ROADS
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?”
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