, but well-shaped, with a very pretty
face distinguished by a somewhat rebellious expression; and with a pair
of eyes that set the Squire agape with the wonder of a new sensation, as
they rested for an instant full upon him.
“Sure I suppose you be the niece that came home t’other day,” said the
Squire, as she stepped from the lowest stair. He had not relaxed his
gaze from his first sight of her, nor did he now.
Georgiana replied by making a curtsey, and was about to pass on. But Mr.
Thornby, with as great politeness as he could put into his tone,
detained her as much by an unconscious gesture as by speech.
“Sure I heard tell as Foxwell’s niece had come home, but I ne’er
expected to see _such_ a young lady! Why, miss, or mistress, begging
your pardon if I make too free, but there bean’t your match in the
county; that there bean’t—I’ll take my oath of it! I’m your neighbour,
Thomas Thornby, at your service. Mayhap you’ve heard o’ me.”
“I have heard your name, Mr. Thornby,” said Georgiana, looking quite
tolerantly upon him.
“But not heard much good o’ me, if you heard it from your uncle, I’ll
warrant. You mustn’t believe all he has said against me, Miss Foxwell.
’Tis like he’ll give a different account o’ me after this: I’ve just had
a talk with him, and he knows me a little better. Ecod, miss, I hope you
and me can be good neighbours, at all events. Such a face!—excuse the
freedom, mistress, but we don’t run across such faces every day
hereabouts. There’ll be some, that think themselves beauties, will turn
green when they see you at the assembly ball. Ecod, we shall have
somebody worth a toast now; for between you and me, the beauties of this
neighbourhood don’t muster enough good looks among ’em all to do credit
to the punch we drink their healths in. At any rate, that’s my opinion,
and explains why I’m still a bachelor. I’m not easy pleased, ma’am; no
doubt I look a plain fellow in these here old clothes, but anybody’ll
tell you how fastidious Tom Thornby is when it comes to dogs, horses,
and women. ’Tis well known, ma’am.”
“I am the more obliged for your compliments, sir; and I wish you good
morning,” said Georgiana, amiably, and, after another curtsey, performed
with unexpected swiftness, she got away by the nearest door before her
new admirer could summon an idea for another speech.
Thornby stared wistfully at the door by which she had left. Indeed he
made a step or two toward it; but, thinking better, stopped and drew a
ponderous sigh. A servant came into the hall from the forecourt,
whereupon the Squire abruptly took his departure. As he rode mutely out
of the courtyard, followed by Bartholomew, his countenance betokened
thoughts quite other than those with which he had left Foxwell’s
presence a minute or two earlier. When he had passed through the
village, Thornby motioned his man to ride beside him, and began to
converse upon Mr. Foxwell and his present habits. In the course of the
talk, it came out, as Bartholomew had been informed by Caleb while
waiting in the courtyard, that Foxwell and his guests were accustomed to
make some excursion on horseback every day, leaving the niece at home.
The consequence of this knowledge was that next day, soon after the
party had sallied forth as usual, a servant came to Miss Foxwell in her
own small parlour to say that Mr. Thornby waited upon her in the
drawing-room.
Mystified, but desiring not to offend, she went to him immediately. He
was sprucely dressed, beaming, and all deference. For two hours he sat
and sustained the chief burden of a general conversation upon everything
in the neighbourhood. While he was more moderate and indirect in his
frequent compliments than he had been on the previous day, he maintained
a steady gaze of admiration, no less overpowering. Georgiana, wearied to
death, had finally to plead household duties in order to dislodge him.
The following day was Sunday, and Miss Foxwell, making her first
appearance at the village church, found herself again the object of the
Squire’s constant attention, as indeed of the whole congregation’s,
although she divided the latter with the London ladies. That evening she
was discussed at Thornby Hall by the cronies who happened to be sharing
the Squire’s bachelor table; and such was the praise uttered by several
gay dogs who considered themselves devilish good judges that Mr. Thornby
was kept secretly alternating between elation and jealousy. It needed
only this approval and covetousness on the part of others, to complete
the Squire’s sense of the young lady’s surpassing excellence.
In the morning, to Bartholomew’s considerable wonder, Mr. Thornby again
discovered business that took him past Foxwell Court. He had not the
courage against appearing ridiculous, to repeat his visit so soon, but
he rode very slowly in passing the place, both going and coming; and,
welcoming a pretext for remaining as long as possible in the near
vicinity, he no sooner saw, through the doorway of the village
ale-house, a man who was now a guest there, than he drew up his horse
with alacrity, saying to his attendant, “The very fellow I desired to
see: we’ll tarry here awhile, Bartholomew.”
The man in the ale-house came forth as Mr. Thornby dismounted, and
offered that respectful greeting which the Squire was so conscious of
deserving and Jeremiah Filson so capable of bestowing.
“Good day, Filson; good day t’ye. I don’t wish to come indoors: we’ll
walk to and fro here on the green.—I’ve been anxious to see you, Filson,
to know how you’re faring in respect of your Jacobite.”
“Poorly, sir, poorly as yet; though I take it most kind of your Worship
to be concerned upon the matter.”
“Concerned? In course—why the devil not? Ain’t I a magistrate? Didn’t I
give you the warrant? D’ye think I dropped the matter there? I’m as keen
upon punishing the rebels as any man in England. Once you discover where
the fellow is, you’ll see how ready my officers are to help you take
him.”
Filson was rather surprised at this sudden zeal, for the Squire, after
purchasing the Foxwell letter and granting the Everell warrant, had not
shown a desire for more of Filson’s society, so that Jeremiah had been
forced to curry favour with the justice’s clerk, that he might rely upon
the ready coöperation of the legal officers in apprehending the rebel.
But he kept his surprise to himself.
“I’m quite sure of that, sir. I hope I shall track the man to his cover,
with the aid of Providence. I hate to give a thing up, sir, once I’ve
set myself to do it. When I start upon a chase, no matter what’s the
game, I can’t leave it unfinished, and that’s why I still linger here,
though at some little expense to myself. But we act as we’re made; and
I’m made like that, your Worship.”
“It does you credit, Filson: I like a staying hound. But are you sure,
now, the man is still in this neighbourhood?”
“I don’t presume to be sure of anything, sir; but I trace him to this
neighbourhood and no farther. ’Twas on or about this very spot, your
honour, that he was seen by the postilion whom I met that same night at
the inn where I had the honour of first making your acquaintance. The
next day, you’ll remember, I had the privilege of transacting some
business with your Worship. I came directly from your house to this, but
my gentleman had fled the night before. He told the landlord a
cock-and-bull story of having found a wagon to take him on to Burndale.
But the landlord spied on him, and saw no wagon at the place he said it
was waiting. Furthermore, the landlord declares the gentleman
disappeared from sight at that very place. It was night-time, and the
truth must be, that the gentleman turned aside from the road. Howsoever,
that’s the last account I can get of him—his disappearance at the bridge
yonder. I’ve been to Burndale, but no such person has been seen there,
or between here and there. Neither is there any trace of his doubling
back over his course. And, besides, if he was bound for Burndale, or
that side of the kingdom, why should he have come so far by the road I
found him in?—there are shorter ways to Burndale from Scotland. No, sir,
if I may express an opinion to your Honour, his business must have been
in this neighbourhood, not beyond it; he has found snug hiding
hereabouts, but I’ll have him out yet.”
“Trust you for a true terrier, eh, Filson.”
“Yes, sir, with your Worship’s approval and the forces of the law to
support me. I failed in vigilance that day at the inn—allowed the
corporeal desire of sleep to get the better of me, and was punished by
the man slipping through my fingers. But Providence, after teaching me
the lesson, sent the postilion to hear my belated inquiries, which I
ought never to have postponed to the needs of the body. The question is,
where could my gentleman have gone when he vanished under the nose of
this old fool—begging your Worship’s pardon—that night?”
“There’s the Foxwell estate begins just beyond that bridge.”
“Yes, on one side of the road. And the Dornley on the other. I’ve
quietly seen Mr. Dornley, after making sure of his loyalty in politics,
and furnished him with a written description of my gentleman. I’ve
hesitated to approach Mr. Foxwell, lest perhaps you might have told him
how you came by that letter.”
“No fear o’ that; but, if he saw you, he’d soon enough guess, take my
word on’t.”
“Why, scarcely, sir, if I may venture to say so. If you told him that
Sir John Thisleford’s former valet was in the neighbourhood, and if you
gave some notion of my present appearance, then he might indeed guess.
But otherwise I’ll warrant he wouldn’t know me. You see, sir, we look
different out of livery, and my name wasn’t Filson when I served Sir
John; and in various ways my manners have altered—for the better, I
trust. So if your Honour has given him no hint of the matter, I think I
may safely go and solicit his interest in my quest.”
“Oh, do as you see fit, man. If he discovers you, ’tis your back must
abide the cudgel, nobody else’s. Ecod, the letter will serve my purpose
just as well, whether or not he knows how I came by it.”
Jeremiah Filson was not long in availing himself of the security with
which he now felt he might interview Foxwell. He thanked Providence he
had not been too late to stipulate against the Squire’s mentioning him
in connection with the letter, which he had neglected to do at the time
of their transaction. The afternoon of that same day saw him make his
very civil and yet not obsequious approach, the manner of which rather
recommended him to Foxwell, as being unmistakably of London. Learning
that his business was of a private nature, Foxwell heard him in the
drawing-room, where Filson introduced himself with a careful ambiguity
as upon a business “in the interest of Government.” Foxwell listened
with polite attention to the glib description of the “fugitive rebel,
one Charles Everell, who was of the Pretender’s body-guard of gentlemen
at Culloden,” and who was suspected of being now in hiding in the
neighbourhood, possibly upon the Foxwell estate.
Filson, being satisfied by his hearer’s unconcerned manner that Foxwell
neither knew nor cared anything about the Jacobite, explained that,
while a justice’s warrant had been made out, upon his affidavit, to
“take and apprehend” this Charles Everell, he was prosecuting the search
quietly rather than by such public means as might give the refugee the
alarm. He was, therefore, in this private manner soliciting the
coöperation of the loyal gentlemen in the neighbourhood, and begging
that, in the event of their discovering such a person, either by chance
or as a result of investigations their loyalty might prompt, they would
cause the man to be detained, and would send word to him, Jeremiah
Filson, at the ale-house in the village. “For, d’ye see, sir, I’ve
arranged matters that I can put my hand on the justice officers at short
notice. I shall be the chief witness against the rebel, and I know where
to find another, as two are required. The other, in fact, is at
Carlisle, where the trials are now on.”
Foxwell, not at all interested, went as far as loyalty ordered, in
saying that, if occasion arose for his services in the matter, he would
act as duty required; and offering the spy the freedom of the estate in
the prosecution of inquiries. Filson, after a profound bow of
acknowledgment, handed Foxwell a written description of the rebel,
calling attention to his own name and address at the bottom of the
sheet; declared himself the other’s very humble servant, bowed as low as
before, and took his leave.
Foxwell glanced carelessly over the written description, and then thrust
it unfolded into his pocket. It had not power to drive from his mind the
vexatious subject already lodged there. He frowned and sighed, and took
an impatient turn up and down the room. Then, forcing his brow to
smoothness and the corners of his mouth to pleasantness, he returned to
his friends on the terrace.
“You laughed at me the other day, Foxwell,” said Lady Strange, as he
approached, “for telling you the place was haunted. But what do you say
now? The ghost has been seen again, in the old garden yonder; and not
only that same ghost—a man in a cloak—but a female figure as well.”
“Two female figures, the girl said,” corrected Mrs. Winter.
“Wonderful, most wonderful!” exclaimed Foxwell, smiling. “And whence
comes this news?”
“The keeper’s daughter has just told us,” said Rashleigh. “Her
sweetheart, it appears, was coming last night from the village to see
her, and took a short way through the fields into the park. ’Twas he saw
the three figures in the garden; and one of them, it seems, was like
that seen by the scullery-maid the other evening.”
“The scullery-maid?” said Foxwell. “I remember: I promised to question
her, but something put it out of my mind. Well, ’tis not too late: we’ll
catechize her now—and the keeper’s daughter, too.”
But the keeper’s daughter had gone home to the lodge, and the
examination was confined to the kitchen girl, who came to the summons as
much frightened as if she were brought, not to tell of a ghost, but to
face one. Foxwell and his visitors seated themselves in the hall to hear
her story, the other servants being excluded. By patient interrogation,
Foxwell contrived to elicit an account hardly more circumstantial than
Lady Strange had previously given him. The girl had pursued the cat with
the intention of employing it against the mice in the dormitory of the
maids. Drawn thus toward the garden, she had perceived the motionless
cloaked figure, which had stared at her in a strange, death-like manner.
It wore a sword, and she thought that in life “the gentleman might have
been a king’s officer,” though she could not say what made her think so.
The word “officer” seemed to touch some association in Foxwell’s mind.
His hand went to the pocket containing the paper Filson had given him,
and he showed a faint increase of interest in the few answers the girl
had yet to make. When he had dismissed her, he turned smilingly to his
guests:
“Well, we must avail ourselves of this ghost while it is in the humour
of haunting us. Kind fortune seems to have sent it for your
entertainment. What say you to a ghost-hunt?”
“How are ghosts usually hunted?” asked Rashleigh; “with hounds? beagles?
terriers?”
“No, that would not do,” said Foxwell, thoughtfully. “As we know where
it appears—for it has been seen twice in the sunken garden, according to
the evidence—we had best set a trap for it. What do you think, ladies?
It may help enliven the night for us.”
“I should dearly love to see a ghost,” said Lady Strange; “but what
manner of trap would you use? Sure such an insubstantial thing can’t be
held by any machine of wood and iron.”
“A trap composed of three or four stout fellows armed with cudgels,”
suggested Foxwell, “would doubtless serve to hold the creature till
Rashleigh and I could arrive with our swords.”
“But a ghost is like air, is it not?” said Lady Strange. “It can’t be
caught, or stopped, or even felt.”
“I have always suspected that a ghost that can be seen can be felt,
especially if it wears clothes,” replied Foxwell. “However it be, here
is an opportunity to settle the question,—if the ghost continues to
haunt the same place. We will set our trap this evening; if we catch
nothing, we’ll try again to-morrow; and so on, till something occurs, or
we grow tired. We had best tell nobody of our purpose: the ghost may
have accomplices. Pray let none of the servants know, but the men I
employ in the affair.”
He bestirred himself at once in preparations, glad of having found fresh
means, not only of distracting his own thoughts somewhat from the letter
in Squire Thornby’s possession, but also of blinding his guests to the
disturbance of mind which that matter still caused him.
His plans were simple. Choosing three men rather for stoutness of heart
than for stoutness of body, though they were not deficient in the latter
respect either, he instructed them to post themselves, while it was
still day, in well-concealed places at different sides of the garden.
Two, the gardener and the groom, were provided with cudgels, while the
keeper took a fowling-piece, which he was not to fire except in extreme
circumstances. At the appearance of the ghost in the garden, the keeper
was to utter a signal, whereupon Foxwell and his guests—who were to pass
the evening as usual at the card-table—would come forth as quietly as
possible, the gentlemen with their swords ready to enforce the
intruder’s surrender. Should the ghost attempt flight before the
gentlemen could arrive, the three servants were to close round him,
using their weapons only as a last resource, and after due warning—for
the ghost was probably a gentleman, and Foxwell would have it treated as
such. The three watchers were to go singly to their places of
concealment, entering the garden directly from a postern in the ruinous
eastern wing of the house, so that nobody outside of the garden itself
could see them.
“And is not the pretty pouting niece to be admitted to this sport?”
asked Rashleigh.
“By no means,” replied Foxwell, with a frown. “She has elected to keep
out of all our amusements, we can spare her company in this. If the
young prude finds satisfaction in holding aloof, for God’s sake let her
do so. She disapproves of so many things we do and say, ’tis very like
she would disapprove of this. Threatening a ghost with a cudgel,
egad!—she might take it into her head to play the spoil-sport—you know
the malice of excessive virtue.”
So nothing was spoken of the matter at dinner. This meal—which occurred
at the London hour, in the late afternoon—was now the only regular
occasion upon which Georgiana joined the company. For the passing of her
days, she had her books, the care of her wardrobe and apartments, her
music, drawing, embroidery, and walks—for she took these, though never
on the side of the house toward the park, lest Everell might risk his
safety by approaching her. She still met that gentleman each evening, at
a later hour now than at first; and he it was that occupied her thoughts
all the day, whatever the employment of her hands and feet. She
acknowledged to herself her love for him, and wondered, sometimes with
hope but oftener with deep misgiving, what the end would be. At times
she had a poignant sense of the danger he was in by remaining near her,
but she shrank even then from sending him away, for their separation
must be long and might be eternal. As deeply as he, though less
vehemently, did she lament the circumstances that compelled them to be
secret and brief in their meetings. She was by no means of that romantic
turn of mind which would have made the affair the more attractive for
being clandestine. People who do romantic things are not necessarily
people of romantic notions: it is a resolute fidelity to some cause or
purpose, that leads many a generous but matter-of-fact hero or heroine
into romantic situations. Indeed, is it ever otherwise with your true
hero and your true heroine? Are not the others but shams, or at best
poseurs? Georgiana followed courageously where love led; but because she
really loved, and not because the conditions were romantic: she was no
Lydia Languish—she would joyfully have dispensed with the romance.
On this particular evening, the conversation at dinner took a turn which
gave it a disquieting significance to her, though she bore no part in it
herself. Lady Strange had mentioned a certain young lord as having died
because he preferred his love to his life. Foxwell had politely laughed.
Lady Strange had somewhat offendedly stood by her assertion, whereupon
Foxwell had declared the thing unknown in nature. Mrs. Winter supported
him; but Rashleigh took his cousin’s side, saying, “What! no man ever
died for love, then? Surely there have been cases, Bob.”
“Men have been brought to death by their love-affairs, I grant you,”
said Foxwell, “but that is because circumstances arose which they had
not foreseen, and from which they could not escape. They have even
risked their lives to prosecute their amours, but _risking_ one’s life
upon fair odds is a vastly different thing from _deliberately offering_
it in exchange for the indulgence of one’s love. That is what my lady’s
words really mean: ‘preferring one’s love to one’s life.’ Such bargains
are mentioned in ancient history—as of the youth who, being deeply in
love with a queen, agreed to be slain at the end of a certain time if he
might pass that time as her accepted lover. Only such an act can really
be described as giving one’s life for love; and not the getting killed
unintentionally in some matter incident to a love-affair.”
“But men have killed themselves at the loss of the women they loved,”
urged Lady Strange. “There was Romeo, that Garrick plays so
beautifully.”
“’Tis the work of a poet who says in another place, ‘Men have died from
time to time, but not for love.’ When men kill themselves at the loss of
a woman, you will find they have lost other things as well—fortune and
reputation; or their wits, in drink.”
But Lady Strange held that a true lover would not hesitate to mortgage
his life for a season of love, if the latter could not be obtained by
any means at a lower price. “If he is young, and in love for the first
time,” added Rashleigh. But Foxwell and Mrs. Winter remained cynical,
and the latter became even derisive, so that the dispute grew warm on
the part of the two ladies, who did not disdain to colour their remarks
with sly personalities.
The discussion promised to be endless, and was still going on when
Georgiana left the table. Not unaffected by the allusions to fatal
consequences arising from dangerous love-affairs, she waited in her own
rooms till dusk, and then, attended by the faithful Prudence, stole
softly down the stairs, and along the terrace to the sunken garden.
------------------------------------------------------------------------