CHAPTER IV FUGITIVES

The slender young gentleman, after his swift survey of the surroundings, opened the door to the public dining-room.

“Come along, the place is empty,” he said, and, picking up one of the cloak-bags, stepped briskly into the room so recently vacated by Mr. Jeremiah Filson. “Thank God for a decent-looking inn!” he added, heartily, tossing his cloak-bag into a corner and dropping into a chair, where he began to hum:
“‘Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Char—’”

“Hush!” exclaimed his companion, who had followed with the other bag and closed the door. “Heaven’s sake, Charles, none of those songs!”

But Charles finished:
“‘—lie is my darling,—
The young Chevaleer,’”

and then answered, gaily: “Why not? We’re alone here?”

The face of the young man—the slender one, addressed by his comrade as Charles—was not only handsome, but pleasant and animated, being lighted by soft blue eyes. The nose was slightly aquiline, the other features regular. He wore his own hair; his old suit of blue velvet carried an appearance of faded elegance; his three-cornered hat still boasted some remnants of silver lace; he was in riding-boots, and a sword hung at his side.

His comrade, more broadly and squarely made in face as in body, a man serious and resolute in aspect, was similarly dressed, in clothes now in their decline but of a darker shade.

“Ay, alone here,” said he, putting his bag with the other’s, “but ’tis as well to leave off habits that may be dangerous. You might as easily break out into one of the old ditties in company as alone. I dare say nobody finds any harm in the mere singing of them; but ’tis apt to set people’s minds on certain matters, and we’d best not have them think of those matters in relation to us. We excite curiosity enough, I make no doubt.”

“Only your fancy, Will. Why should we excite more curiosity than any other two travellers?” said Charles. “What is so extraordinary in our appearance? Come, I’ve asked you a hundred times, and you can’t answer. Your constitutional prudence, your natural cautiousness, which you know I vastly admire and try to emulate—”

Will smiled at this.

“Those excellent traits of thine, dear lad,” Charles went on, “cause you to magnify things, or rather to transfigure them altogether, so that, if anybody looks at us, you see suspicion where there is really nothing but the careless curiosity of a moment. Where he says in his mind, ‘Strangers,’ you can almost hear him saying with his lips, ‘Jacobites.’”

“Hush! You may laugh as you please, Charles: prudence and caution, even carried to excess, are likelier to serve our turn than carelessness and boldness, till we are safe out of England.”

“Why, there again! You are more apprehensive a thousand times since we have crossed the border than you were during all the time in Scotland, all the hiding time, and the time of dodging enemies on the alert for us in every direction.”

“I confess it. As one nears the end of a difficult or dangerous business, one should be the more fearful of disaster. Think how it may turn to naught all the toils that have brought one so far. Never relax because the goal is in sight: if you trip at the last, and through your own folly, too, ’tis the more to be regretted.”

“All true, my dear Roughwood; and yet, for our peace of mind, ’tis comforting to think how much safer we really are in England than we were across the border. Nobody expects to find Jacobites on the highroads of England.”

“There have been far too many seen on the highroads of England lately,” said Roughwood, with a gloomy smile.

“Ah, yes, the poor fellows now at Carlisle and York,” replied Charles; “but Jacobites uncaught are a different matter. They are all thought to be skulking in the Highlands, the Duke of Cumberland’s soldiers closing nearer and nearer round them. Heaven send that the Prince may escape! Would that his chances were as good as ours! ’Tis probable every mile of the Scottish coast is patrolled by government vessels, as every foot of the Highlands is hunted over by regulars and militia—or will be hunted over, ere all is done. ’Twas high time we left our quarters among the rocks and heather, and a miracle of good luck that we slipped through the enemy’s lines and across the border. England is the safer land for us, and vastly easier to escape from by sea.”

Their talk was interrupted by the entrance of the landlady, who took their orders for dinner, after which meal they intended to resume their journey. When they were again alone, Charles continued:

“So, my dear lad, as I was about to say, let us be easy in our minds, put away apprehensions, and avoid suspicion by showing no expectation of it. Your mad resolve to come to England and see the beloved lady before you flee the kingdom, turns out to be the wisest course we could have taken.”

“Wise or mad, my dear Everell,” said Will Roughwood, “I’d have taken it at any risk.”

“And wise or mad,” said Everell, gaily, “I’d have followed you at any risk—for company’s sake, to say no more. But indeed there’s less risk for me than you. Very few people in England know my face: ever since boyhood, my life has been spent abroad, until I joined the Prince. ’Tis different with you, who were brought up almost entirely within the two kingdoms. Egad, there’s the advantage I derive from my father having been the complete Jacobite—one of those who, for all their love of country, preferred exile in order to be at the centre of the plotting.” The young man smiled to think how all that plotting for a second Stuart restoration had come to naught.

“There’s chance of recognition for you, too,” said Roughwood. “Consider how many people saw you when we invaded these Northern counties last year. And consider those of our own party who have turned traitor, buying their lives by informing against their comrades. And we are in constant danger of encountering men who fought against us, like that fellow we dodged so narrowly yesterday.”

“Oh, he and I had our particular reasons for remembering each other,” said Everell, touching the scar on his cheek. “’Tis not in chance that we should run across him again. One such coincidence is remarkable enough.”

“Who can tell? In any case, he is not the only soldier of the enemy who would remember us. We are like to fall in with more; and ’tis of such, as all accounts agree, that most of the witnesses are, who have testified at Carlisle and York.”

“Well, then, such are to be looked for in Carlisle and York at present, except those who are in London for the like purpose. We have given Carlisle a wide berth, we will steer clear of York, and we’ll not go to London. And it may be that those of the enemy who remember us are still with the army in Scotland, hunting down our comrades.”

Roughwood smiled at his friend’s habitual power of seeing the favourable possibilities and ignoring the adverse; and could not help wondering that fortune had brought him unscathed through so many hazards in all the months of flight and concealment since that fatal day of defeat in the wind and snowfall on Culloden Moor.

“You’ll run into trouble yet, I’m fearing,” said Roughwood, with solicitude and affection in his smile.

“As for mere busybodies here in England,” Charles Everell continued, apparently bent upon disposing of every class from which discovery might be possible; “people to whom the idea of fugitive Jacobites might occur at this time, they will not look to find officers travelling openly as gentlemen. They will suppose that fugitives of our quality, if any fled into England at all, would come disguised. Going boldly in the dress and manner of gentlemen, wearing swords and showing no secrecy, how can we excite suspicion? We have nothing to fear but some unlucky chance meeting, like that we galloped away from yesterday; and the same accident is not like to befall us again.”

“But if that fellow who recognized you should have taken it into his head to hound us?”

“Is he likely to have put himself to the trouble? Doubtless he has his own affairs to pursue. Be that as it may, we got rid of him easily enough by spurring our horses and turning out of the road at the next byway; and, if forced to it, we can do so again.”

“We may not have the same advantage again. If there had been anybody at hand yesterday, I am sure he would have called out and denounced us. I don’t forget his look when he first saw us, as he stood in front of that wayside ale-house. He was about touching his hat to us as we rode up, when he beheld your face. His hand remained fixed in the air, and he stared as if you had been the devil. Then he glanced wildly around, and in at the ale-house door; he was certainly looking to see if help was in call.”

“’Twas a question for an instant whether I should run my sword through him,” said Everell, “but thank God such impulses never prevail with me. So I merely decided not to stop at that house of refreshment, and gave my horse the spur. And you were good enough to follow without question, which speaks well for your wisdom and my own, my dear Will. Always do so, and we shall always have similar good fortune in escaping the perils that beset us.”

“I would I knew what our guide thought of the incident, and of our bribing him to let his horses come so far out of the way.”

“He thought merely as I told him, no doubt:—in the first case, that my horse bolted, and that I took it as an omen against stopping there; in the second, that we really had a friend whose house we thought to find by turning out of the way. But whatever he may have thought, he was a mum fellow, and doubtless went to bed as soon as we arrived at last night’s inn; therefore he probably had no speech with the lad who took his place this morning.”

“Well, well,” said Roughwood, smilingly resigning himself to the other’s sense of security, “I hope your confidence will be justified to the end of the journey. But when we come to my own county, where I am well known, there indeed we must needs go warily.”

“Why, then, of course, we shall stir only by night,” said Everell. “And we shall not tarry long, if all goes well.”

“Only till I can see her,” replied his friend, in a voice low with sadness and tenderness. A brief silence fell between the two young men, till Roughwood added, “One last meeting! And then to part,—for how long, God knows!”

“Oh, you may come back to England safely in two or three years. When the government has made examples enough, there will be a general pardon; or at worst a Jacobite may slink back and his presence be winked at. So much if our cause be never revived; if it be revived, we may be able to come back openly enough.”

Roughwood shook his head. “’Twill never be revived to any purpose. We can never rally a larger force than we had this time; yet one can see plainly now how vain our hopes were from the first. No, ’twas a dream, a dream. The house of Hanover is firmly established in these kingdoms: the star of the Stuarts is set. If a general pardon is ever granted us, it will be for that reason,—because we can do no harm. But, meanwhile, ’tis the day of punishment, and we must look to our necks. After I have seen her, we have only to find Budge, and lie hid till he happens to be sailing.”

The arrival of a maid with their dinner put a stop for the time to this kind of conversation, in which they but reviewed their situation as they had done a score of times within the past few days. They had ordered frugally, out of respect to the state of their common purse, which they counted upon to carry them to the place near which lived both Roughwood’s affianced wife—with whom it was his hope to exchange assurances of faith and devotion ere he fled his native country—and the master of a certain vessel, upon whom he relied for their conveyance across the channel. Roughwood had relations at this place, but, as they sympathized not with his Jacobitism, which he had acquired through his Scottish kin, he considered it imprudent to seek a further supply of money from them. Once in France, however, he could communicate in safety with his sources of maintenance. As for Everell, the modest but sufficient fortune he inherited from his Jacobite father had long been placed in France, and would be at his command as soon as he reached Paris. The young men were now travelling upon the remainder of the gold with which both had fortunately been supplied a few days before the battle of Culloden. They had not had occasion to spend money during the months of concealment immediately following upon the total defeat of their cause at that contest, their hiding-place—first a “bothy” and afterwards a cave—having been on the estate of a Highland gentleman who shared in their seclusion, and by whose adherents he and they were fed.

To this comrade in defeat they owed also the clothes they now wore, as they had considered it better advised to appear as ordinary gentlemen in their journey through England, than to use a disguise which it would require some acting to carry off. Having lived a part of his time in the great world, this Highland laird was possessed of a considerable wardrobe besides that limited to the national dress, and in order to furnish out his two friends he had risked with them a secret visit by night to his own mansion, which was under the intermittent watch of government troops. The gentleman was of a build rather lighter than Roughwood and stouter than Everell, so that his loosest set of garments was not impossible of wear to the former, and his tightest did not hang too limply on the body of the latter. Discarding entirely their battle-worn and earth-soiled clothes for these, and otherwise altering and augmenting their equipment at their friend’s expense, the two fugitives had, by travelling at night and making a carefully planned dash at the most critical point, put themselves outside of the region surrounded by the Duke of Cumberland’s forces. Thereafter they had dared to move by day, hiring horses; and either Everell’s boldness or Roughwood’s caution, or both, had carried them so far without other adverse chance than the meeting with the man who remembered Everell from their encounter at Culloden. Being without passports, they had avoided every place where troops were said to be stationed, and in crossing the border they had kept to the moors instead of the roads: for their eccentric manner of travelling, their invention was equal to such pretexts as the curiosity of horse-boys and others might require.

When the servant left them to their dinner, they reverted to their former subject, talking as they ate.

“’Tis all plain sailing, to my sight,” said Everell, cheerfully, “until we entrust our precious bodies to the care of your friend the smuggler.”

“I’ll warrant Budge to be true stuff,” replied Roughwood, confidently. “He would risk his cutter to save my neck. We used to play with his children on the cliffs, he and I.—And now I shall be looking on those cliffs for the last time, perhaps,—and on England! Well, ’tis the fate of losers in the game of rebellion.” He made no attempt to restrain the sigh this melancholy reflection evoked.

“Tut, tut, lad!” protested Everell, with unfeigned lightness of heart; “take my word for it, a man can live out of England. What is it Shakespeare says, that my father used to quote when our fellow-countrymen visiting us would commiserate our exile? ‘There’s livers out of Britain.’ And that speech of Coriolanus, too: ‘I turned my back upon my native city and found a world elsewhere.’ ’Twould surprise some Englishmen to be convinced of it, I know, but indeed there is a world elsewhere. ’Tis a lovely country, Britain, I grant you, and would be my choice for living in, when all’s said and done, but—there’s livers out of it.”

“You talk as if ’twere only the leaving England,” said the other, with a sorrowful smile.

Everell was silent a moment, gazing at his friend as if to make out some sort of puzzle which had repeatedly baffled him. “Sure, ’tis more than I can understand,” he said, at last. “For that lady I have the profound respect and admiration which your own regard for her declares her due; for every lady who merits them I have respect and admiration: but this power of love, as I see it manifested in you! Give me leave, on the score of our friendship, to confide that it astonishes me. How a man can fret his soul over a woman, be miserable at the idea of parting from her, risk his life for a meeting with her—for though we find it the safer course now, it was risking our lives to make that dash through the enemy’s lines and across the lowlands—”

“Yet you risked yours readily enough for mere friendship’s sake,” said Roughwood, breaking in upon the parenthesis, and so wrecking the sentence for ever.

“For friendship’s sake, yes!—brave comradeship, good company!—indeed, yes, and who would not? But for love of a girl!—why, ’tis worthy of Don Quixote! Forgive me: I speak only my mind.”

“Lad, lad, what is friendship in comparison with love of a girl—real love of a girl? You’ll sing another tune some day.”

“Never! I can assure you, never. I know not what the disease is, of which you speak. Certainly I’m now old enough to have had it if I ever was to be attacked.—Not that I don’t admire the beauty of women, and commend them for their gentleness,—when they are gentle,—and compassionate their weakness as I do that of children, and find pleasure in their smiling faces, and soft eyes, and tender blushes. I can take joy enough in the society of a pretty creature when it falls my lot, and count it among the other amenities of life. I value the grace and goodness that high-minded women diffuse in this rough world. I can be happy with sensible women, and amuse myself with light ones. But as to being what you call in love, I have not fallen into that strange condition, and I can promise you I never shall. ’Tis not in my constitution.”

“The day will come, and the disease be all the worse for being late, as is the case with other ailments delayed beyond the usual time.”

“No, sir: and as for hazarding life for love of a woman, I must tell you I put a higher value upon life than that implies. You understand me—for love of a woman. To save a woman in danger, to serve a woman in any way, is a different matter. But merely to participate in the absurdities of love, to exchange assurances and go through the rest of the comedy,—will you have me believe ’tis worth staking such a gift as life for? Pretty odds, egad!—life against love! Love, which is at most an incident, against life, which is everything and includes all incidents! Love, against the possibilities of who knows how many years! My dear Will!—and yet you say I am rash.”

“I am glad to find you a convert to a sense of the value of life,” laughed Will.

“Why, you don’t think I have held life cheap because I have sometimes ventured it perhaps without much hesitation? Be sure I have always known what I was doing. There has always been, as there is now, a good chance of winning through. I have not lagged behind the boldest in a fight, ’tis true—”

“Except in a retreat.”

“Ah, well, it broke my heart to fly from the field at Culloden. When I thought of the Prince and his hopes—when I perceived that all was ended in the whirling snow of that bleak day—I forgot myself. For a moment life did seem of little worth; not that I ever had the cause so much at heart, but ’twas a sad end of a brave adventure, and I felt what was passing in the Prince’s mind. I tarried for a last stroke of protest, and a pity it is it fell on no better object than a dog whose only business on the field was plunder,—for I don’t think that fellow was a true soldier; ’twas by fool’s luck he pinked me with his bayonet.—But, deuce take it, where was I? Ah, yes. If I’ve been venturesome now and again, I have never felt that the danger was more than my arm and eye were equal to,—and that’s not rashness, Will. A man is a fool who doesn’t hold life precious. If it isn’t precious, what’s the merit in risking it for a good cause? There are so many fine things to see and do when one is alive, ’tis sheer lunacy to place them all in the balance against a trifle. As for the satisfaction of looking on a pretty face for a greater or less space of time,—no, ’tis not enough.”

“Wait till you see the right face, dear lad,” said Roughwood, quietly.

“When I do, dear lad, you shall hear of it.”

Upon this speech, blithely uttered, Everell filled their two glasses with wine from the single bottle they had ordered. The young men were about to pledge each other, when the sudden opening of the door caused them to look sharply in that direction, holding their glasses midway between table and lips. A young lady came in with quick steps. At sight of the gentlemen, she stopped at once, and looked sweetly embarrassed. Everell and Roughwood rose to their feet, and bowed.

“Your pardon, sirs,” said the intruder. “I was—I wanted to see Prudence.” Her confusion, to which was due the strangeness of this remark, became all the greater on her perceiving that strangeness, and she blushed deeply.

“Prudence?” echoed Everell, politely. “If you mean a lady of that name, we have not seen her here.”

“She is my waiting-woman,” explained Georgiana. “I didn’t expect to find her in this room. She is in the kitchen, no doubt, so I thought of coming to this room and ringing the bell. I thought there might be nobody here, but I see I intrude.”

“Not in the least,” said Everell, earnestly. “You arrive just in time to provide us with a toast. To those sweet eyes!”

He was about to drink, when the new wave of crimson that swept over her face at this tenderly spoken praise of her visual organs engendered a sudden abashment in Everell. “I have been too bold, perhaps,” he said, in a kind of vague alarm. “If so, I entreat your pardon, madam.”

She looked at him with undisguised interest, and said, slowly, “I know not. If you are bold, there seems a respect in your boldness,—a gentleness and a consideration—” She stopped short, as having gone too far. A slight quiver of the lip, and a certain note of resentment in her last words, combined with the words themselves, conveyed a message to his quick wit.

“Madam, some one has offended you,” he said, instantly setting down his wine, and walking toward her and the door. “Where is the person?”

She raised her hand to check him, frightened at having created the possibility of a scene. “Nay, ’tis nothing! Stay, I beg you, sir!”

“Who could be ungentle to one who is all gentleness?” cried Everell. “It must have occurred but now—they must be near—in this inn. In what room? Pray tell me.”

“’Twas nothing, sir, I assure you. I spoke in a moment of foolish vexation. I was merely annoyed at their talk. I had no right to be—no offence was meant.”

“People should be careful that offence is not given, as well as not meant. They should be chastised for their carelessness, if for nothing more.”

“Nay, it is not to be heard of. Two of them are of my own sex, and another is my relation. I had no real cause to be angry. The fault is all mine, indeed. I have been much in the wrong to leave them so rudely,—and more in the wrong to speak of the matter to a stranger. Pray forget all I have said, sir,—pray do, as you are a gentleman.”

He had been on the point of answering at the end of each sentence, but her rapidity of speech prevented. She stopped now, with a look that continued her appeal and besought an assurance.

“As I am a gentleman,” said Everell, “I will obey your least command—or your greatest. But as I am a gentleman, I would not have you consider me as a stranger. I grant we have never met before; but such true and gentle eyes as yours make friends of all who are privileged to see them. As for my own deserts, I can plead only the respect and tenderness your looks compel. Believe me, nothing in the suddenness of this meeting can make me act lightly toward you, or think lightly of you, if you will do me the honour to count me among your friends. My name is—”

A loud “hem” from Roughwood, who had been looking on with astonishment at his friend’s earnest and precipitate demonstration of regard, made Everell stop short. Georgiana, who had listened and gazed with a bewilderment that had something exceedingly novel and pleasant in it, was at a loss how to fill the pause with speech or act. She stood feeling quite incapable and delighted; but her face betrayed nothing unusual except wonder, which very well became it. Everell, however, did not leave her long suspended. With a smile at his own predicament, he resumed:

“Egad, I have a choice of names to tell, madam. For certain reasons, I don’t parade my true name at present.—And yet why not in this case? I wouldn’t deal in falsehood even so slight, with one whose looks declare—”

But Georgiana had suddenly recalled her wits to their duty, and they had promptly informed her how the world would expect a young lady to comport herself in such a situation. She quietly interrupted:

“Nay, sir, I haven’t asked your name, and there is no need you should tell it, as we are not likely to meet again. I thank you for your willingness to befriend me, and your offer of service.—There is one thing you may do for me, if you will.”

The dejected look that had come over Everell’s face flashed into eagerness, and he started forward. “Name it, madam!”

Georgiana smiled, but said as sweetly as possible, to compensate in some measure for the disappointment she foresaw too late, “If you will pull the bell-rope yonder, I shall be very grateful—most grateful.”

Everell’s looks groaned for him, and he was too far taken down to move. Roughwood laughed gently, and after a moment, as he was nearer the bell-rope, went toward it. This restored Everell to animation.

“Nay, Will, ’tis my affair!” he cried, and, stepping between his friend and the rope, gave it so earnest a pull, with such a flourish, that anybody must have marvelled to see how serious and magnificent a performance the pulling of a bell-rope could be made.

Georgiana thanked him, and stood smiling, with nothing more to say. Everell found himself afflicted with a similar lack, or confusion, of ideas, as well as from inability to take his eyes off the young lady. She sought relief from his gaze by walking to the window. Presently the maid appeared, in response to the bell.

“Tell my waiting-woman to come to me,” said Georgiana. The maid having gone, another space of embarrassment ensued, until Georgiana was fain to break the silence by an ill-simulated cough. This was followed by a profound sigh on the part of Everell, who had indeed never been so tongue-tied in his life. Roughwood meanwhile stood witnessing with amusement. He was not the sort of man to come to the rescue at such junctures in any case, being of a reserved disposition, and he was certainly not inclined to pity the discomposure of his gay and confident friend.

At last Prudence made her appearance, with officious haste and solicitude. “What is it, your la’ship?” Seeing the gentlemen, she turned her glance upon them before her mistress could answer. “Oh, lor!” she cried, and stood stock-still, staring open-mouthed at Everell.

“Prudence! what do you mean?” said Georgiana.

“Oh, lor!” repeated the girl. “The gentleman with the heart! Under his right eye, too! The very place!”

“Prudence, what impertinence! Have you lost your senses?—Sir, I beg pardon for the poor girl. I don’t know what she means, but no harm, I’m certain.”

“Oh, mistress, your la’ship, come away!” begged Prudence, and, taking hold of Georgiana’s sleeve, essayed to draw her from the room. In astonishment, and hope of learning the cause of this extraordinary conduct, Georgiana made a brief curtsey to the gentlemen, and followed the maid out to the passage, where she bade her explain herself. But Prudence was not content till she had led her mistress into the opposite entry and partly up the stairs, whither it was impossible for the gaze of the two gentlemen to reach them.

Everell, quite heedless of the maid’s behaviour, had started forward with a stifled exclamation of protest when Georgiana had moved to leave them. He had stopped before arriving at the door, of course; and now that she had disappeared from view across the passage, he turned to Roughwood with a forlorn countenance. Roughwood, however, was in no mood for either sympathy or rallying. Prudence’s demonstration had worked its full effect upon him, and his brow was now grave with concern.

“Did you ever see such angelic sweetness, such divine gentleness?” asked Everell.

“Did you attend to what her waiting-woman said?” replied Roughwood, rather sharply.

“Something about my heart, or my eye, was it not? Sure, my heart may well have been in my eyes, when they looked on that lovely creature.”

“She was noticing the scar on your face. She has heard you described, no doubt. News of us has travelled along the road. ’Tis the work of the fellow we saw yesterday, I dare say. How often did I beg you to cover that scar with a patch?”

“Pshaw, you always see the worst possibility. The boy with the horses has been talking of us in the kitchen, that’s all. He has invented some wild tale of us, as those people do of their masters and employers.”

“We had best order fresh horses, and pay the reckoning; and meanwhile finish our wine—it may be some time before we think it safe to stop long at another inn.”

He stepped toward the bell-rope, but Everell again intervened, with the words:

“Nay, if any report of us has gone about, a hasty departure is the very thing to confirm suspicion. Nothing in haste:—my dear Will, how often have I heard you give that good counsel.”

“There will be no apparent haste. We have dined without hurry.”

Everell sighed, and looked toward the door. His face brightened.

“But if we wait here awhile, we may—don’t you know—perhaps we can—we may learn why that waiting-woman cried out at the sight of my scar,—for, look you, if we should meet the mistress again, no doubt, if it is something harmless—”

“At least,” said Roughwood, firmly, “I will ring and give orders and pay. Even if you still feel inclined to tarry, there’s no harm in being ready to go.”

Everell could not reasonably dispute this, but he was so little inclined to take a hand in anything implying an immediate departure, that he left all to his friend, and sat looking through the open door while Roughwood gave orders and paid the landlady. Nothing occurred to reward his watch during the first few minutes that passed while horses were being made ready. He took up the glass that Roughwood gently pushed to his hand, and drank down the wine half-consciously. He dreaded to see the horses appear, knowing that his comrade must have his way, and that he should probably never again behold the vision that had suddenly gladdened his sight and warmed his heart.

But meanwhile there had been activity in the yard, and now there was a great stamping of hoofs and rattling of harness, accompanied by the ejaculations peculiar to men who have to do with horses. Roughwood went to the door and looked toward the yard.

“’Tis a coach-and-six making ready to depart,” he said. “And there’s a post-chaise, too. We are not the only people who are about to leave this inn.”

Everell was by his side in an instant. No doubt, then, the young lady would be leaving. A fat coachman was on the box of the private vehicle, and the postilion was in readiness to mount before the chaise, but the passengers of neither were yet visible. There came, however, from across the passage the sound of well-bred voices, in easy, half-jesting tones, and then appeared a sumptuously charming lady on the arm of a handsome, discontented-looking gentleman; a second couple, not as distinguished in appearance; and the young lady who had so fired Everell’s fancy. The party moved toward the conveyances, Georgiana having no share in their mirthful talk. She had cast a quick glance at the two young gentlemen while her face was toward them, but had given no sign of acquaintance. A second procession, consisting of the waiting-women and men servants with the smaller impedimenta, followed in the footsteps of the gentlefolk, and Georgiana’s figure was almost lost to view in the crowd about the carriages, which was now swelled by the people of the inn.

“Which way can they be going? Who is she? If I could but learn where she lives!” said Everell.

“The knowledge would serve you little at present, I fear,” replied Roughwood.

“Those are the people whose talk offended her. One is her relation, she said. By Jupiter, I must find out!”

Ere his friend could stop him Everell had started for the yard, as if upon his own business, with some general idea of questioning the inn folk. Going near the travellers, he heard the two strange ladies and one of the gentlemen discussing how the party should be divided between the coach and the chaise. The taller gentleman was speaking to the landlady. The word “baggage” caught Everell’s ear, and he stood still.

“There are three trunks following by the wagon,” the gentleman was saying, “to be left here. You will have Timmins the carter fetch them to Foxwell Court immediately.”

Everell needed to hear no more. The party was evidently bound for Foxwell Court, which must be near if the baggage following thus far by regular wagon was to be conveyed the rest of the way by a local carter. And of course the place must be off the route of the stage-wagons—that is to say, off the great highway. Three trunks would have been small luggage for so numerous a party of such quality; but Everell saw baggage on the coach, as well. This, in fact, belonged to Lady Strange and her party. That about which he had heard directions given was of Georgiana and her uncle.

Everell was on the edge of the little crowd, and he turned about to look toward the midst of it, where he had last caught a glimpse of the young lady. To his wonder, he now beheld her close in front of him, her eyes meeting his.

“‘SAVE YOURSELF,’ SHE WHISPERED, RAPIDLY. ‘YOU ARE IN DANGER HERE.’”

“Save yourself,” she whispered, rapidly. “You are in danger here. A man is up-stairs who is hunting you—one Jeremiah Filson. For heaven’s sake, fly while you may!”

Before he could answer, she had slipped back through the crowd, and was in her former place, near the two older ladies. The attention of the lesser folk was upon the London people, who were concerned only with one another, and the tall gentleman was still engaged with the woman of the inn. No one had observed Georgiana.