TEARS
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?”
[Illustration: “‘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?”
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