CHAPTER X WAGERS

The conversation just related took place in a passage where the two men kept watch outside the room in which Everell was temporarily confined. It was a small chamber with an iron-barred window, and the Jacobite sat gazing into the flame of a candle on the mantelpiece, while his fate was being discussed in the drawing-room. He was still under the restraint of the cords, which, like that of lock and key, was warranted by his persistent refusal to give his word that he would not escape. The master of the house had personally seen, however, that the prisoner’s surroundings were made as endurable as the necessities of the case allowed.

“So this,” said Foxwell, as he then rejoined his guests in the drawing-room, “is what lay behind our Georgiana’s prudery. How the deuce could she have met the Jacobite?”

“The question is,” said Rashleigh, “what the deuce are you going to do with the Jacobite?”

“I wish I knew,” replied Foxwell, looking at the document presented to him by Jeremiah Filson. “’Tis clear enough what our duty is, as loyal subjects, and so forth.”

“’Twere a pity such a lovable fellow should be thrown to the hangman,” said Mrs. Winter.

“A thousand pities,” said Lady Strange. “And so loving a fellow, too! If ever a man had a true lover’s look!—well, to be sure, the little Georgiana is a pretty thing, but—”

“But the young blade might look higher if he had better taste—is that what you were thinking, Diana?” asked Mrs. Winter, with ironical artlessness.

“No such thing, neither!” said Lady Strange, indignantly. “I admire him for his constancy—for I warrant he is constant to her, and will be constant to her; and I wouldn’t have him else, not for the world. Thank Heaven, I am above envy.”

A slight emphasis upon the I—so slight as scarce to seem intended—was perhaps what drew from the other lady the answer:

“Don’t be too sure of the young fellow’s constancy. You know, Diana dear, you always have been somewhat credulous of men’s constancy—’tis your own fidelity makes you trustful, of course.”

“Doubt as much as you like, Isabella: we are all aware you have particular reasons to complain of men’s fickleness.”

Feeling that the preservation of the peace required an immediate diversion, Rashleigh broke in with the first remark that occurred to him as appropriate:

“Certainly this young man is a lover who has risked his life for the sake of love.”

“Ay, and that proves you and I were right at dinner, Cousin Rashleigh!” cried Lady Strange.

“Hardly so, my lady,” said Foxwell. “This young gentleman merely risked his life in coming to meet his beloved. He by no means counted surely upon losing it: his active endeavours to escape prove that. Mrs. Winter’s contention, which I supported, was that no man would deliberately give his life for the sake of love—by which I mean the passion of love, itself, apart from pity or duty or other consideration. Now, had this gentleman come to meet his beloved, knowing certainly that death awaited him in consequence, then indeed he would have proved your assertion.”

“Well, and how do you know he wouldn’t have done so, if the circumstances had required?” asked Lady Strange. “For my part, I believe he would.”

“Provided, of course,” added Rashleigh, “that by failing to meet her he might lose her for all time.”

“That is implied, certainly,” said Foxwell. “The alternative we are imagining is: Death for love gratified—life for love renounced.”

“Catch a fellow of his years and looks choosing death on any such terms, if the choice were offered him,” said Mrs. Winter, derisively.

“’Tis precisely his youth that would make him give all for love,” said Rashleigh; “the more so if this be his first serious love.—But what is to be his fate, Bob? If you hand him over to the authorities, he will certainly be hanged, unless that paper lies.”

“Egad, I was just thinking,” replied Foxwell, with the faint smile that comes with a piquant idea; “an Italian duke, a century or two ago, would have amused his visitors, and settled the point of our dispute, by putting this young gentleman to the test. I must say, experiments upon the human passions have an interest, though the loggish minds of our countrymen don’t often rise to such refinements of curiosity.”

“I see nothing in it to balk at,” said Rashleigh. “At the worst, the young man can but die, as he must if you do your plain duty as a loyal subject. ’Twould really be giving him a chance for his life. It seems an excellent way out of your own indecision as to what you should do with him: you transfer his fate from your will to his.”

“I believe he does love the girl,” said Foxwell, revolving the notion in his mind. “And certainly his life is in my power—we may let him go if we choose, and the government be none the wiser, or we may dutifully hand him over to the law. We can offer him, on the one hand, his life and freedom if he will give up his love upon the instant and for ever, not to set eyes upon the girl again: on the other hand, a brief period of grace, which he may pass with her on the footing of a favoured suitor, on condition of handing him over to the authorities at the end.”

“And if he decline to choose?” asked Rashleigh.

“Then I can send word straightway to Jeremiah Filson to fetch the officers. In that event, young Troilus will lose both life and love. Either choice will be a gain upon that.—But you may save your pity, Lady Strange: he will choose to live and go free, depend on it.”

“I will not depend on it. He will obey the dictates of his love, and choose death rather than never see her again.”

“Indeed, I shall not be surprised if he does so,” said Rashleigh. “You take too little account of his youth, Bob. When men are of his age, and of an ardent nature, their love shuts out everything else from their view. ’Tis their universe. Beyond it, or apart from it, there’s nothing.”

“Fudge and nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Winter. “He will prefer to run away and live to love another day.”

“We shall see,” cried Lady Strange, “if Bob will really put it to the test. I’m so sure of the man, I’ll lay five guineas he will choose love and death.”

“Well, my lady, I’ll take your wager,” said Foxwell. “Your five guineas will be a cheap price for the lesson, that we men are not such devoted creatures as you do us the honour to suppose.”

“Never fear my doing you that honour, Foxwell. But thank you for taking the wager. I’m dying of curiosity to see how the young fellow will receive the proposal.”

“There is no need you should linger in suspense,” replied Foxwell, pulling the bell. “Let us have the matter out now, while we’re in the humour.”

Taking up his sword, for use only in case of some desperate attempt on the prisoner’s part, Foxwell stationed himself at the door of the room, whence he could see across the hall and up the passage to the place of confinement. He then sent Caleb to request, in terms of great politeness, Mr. Everell’s company in the drawing-room, whither he was to be attended, of course, by the two men now guarding him.

While Caleb was upon this errand, it was possible for Foxwell both to keep eyes on the passage and to talk with his friends.

“Will you bet five guineas against me, too, Bob?” asked Rashleigh.

“Nay, I’ll do that,” put in Mrs. Winter, quickly, “and five more, if you like.”

“Done—ten guineas,” said Rashleigh.

“Good!” cried Mrs. Winter. “I believe I know how far a man is capable of going for love’s sake—even when young and of an ardent nature.”

“For all your talk,” answered Rashleigh, with barefaced affability, “you’ll not make me believe you’ve never found a man who would face death for love of you.”

“I may have found some who said they would,” replied Mrs. Winter, complacently swallowing the flattery despite all her sophistication, “but that’s a different thing. Let us see how this Romeo comes out of the test.”

“How are you going to put the matter to him, Foxwell?” asked Lady Strange.

“Leave it to me,” was the reply. “Either he shall go free and never see her again, or he shall be our guest here for a stipulated time, and then be given up. The only question is, how long shall that time be?”

“A day,” suggested Mrs. Winter.

“Cruel!—a month,” said Lady Strange.

“I cannot have him on my hands so long,” said Foxwell. “Say a week. Shall the wagers stand, on that condition?”

Rashleigh made no objection, and the two ladies were brought to a hasty acceptance of the compromise by Foxwell placing his finger on his lip in warning of the prisoner’s approach.

Everell came as rapidly as the restraint upon his motions would allow; and stopped as soon as he had entered the room, to avoid proceeding farther with his shuffling steps before the company. Foxwell had a chair placed for him. Caleb and the two other men were ordered to stand ready outside the door, which was then closed. Foxwell sat down near the ladies and Rashleigh, so that the Jacobite now found himself confronted by four pairs of eyes, which paid him the compliment of a well-bred regard vastly different in its effect from the rude stare of the vulgar. His own glance had swiftly informed him that Georgiana was not present.

He sat with undissembled curiosity as to what this interview might unfold. He had obeyed the summons with alacrity, eager to be informed of what was to come. He was neither defiant nor crushed; exhibited neither sullenness nor bravado. In the solitude of his place of detention, he had been tormented with the reproach of having brought trouble upon Georgiana; and he had been sobered and humbled by the knowledge that at last his rashness had laid him by the heels. What could he say to Roughwood now, if that wise friend were there to see the fulfilment of his warnings? But these feelings did not banish hope. Everell’s nature was still buoyant. He was, at least, under the same roof with Georgiana. Death seemed far away: he scarcely thought of it as the natural sequel to his situation. He now looked with frank inquiry at the face of his principal captor for enlightenment as to what was intended concerning him.

“Sir, I have solicited this meeting,” began Foxwell, “in order to discuss our positions—yours and my own. My friends were witnesses to the occurrence by which you fell into my—that is to say, by which you became my guest. They know why I felt bound to detain you, and they will share my confidence to the end of the affair. It would, of course, be their right—perhaps their duty as loyal subjects—to act independently in the interests of Government, if I chose not to act so. But they have agreed to abide by my course, whatever that shall be. So it is well, I think, that they should be present at this interview.”

“I am far from making the least objection, sir,” said Everell, bowing to the ladies and regarding the whole company with an amiable though expectant composure.

“You are aware, of course,” Foxwell continued, “of what will follow if I give you up to the nearest justice. Perhaps you may not know that one Jeremiah Filson is actively concerning himself about you in this neighbourhood on behalf of the Government. He has caused a warrant to be issued against you, he is circulating descriptions which show him to be an accurate and thorough observer.” Foxwell put his hand upon the paper which Rashleigh had laid on the table. “He waits only for news of your whereabouts, to bring the constables upon you. He will be one of the witnesses against you, and the other, I believe, is now at York or Carlisle—I know not which, but the judges have been trying and sentencing your unlucky comrades by the score, gentlemen as well as the lower orders.”

As Foxwell paused, Everell, for want of knowing what better reply to make, answered in a half-smiling manner, though his heart was beating rather faster than usual:

“Sir, I have nothing to say to this—except that ’tis a pity so many poor fellows should die for being on the losing side. Nor do I own that I am the man you think.”

“Too many circumstances leave me no doubt on that point, sir,” said Foxwell, with a serenity which showed the hopelessness of any contest on the ground of identity. “’Tis in your power and right certainly to deny and temporize; but, if you choose to tire me by those methods, I have only to deliver you up at once.”

There was something in the speaker’s quiet voice and cold eyes that gave the whole possibility—trial, sentence, the end—a reality and nearness it had never had in Everell’s mind before. He was startled into a gravity he had not previously felt.

“But,” Foxwell went on, “if you choose that we shall understand each other, there is a chance for your life—a condition upon which you may have immediate liberty.”

Everell looked frankly grateful. The form of death assigned to traitors and rebels, with its dismal preliminaries and circumstances, had not allured him the brief while he had contemplated it. It wore a vastly different aspect from that of a glorious end in the self-forgetfulness of battle. “Immediate liberty?” he repeated, with some eagerness.

“With my warranty,” continued Foxwell, “that neither my friends, nor myself, nor my servants shall pursue you, or give information against you, or in any manner hinder your departure from this country—”

“Sir,” Everell broke in, “I should be an ingrate not to be moved by such generosity—you are worthy to be her kinsman!—”

“Upon the single condition—” went on Foxwell, without any change of manner.

“Ah, yes; conditions are but reasonable,” said Everell.

“The single condition,” said Foxwell, “that you will never again, during the whole length of your life, see or communicate with my niece:—and for this you will give me your word of honour.”

“Never—see her—again?” said Everell, faintly, gazing at Foxwell as if unsure of having heard aright.

“Upon your word of honour,” replied Foxwell, who did not alter either his attitude of easy grace nor his tone of courteous nonchalance during the interview; “but, indeed, as a part of the condition, you will leave this neighbourhood at once. That will be for the comfort of all of us concerned, as well as for your own safety. If, after twenty-four hours, you are seen hereabouts, or in this county, I shall be freed of my obligation: in that event, beware of Jeremiah Filson and the justice’s men. And, in the meantime, my niece will be inaccessible. I will make it my care to see that she is soon married, so there will be no hope for you in that quarter. But as the old ballad says that love will find out the way,—though I greatly doubt the possibility in this case,—I must, nevertheless, make doubly sure by requiring, as I have said, your word of honour that you will never of your own intention see or address her, directly or indirectly, in this world. That is all, I think.”

“It is too much that you ask!” cried Everell. “Your condition is too hard—I can’t accept it—no, sir, I cannot.”

“Yet if I hand you over to the law straightway,” said Foxwell, quietly, “you will not see her again.”

“There will still be the possibility of escape,” replied Everell; “there will be no binding word of honour. But go free without one hope of ever meeting her again?—no, make the condition something else, I beg you, sir; or hand me over to the law, and let me retain my right of escape.”

Lady Strange’s eyes shone with applause, but Rashleigh and Mrs. Winter waited for the scene to continue. After a moment’s silence, Foxwell began anew:

“Well, sir, I must congratulate my niece upon your devotion. Rather than give her up for ever, you will risk death. You hazard all upon your chance of escape. ’Tis a slight chance enough: that you will own.”

“No doubt,” replied Everell, in a faltering voice; “but ’tis something.”

“Suppose it fails you. Then, in losing your life, you lose the lady, too. Your chance of seeing her again is even smaller than the small chance of your escape: you may be sure that special precautions will be taken with you—such that your chance will be hardly worth calling by that name.”

Everell sighed deeply, and it is no use denying that he looked plaintive and miserable.

“But what if I propose an alternative?” said Foxwell. “What if I offer to make you our guest here—for a week—as free as any other guest, except that you may not leave the grounds or put yourself in danger of discovery,—a guest with all the opportunities of meeting my niece that a recognized suitor might have?”

It was a moment before Everell could speak. “Sir, what does all this mean?” he cried. “Is it a jest? In God’s name, don’t hold out such a prospect merely to play with me.”

“’Tis a prospect in your power of realizing, upon my honour.”

“Then your generosity—but generosity is too mean a word—I know not how to describe your action, nor to express my gratitude.”

“Pray wait till you have heard the condition: to everything there is a price.”

“Whatever it be, ’twere cheap payment for such happiness. I won’t disguise my love for your niece, sir: why should I, when I began by confessing it? To be with her all the day, without anxiety or risk—”

“For a week, I said.”

“Such a week will be worth a lifetime!” Everell declared.

“’Tis well you count it so, for that is the price at which it is offered. At the end of the week, I mean, you shall be given up to the authorities. If you accept this proposal, you will engage upon your honour to surrender yourself at the appointed hour, and to forego all chance of escape—though at the same time every precaution will be taken to make sure of you.”

“At the end of the week—given up?” repeated Everell, again startled and open-eyed.

“Given up to the officers of justice, with advice to use special care against your escape—though, indeed, your word of honour will be the better security. As to what will follow—your conveyance to York, your trial, and the rest—” Foxwell gave a shrug in lieu of finishing the sentence.

“A week,” said Everell, rather to himself than to the company, “a week with her—to be absolutely sure of that!—”

“A week with her,” said Foxwell, “and then to face the judges. A few tedious days of imprisonment and trial—hardly to be reckoned as days of life—and ‘the rest is silence,’ as the play says. How many possible years of life is it you would forfeit to pay for this week? Two score, perhaps,—and some of them years of fine young manhood, too. Well, the choice is yours. You may give life for love, if you wish. Or love for life, if you will:—my first offer still holds—’tis still in your power to go from this neighbourhood at once, perfectly free, and to find your way abroad. Egad, when I think how many joyous days and merry nights lie between your age and mine!—Life is pleasant in France.”

“I well know that,” said Everell, whose thoughts had responded to the other’s words.

“There are friends, I dare say, who would not be sorry to see you again.”

“Friends, yes,—dear friends!” mused Everell.

“’Tis not fair, Foxwell,” Lady Strange put in; “you are influencing him.”

“I say no more. Those are the alternatives, sir. Once your choice is made, there shall be no going back upon it: Love, or life:—if you decline to choose, you are pretty certain to lose both.—Well, sir, take a few minutes to think upon it. I see these ladies are eager to hear your decision, but for once you may leave them to their impatience.”

Everell was not heedful of the ladies. Certain words were echoing in his mind, each accompanied by a rush of the ideas attached to it: life—love—friends—joyous days and merry nights—but never to see her again!—to fly from this neighbourhood, from the garden.—Ah, the dear garden! To be with the adored one for seven days—blissful days, with her by his side, her hand in his, her eyes softening to his, her voice—

“Sir, could you doubt a moment?” said the young lover. “I choose her!—a week with her! I hold you to your word—I’ll not shirk mine when the time comes.”

“Bravo! I knew it!” cried Lady Strange, clapping her hands.

“Lady Strange, I owe you five guineas,” said Foxwell, gallantly. “Mr. Everell, at this hour a week hence—ten o’clock, shall we call it?—you are my prisoner.” He rang the bell, and Caleb entered. “Cut this gentleman’s cords—there has been a mistake. And nothing is to be said of his presence here, or of what has occurred to-night—nay, I’ll give orders separately to all the servants.” He waited till Everell stood entirely freed; he then sent a message to Miss Foxwell, asking her to come to the drawing-room if she had not yet retired.

“I take it,” he explained to Everell, when Caleb had left the room, “you would have her know at once how matters have fallen out—as far as you would have her know at all for the present—that you are to be our guest for awhile, at least.”

“Certainly,—but”—and here Everell turned pale—“she must not know the condition.”

“I agree with you there,” said Foxwell, smiling. “For the comfort of both of us, she had best not know—till afterward, at least.”

“Afterward!” echoed Everell; “and what will be her feelings then? I hadn’t thought of that.”

“We have all overlooked that, I own. We have thought only of you and your feelings. But you need not be dismayed—the most devoted of women are not inconsolable.”

“’Tis not that I think she loves me much; but she is of so tender a nature, when she learns the price I shall have paid—yet how could I have chosen otherwise, even considering her feelings?—what would she have thought, had I preferred to renounce her? Or suppose I had declined to choose?”

“Why, then, her feelings would be the same, on your being handed over to justice at once, as they will be a week hence. Nay, indeed, in a week’s time she may not be as sorry to be rid of you. We shall see when the time comes: if need be, we can hide the truth from her then as now—when the week is over, you can take your leave upon some pretext, and trust time to efface your image from her heart. Take my advice, trouble yourself not about her feelings: be happy for a week, and don’t think of ‘afterward.’”

Everell sighed, but in truth he could not at that time see how her feelings could have been spared in any measure by either of the other courses open to him. Indeed, it seemed to him that fidelity to her required him to elect as he had done; that any other choice would have been a renunciation of her, a treason to love. So let him be happy for a week: at the end, it would be time to think how to save her feelings.

“Very well, sir,” he said to Foxwell; “let her know nothing but that I am to be your guest for the present.”

“So be it; and you will help us all to keep your presence here a secret from the outside world. Best never appear on the side of the house toward the road.—But we can talk of that to-morrow, at breakfast. I will lay the servants under the heaviest charges, that they will hardly dare mention you to one another. If you are discovered by Jeremiah Filson or any such, not only may I fall under suspicion, but your week may be cut short.”

“I will be cautious, sir, if I have never been so in my life before.”

“And you had best go by some other name in the household. Shall we call you—ah—Mr. Charlson?”

Everell signified his willingness, and the next moment Georgiana entered, still dressed as she had been in the garden. Her face was pale and anxious, but her eyes brightened as they fell upon Everell released from his bonds. She was close followed by Prudence, whose nose shone red with the weeping in which she had copiously indulged to the delight and self-approval of her romantic soul.

“Georgiana,” said Foxwell, before his niece could speak, “this gentleman, Mr. Charlson, will be our guest for a time. His visit must, for certain reasons, be kept secret; and you, I am sure, will not fail in the duties of a hostess. I am going now to give orders for his accommodation.—Await me here, if you please, Mr. Charlson. Ladies, I will join you presently—in the library—and you, Rashleigh.”

The three London visitors took the hint and sauntered into the adjoining room as Foxwell passed out to the hall.

“What does it mean, Everell?” asked Georgiana, in astonishment. “He has become your friend?”

“I am to be your guest, as he has said,” replied Everell, smiling as he took her hand. “I shall be near you all the long day—as many hours as you find it in your heart to give me. Sweet, ’tis too great happiness!” He put his arm gently around her.

“Happiness!” said she, looking up into his eyes. “’Tis more than I dare believe. My uncle shelters you and befriends you!—Then there is nothing to separate us—we may be happy together, day after day—for ever!”

He smiled, and summoned his wonted gaiety. “Well, not—quite—for ever, my darling!”

The smile and the gaiety had so nearly died out ere he finished those few words, that he was fain to draw her closer to him, that she might not see his face.