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 candle............