CHAPTER XVI HORSES

After a mile or so, the riders slackened speed, and kept an easy pace thereafter till they were near the town. Two or three times they had made a momentary halt to listen, but had heard nothing to indicate that they were followed. Everell had frequently asked Georgiana how she did, and she had declared, “Very well.” He now inquired whether she could travel much farther without stopping to rest, and begged her to be perfectly honest in her reply. She assured him she was equal to a dozen miles, at least.

“Then it is a question,” said he, “whether we should stay a few hours at the place we are coming to, or go on to the next town southward. I conceive we have naught to fear from your uncle. As for Thornby, I know not. He may desire that nothing of all this shall become known; on the other hand, his wrath may outweigh his vanity. ’Tis not likely his men would give chase so far without his commands. The clerk would certainly go to consult him before ordering a long pursuit, and Thornby’s first care would be to get himself liberated from the closet. No doubt all depends on his state of feeling at that moment. Were Jeremiah Filson still a factor in the case, I should count on pursuit. Men of that persistent sort, having once set themselves a task, are not to be thrown off, however slight be the gain or the motive. They know how to make such as Thornby the servants of their wills. But without Filson’s egging on, I doubt if Thornby or his clerk will give themselves much trouble concerning us. Your uncle, I think, will find means to dissuade them. In any case, we have a fair start, so that if you feel the least fatigue or discomfort, sweet,—And yet, ’twould go hard to lose all, after coming off so well hitherto. Certainly Thornby will be in a great fury:—to be locked in his own closet, after being robbed of you and of his power over your uncle! At first he will be for revenge at any cost. And who knows but he may linger in that mind? He may make it a great matter, inform the sheriff of the county, and raise a general hue and cry. ’Tis a possibility we must reckon with. Our only security against it is a long start at the outset. And yet you’ve already undergone too much to-night. Perhaps two or three hours of rest—But, devil take it, Filson has been at this town!—’twas here you warned me of him. No doubt he has left accounts of me. I may be recognized if I show my face at any house. But, if we pass through the town in this darkness—”

He was going on to consider the alternatives further, but Georgiana, having waited in vain for a pause, now interrupted with the most positive assertion that she would not think of stopping at the town they were about to enter. So they walked their horses through such of its narrow streets as lay in their route, and were soon upon the open road again, having encountered no light nor other sign of life. They improved their speed, and, having passed the spot where Everell had taken leave of Roughwood a fortnight before,—though its location could not be certified in the darkness,—arrived at another town of silent streets wherein no lamp or candle relieved the night. By their own lantern, the lovers were enabled to inspect the house-fronts, and to select what appeared to be the chief inn of the place. After much imperative calling for the landlord, Everell was answered by a half-dressed man, of whom he demanded accommodations in the tone of authority that had imposed upon the servants at Thornby Hall. Here, as there, it availed, and, as soon as the travellers were admitted, Everell curtly explained that the lady had met with an accident; he added, carelessly, that they had come from the South.

The half-dressed man proving to be the landlord, Everell bespoke a chaise and fresh horses for an early hour in the morning; and, as there was only one sleeping-room available, saw Georgiana conducted thereto; after which he made his own bed, with the aid of his cloak, on a settle in the bar-parlour. He passed the night in a half-sleep, ready to take alarm at any sound of later arrivals. In the morning, when the time set for departure was near, he summoned a maid and was about to send her to Georgiana, when that lady herself appeared on the stairs. She was quite ready to travel, having interviewed the innkeeper’s wife, and acquired a hat, a mantle, and some other articles, all in a fair state of preservation, in exchange for one of her rings.

Everell complimented her upon this timely regard for appearances while travelling by daylight, and declared that no other woman in England could look as well in the costliest finery as Georgiana did in the second-hand wardrobe of a country landlady. Georgiana was pleased at this; but not entirely so, until he added that she should supply herself in better accordance with her own taste at the first opportunity. He then handed her into the chaise, entrusted to the landlord the despatching of the horses and pistols to Foxwell, and gave directions to the postilion. Hearing these, the innkeeper was much puzzled, for Everell had designedly given him the impression that the journey of the couple was Northward. Ere he could scratch a probable solution of the problem into his head, the chaise was rattling away.

The freshness of the morning had its effect upon the lovers at first; but Everell soon perceived that Georgiana was pale and languid. He urged her to try to sleep, and offered his shoulder as a pillow. She, on her side, observed that his voice was quite hoarse, and insisted upon arranging his cloak so that he, too, could rest. Presently, in spite of herself, her eyes closed. He pillowed her head as he had suggested, and softly kissed her hair. The next fact of which he was distinctly conscious was that the chaise had stopped before a roadside inn, and the postilion was telling him that here was a good place at which to breakfast. Glad to find, on inquiry, how many hours and miles they had got rid of in sleep, Everell awakened Georgiana, and they were regaled with bread, cheese, and fried bacon. They were now quite cured of fatigue, though Everell’s hoarseness was increased.

The journey was resumed. A few towns and many villages were left behind. Finally, at the end of a stage, Everell thought the time of changing horses might safely be utilized in visiting some shops near the posting-inn. When the travellers returned with their purchases, their new conveyance was ready. They set out immediately, putting off dinner to the late afternoon rather than make a longer stop at present. As they drove out of the yard into the street, Georgiana uttered a quick “Oh!” and drew back from the chaise window, at the same time laying her hand on Everell’s breast to make him do likewise.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“The man on horseback,” she replied; “don’t look out! ’Tis Jeremiah Filson!”

“Impossible! I left him as good as dead. You are mistaken, sweet. How could you know him?—you have scarcely seen him.”

“I saw him well enough at Thornby Hall last night; and this I am certain was he. He was riding up the street; there was another horseman with him. He looked tired, and the horses seemed fagged. ’Twas he, I could swear,—the same clothes.”

“Then the dog must have feigned, last night, to save himself from a coup de grace. Did he see us, I wonder?”

“He didn’t appear to. He was looking at the houses, I thought.”

“Looking for the inn, probably. Well, if he stops there, he will inquire for us. If not, he is close behind us. In either case, he is on our track. Thank heaven, we are almost out of the town.”—The new postilion, as soon as the chaise was safe in the street, had whipped up his horses to a gallop, in order to make the showy start affected by artists in his craft.—“Filson’s experience last night has given him a respect for my sword,” Everell went on; “he will not dare come within reach of it himself. I at least pinked his other ear, as I promised to. He will now act with caution; will attempt to hunt me down without showing himself, and, if he finds me tarrying anywhere, will apply to the local authorities. He will be no less dangerous for proceeding in that way—he will be the more so, rather. We shall not dare stop long anywhere. We had best take our meals at solitary country inns, where he cannot come up unperceived, nor set the authorities upon me without time and trouble. We must travel night and day till we are safe: to sleep at an inn would give him his opportunity. I see ’tis possible for you to sleep as we go. So then, barring accident, we shall doubtless keep our lead to the end, if he hangs on so far.”

“But if we are delayed at the posting-houses?” said Georgiana. “Sometimes one cannot get horses immediately.”

“Ay, there is one danger,” Everell replied. “But we must gain such a distance that we may lose time and yet be away before he can steal upon us; or at least before he can bring officers about us. We must not tarry long in a garrison town. Military officers would be too ready to act upon information in such a case as mine. He cannot get the civil powers to move so quickly. Well, we must keep our lead. In the country he will not venture too close upon our heels. We are out of the town, at last. I wonder if he stopped at that inn.”

Everell thrust his head out of the side window and looked back. Nobody was following. He then called to the driver, and gave instructions in regard to the pace of travel, hinting at the reward in store for obedience. The lad was so compliant, the horses so fresh, that in due time Everell thought a pause might be made for dinner without much risk of their being overtaken. At the next suitable house of refreshment he ordered a halt, somewhat to the disapproval of the postilion, who would have preferred to stop at an inn of his own suggesting. Everell chose this, however, because it had as neighbours only two or three brick houses and a half-dozen thatched cottages, all looking drowsy behind ragged hedges, while its chief window commanded a view of the road over which the fugitives had come.

They caused a table to be placed at the window, and there, on a soiled cloth, were served with boiled eggs, cold bacon, and bread, by the frowsy woman who had taken the order, set the table, and done the cooking. But the eggs were fresh, and the bacon good, so that little was left on the table when the travellers rose from it. The postilion had evidently found the ale, bread, and cheese better than he had expected; and the horses apparently had nothing to complain of in their refreshment. At all events, the journey was resumed in good spirits, and, as no sign of Filson had appeared upon the stretch of road in sight, the lovers began to feel more secure. Georgiana now recalled Filson’s jaded appearance. Perhaps, as on a former occasion, he had yielded to the dictates of tired nature: perhaps he had thrown over the pursuit, and was merely bound for London. As for the horseman with him, that might have been a postboy or a casual fellow traveller. While their own chaise went rolling along at good speed, the lovers felt hope increase within them. Nevertheless, they were still determined to go on by night.

Dusk had risen—or, rather, fallen, to be accurate in spite of the poets—when they arrived at the place where they would have to obtain the horses and vehicle for their night journey. It was a small town, with a High Street enlivened by the humbler inhabitants strolling up and down in the light from the shop windows. A lamp hung over the entrance to the principal inn. As soon as the chaise was in the yard, Everell called for a fresh conveyance.

The landlord was very sorry, but there were no horses. How soon would there be any? Certainly not that night: he wouldn’t send out tired cattle, not for love or money. Would there be a stage-coach, or even a carrier’s wagon? Not before morning. Everell turned to the postilion, who was now busy with his own fagged horses. No, sir; this was as far as he dared go: he knew his orders; his cattle were done for, and he was done for, and he wouldn’t let his beasts go another mile, not for love or money or the King himself.

“Mind how you speak of the King, booby,” a voice broke in, pertly; and Everell, looking around, saw three or four trim young fellows at the taproom door, all in red coats.

“Soldiers in town?” said Everell to the landlord.

“Yes, your Honour; two companies waiting orders. You’d ’a’ had the pleasure of meeting the officers at dinner if you’d come a little sooner, but now they be all gone to a ball at a gentleman’s house in the neighbourhood. Most of them lodge here; but I have a very good room left, at your Honour’s service.”

“I don’t want a room. I want horses. Where can I get them? Is there no other place in the town?”

The landlord shook his head sadly; but one of the soldiers said: “There’s a house across the way, sir,—the Red Swan. I’m not sure you can get horses there, but ’tis there or nowhere if this house can’t supply them.”

Everell thanked the man, pressed a shilling into his hand, settled with his own postilion, and had his luggage carried before himself and Georgiana to the Red Swan. This was a smaller house than the one they had left. It had no driveway through the middle; the entrance to the yard was by a side lane. The travellers, entering by the front door, found a corridor leading to the bar—and to the landlady. Could one hire horses and some sort of light vehicle? Yes, to be sure; but not that night: all the horses and carriages in the town were taking people to the ball a few miles out. Everell looked blankly at Georgiana. The landlady could offer his Honour the best rooms in the house. On the morrow there would be horses a-plenty. They would be returning from the ball by midnight.

“Ah, then, if we wait till midnight, we may have the first horses that come in?” said Everell.

The landlady was not sure. She would have to ask John, who was now driving to the ball. When he returned with his horses, he might be willing; the cattle would be fresh enough, but John might not be. At this, Everell spoke so eloquently, despite his hoarseness, of rewards and of his confidence in the landlady’s ability to influence John if she would, and Georgiana supported him with such sweetly anxious looks, that the good woman thought she could almost certainly promise a conveyance and John’s attendance at midnight or thereabouts. As for the intervening time, it was decided that Georgiana should lie down dressed, while Everell should remain on the alert. He saw her to the door of a room at the head of the stairs, and returned to caution the landlady against acknowledging their presence to possible inquirers. He relied on the woman’s good-will and evident belief that they were an eloping pair fearful only of parental discovery. He then went by a rear door to stretch his legs in the inn yard, which he thought to find deserted.

The yard was for the most part in darkness, its only light being that of a lantern hung against the gate-post. To Everell’s surprise, a pair of horses attached to a post-chaise were feeding under the care of a small boy. Everell was promptly inquisitive, but the undersized hostler had no gift of communication, and could say no more than that the chaise had arrived awhile ago and would be going on pretty soon. Everell returned to the landlady.

“Oh, ay,” she said, in reply to his remark about the horses. “They belong to a gentleman with a toothache, who stops only long enough for supper.”

“You didn’t mention him before.”

“Why, sir, from his coming to this house instead of t’other, and from his ordering a private room to sup in, I took it he’d rather nothing was said of his being here. But, come to think of it, he might want to keep out of sight because of his face being swollen up—’tis all tied round with a yankerchief. Yet that wouldn’t account for his having his postilion eat in the same room with him, would it, sir? It looks as how he was afeard the man would say too much if let eat in the kitching. Well, I hope as I’ve done him no harm by what I’ve told your Honour.”

“Not in the least. I wish I had his horses. I would even accept his toothache, if I could have the horses with it.”

He entered the small public parlour, and dropped into a chair at the head of the long table. He had the room to himself, and could flee to the darkness of the yard if anybody intruded. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, he lapsed into a drowsy state which seemed, in the circumstances, the state best calculated to cheat the time. He had remained therein for more than half an hour, when his ears, on the alert, informed him of a soft step outside the room. He rose, and beheld Georgiana in the half-open doorway. Finger on lip, she approached and whispered:

“I have seen him. I think he knows we are here.”

“Who?” asked Everell.

“Filson. I happened to look out of my window—”

“Impossible! He couldn’t have followed so close.”

“He must have gained upon us toward nightfall, and arrived at the inn across the way a little while ago. I happened to glance out of my window just now—not putting my head out, but looking through the glass—and I saw four men standing under the lamp before that inn—the lamp over the entrance. Three of them were the soldiers we saw in the yard. The other was Filson. He was talking with the soldiers, and he and they were looking at this house. I am sure they were telling him we had come here.”

“Did they see you?”

“I think not. They weren’t looking at my window when I first saw them, and after that I watched from behind the curtain.”

“Well, then, he knows we are here. The fellow who carried our luggage across would have told the soldiers we failed to get horses. I should have taken some pains to cover our track. We are too easily described. I might have known Filson would inquire before even entering the inn; his fear of coming suddenly within reach of my sword would make him do that. Well, the evil is done. What steps will the fellow take?—that is the question. Fortunately, those soldiers can do nothing without orders, and their officers have gone to the ball.”

“But hear me through,” said Georgiana. “After they had talked a minute or so, Filson and one of the soldiers walked up the street, so fast that I soon lost sight of them. The other two soldiers remained—to watch this house, perhaps. And then I came to tell you.”

“H’m! Without doubt Filson has gone in quest of somebody in authority. We must be gone from this house, at all events. Filson may return—who knows how soon?—may return with a gang of constables or a file of soldiers. Come, we must leave this inn, at least.”

“But those two are watching: they will see us go.”

“We’ll go through the yard. It opens to a lane, which may have two entrances—else we must find some back way, or scale a wall, if need be. Come; I’ll see the landlady as we go.”

“Oh, heaven! In the passage—footsteps—of men!”

Everell listened a moment, his hand on his sword-hilt. “Nay, ’tis all well. Two men walking from the stairs to the yard: they are a guest and his postilion. ’Tis a gentleman with a toothache. The landlady has been telling me of him. I would to heaven—Ah, perhaps—Come, sweet! come!”

Seizing her hand, Everell led her swiftly from the room, along the passage, and through a back door, to the yard.

The forms of the strange gentleman, the postilion, and the small hostler were dimly visible at the darker side of the chaise. The postilion was evidently about to light his lamps. Everell left Georgiana standing in a shadowed corner by the house door, and advanced to the other gentleman, keeping as much in the darkness as he. The stranger’s head presented a very bulky appearance, thanks not only to the handkerchief encircling it, but also to its being thickly muffled up to the mouth. His hat, moreover, was drawn down to his eyes. So, indeed, was Everell’s.

“Sir,” began Everell, inwardly cursing the hoarseness that prevented a more ingratiating tone, “pardon the intrusion of one who means no offence. ’Tis a matter of life and death that moves me, a stranger, to address you as I do. There is also a lady whose fortunes are at stake. ’Tis of the first importance that we leave this place immediately. We have not been able to obtain horses. Seeing you about to depart alone, I am impelled to throw myself on your generosity. Will you take us as passengers, to the next town, at least? If you will take the lady in the chaise, I can sit on the bar in front. The postilion shall be well rewarded.”

“Why, sir,” replied the other, in a thick voice, the more indistinct from his much muffled condition, “if you are travelling in my direction—”

“Southward,” said Everell, eagerly.

“I am sorry, then, for I am going North.”

“North? What ill fortune! For an instant I thought myself happy. North!—but surely, sir, your necessity for going on at once is not as great as ours: it cannot be. If you knew the case—the lady is waiting yonder in the darkness, trembling with anxiety as to our fate. Our whole future, sir, hangs upon the next few minutes. Dare I ask you—nay, dare I refrain from asking you—to resign this conveyance to us? There will be another available at midnight. Your business certainly is not so urgent.”

“My business, sir, is as urgent as any can be. It has the first claim on me, much as I would fain serve you. I dare not lose an hour.”

“But, good heaven, sir, have I not told you my affair is one of life or death?”

“And so is mine,” said the strange gentleman, stepping back to be out of range of the chaise-lamp, which the postilion had now lighted.

Everell followed into the darker gloom, pleading desperately: “But consider, sir, my case concerns the happiness of a woman.”

“Mine concerns the safety of a man.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Everell, maddened at the other’s phlegmatic brevity of speech. “To see these horses ready for the road, to need them as I do, to know how she must suffer if I—Sir, I entreat you: I must have these horses: I demand them in the sacred name of love.”

“I require them in the sacred interest of friendship,” was the answer.

“Friendship!” laughed Everell, scornfully. “The love of man and woman—do you know what that is?”

“None knows better; but at present I serve the friendship of man for man. One task at a time. Were I not entered upon this, I would do much to oblige you. I can only wish you better fortune than you expect; and—good night.” With that the stranger went toward the chaise, all being now ready for departure.

“Not yet good night, either!” cried Everell, stepping into the other’s way. “’Tis a rude thing I do, but necessity compels me. If your mission is all to you, mine is all to me. Let our swords decide for us—I see you wear one.”

“I wear one,” said the gentleman, patiently, “but I had rather not draw it now.”

“You had rather be commanded, then,” said Everell, drawing his own. “You have a toothache, I hear. A gentleman with a toothache ought not to travel at night. For your own good, I must forbid you.”

“And you have a bad cold, as your voice betrays. A gentleman with a bad cold ought still less to travel at night.” And the stranger now calmly drew. “Make way, sir, if you please.”

“Stand back, sir,” replied Everell, “till I call the lady to enter the chaise.”

The stranger’s retort to this was a sword-thrust at Everell’s groin. Though the men were in too great darkness to distinguish faces, a certain sense he had acquired by much training enabled Everell to parry this attack. When he returned the thrust, his adversary showed an equal instinct for judging the movements of a barely visible weapon. Several passes were exchanged, to the great affright of Georgiana, who could only make out the moving forms in the gloom and hear the clashing of the steel. She had the presence of mind to close the house door, lest the sound might bring other spectators. As for the postilion and the boy, they stood astonished at a safe distance, not daring to raise an alarm for fear of incurring the vengeance of the combatants. The fight was hot and equally maintained. Unexpectedly Everell struck his left hand against the chaise door. For greater safety of movement, he stepped back a few paces, and so came, without thought, into the lamplight.

The other gentleman, in the act of following, uttered a cry of surprise, and held his sword motionless. The voice was quite different from that he had previously used.

“Eh!—who are you?” exclaimed Everell, lowering his own weapon.

The stranger advanced into the light, pulling down his muffler.

“Roughwood!” cried Everell, springing forward to embrace the man he had just been trying to wound.

“H’sh!” warned the other, cautious as ever.

“Good heaven!—if we had killed each other!”

“We should have been served right for not knowing each other. But till this moment I didn’t rightly see you. Your husky voice deceived me: I should never have thought it your voice.”

“’Tis the best voice I can muster at present. But you seem to have two voices.”

“The other was put on—like the muffler, handkerchief, and toothache. I was recognized on my way South after leaving you; and now, coming back through the same country—”

“But why coming back? I supposed you safe in France.”

“I saw her whom I wished to see; but I could not persuade myself to sail without you, or knowledge of you. As days passed and you arrived not—In short, I feared your rash resolve had got you into trouble—”

“And you were coming to my aid! Dear Roughwood!”

“But we lose time. You spoke of a lady.”

“You will recognize her,” said Everell, and hastened to conduct Georgiana into the light. Leaving her and Roughwood to mutual surprise and explanation, he returned to the bar of the inn, and, having overcome the landlady’s refusal of payment, possessed himself of his and Georgiana’s luggage. When he reappeared in the yard, his friend had already handed the young lady into the chaise, and was giving directions to the postilion. Everell was for Roughwood’s taking the place beside Georgiana, but that gentleman cut short all dispute by mounting the bar in front and allowing Everell ten seconds in which to enter the chaise. Before less time had passed, Everell was seated at his Georgiana’s side, her hand was stealing into his, the hostler had closed the door of the chaise, and the postilion had given the word of starting. He drove carefully out through the gate with the solitary lamp, slowly on through the lane to the street, and then for the open road southward, the horses getting up speed at the crack of the whip.

“And so, Jeremiah Filson,” said Everell, as the lights of the houses ceased and the night lay blue and misty over the fields, “we have left you behind once more.”

Thanks to the careful arrangements of Roughwood, no time was lost on the rest of the journey, day or night, and the lovers never saw Jeremiah Filson again. A man answering to his description arrived a day late at the fishing village from which they had set sail; and lingered for a week or more, questioning the inhabitants, and often, from the highest cliffs, gazing far out to sea with a puzzled expression. This they learned from Roughwood’s future wife, when she and her brother came to them in Paris.

From Prudence, for whom Georgiana sent as soon as she conveniently could, the lovers—for lovers they remained after marriage and through life—heard the latest news of Foxwell Court and Thornby Hall. Mr. Foxwell had come to a better understanding with his neighbour Thornby, so that the pair now frequently got drunk together at one or the other’s table; they spent considerable time at cards, with results apparently to Foxwell’s satisfaction; and it was settled that he should lend the distinction of his presence to the Squire’s approaching nuptials. For the Squire, as if to show the depth of disappointed love by an urgent need of consolation, had suddenly—and successfully—resolved to marry Sukey Marvell.

The End