PROPOSALS
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.
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