Let us do Mr. Foxwell justice. He had honestly believed that Everell would choose to renounce love and be set free. This indeed would have been the most humane event that any reasonable person could have expected Foxwell to bring about. He might, of course, have played the part of a beneficent deity, and at once aided the Jacobite’s escape, approved of his love, and sanctioned the future union of the lovers. But he was no Mr. Allworthy. Indeed it is more than doubtful whether Mr. Allworthy himself would have carried benevolence to that length. A flying rebel, with a price on his head, whose possessions in the kingdom, if he had any, were liable to confiscation, was not the suitor a young lady’s relation could be supposed to favour offhand. One even fears that the virtuous Allworthy would rather have interpreted the duties of loyalty in all strictness, and placed the captive in the hands of justice immediately. But Foxwell, with all his selfishness and callousness, was not the man to make patriotism a vice to that extent, unless there was something to gain or save by it. He might be a heartless rake, but he was too much a gentleman to practise that degree of Roman virtue without any personal motive of profit or fear.
So the best course had seemed to be to send the fugitive packing, and nip this love-affair in the bud. And that was what Foxwell had supposed would result from the alternative offers. In any reasonable issue of the matter, there must have been separation for the lovers and sorrow for Georgiana. Would that sorrow be ultimately greater for the postponement, and for the probable deepening of the attachment between the lovers? Perhaps; but Foxwell had not looked for this outcome. The cruelty of his little experiment upon the human passions, then, consisted in his exposing the young lover’s heart, and playing upon it, for the amusement of onlookers. The cruelty of the intention was not lessened by the fact that Everell himself, wholly concerned as to his fate and his love, did not at the time see himself as a man exhibited and played upon.
Perhaps Foxwell and his friends underwent some self-reproach. However that be, it is certain they had the delicacy to refrain from spying or intruding upon the lovers during the week for which Everell had so devotedly bargained. The party of four went their way, and the party of two, attended by the faithful Prudence, went theirs, both parties meeting twice or thrice each day at meals. On these occasions, a pleasant courtesy prevailed, and there was no rallying of the lovers, no inquisitive observation of them. Indeed it is doubtful if the feelings of young lovers were ever more nicely considered. The two found themselves always favoured by that conspiracy which good-natured people customarily form for the benefit of a young lady and her favoured suitor. Everell found that he was not even expected to remain at the table with the other gentlemen after the ladies had gone, nor was it required that he and Georgiana should join the latter at the tea-table or at cards. The lovers’ chief place of resort within the house was the library, a room quite neglected by the others, who preferred only the newest plays, poems, and magazines for their reading. In good weather the lovers sat in the old garden, or strolled in the park, Foxwell and his visitors going farther afield for their outdoor amusements, and receiving no company from the neighbourhood. Thus the young couple, from their meeting at breakfast to their parting at night, passed all the hours together, in a singular freedom from observant eyes.
We shall imitate Foxwell and his friends in this abstention from prying; not because the love-making of the two young people is sacred from us, but because such love-making, interesting as it is to the participants, is sadly tedious to the spectator. The love-stories of actual people are interesting for the events that give rise to their love, and to which their love gives rise; not (excepting the critical moments of the awakening, the unintentional disclosure, the first confession, and such) for the regular course of its own manifestation. The reader who has dreaded the slow account of a week’s love-making—the sighs, the gazes, the silences, the hand-holdings, the poutings, the forgivings, and all the rest—may breathe freely. The peculiar pathos of the situation of these young lovers—a pathos as yet perceptible only to Everell—did not much alter their conduct from that of other young lovers. For Everell made fair shift to put the future out of sight, to regard only the day: he was resolved not to look forward till the last hour of his term should arrive. As long as he was with Georgiana, he could keep to this: ’twas only when he had retired to his own chamber that visions of the approaching end would harass him in the darkness; only then would he count the hours that yet remained.
On the eventful night of his capture, and after Georgiana had retired, Everell had obtained Foxwell’s permission to communicate with John Tarby by means of the keeper, who, as he had learned from Tarby himself, was privately on excellent terms with the poacher. By this medium, then, Everell had taken leave of his former host with due expressions of thanks, both in words and in gold, and had obtained the cloak-bag containing his travelling equipment. Tarby had been left under the impression that the young gentleman, after being sheltered secretly for a time at Foxwell Court, was to proceed upon his journey.
That indeed was the impression of the servants at Foxwell Court, and of Georgiana herself. Everell did not tell her how long or short was to be his visit, and she, glad enough to postpone all thought of his departure, never broached the subject. Only once did he hint at the probability of his leaving her before many days. It was when, on Saturday evening, she spoke of going to church next day. “Nay,” he pleaded, with a sudden alarm in his eyes, “you will have Sundays enough for church-going, when I am not here.” It was not necessary to say more; but he had to feign excessive lightness of heart to quiet the vague apprehension his own earnestness had raised in her mind.
Foxwell and his friends appeared at church that Sunday without Georgiana. Her absence was noted by one important person, at least, for, after the service, Squire Thornby accosted Foxwell outside the church porch, with a lack of preliminary salutation, blurting out:
“How now, neighbour Foxwell, ’tis no illness, I hope, keeps Miss Foxwell home such a fine day?”
“No illness, thank you,” replied Foxwell, mildly; “nothing of consequence, that is: my niece slept rather badly last night, because of the wind.”
“I’m glad ’tis nothing serious. Tell her I said so, with my best compliments. Tell her she was missed. We could better ’a’ spared you, Foxwell,—and that’s a true word spoken in jest, if ever there was one.”
This pleasantry was accompanied by a smile of such confident insolence that the onlookers set their ears for the piercing retort they thought sure to come. It was on the tip of Foxwell’s tongue; but he checked it, dropped his eyes, and sought refuge in a feebly counterfeited laugh. His enemy looked around triumphantly, and walked off. Foxwell, who saw nothing in the Squire’s concern for Georgiana but a pretext for rudeness to himself, digested his chagrin in silence, though aware of the surprised glances of Rashleigh and the ladies, to whom he had mentioned his former method of dealing with this booby.
The next morning, as Foxwell was about to set forth on horseback with his friends, the gamekeeper sought an interview. Being ordered to speak out, the man said that Squire Thornby’s people had again broken down the fence on t’other side of the four beeches, and were busy putting it up again on the hither side. “Us were going to drive them back, and were a’most come to blows, when the Squire’s agent told us we’d best come first to your Honour, and see as if you hadn’t changed your mind about the rights o’ that bound’ry. He said it in such a manner, sir, as how I thought maybe there was some new agreement, or the courts had decided, or something—begging pardon if I’m wrong, sir. So, after a few words, I thought I’d better see your Honour afore us starts a-breaking heads.”
Foxwell had been able to keep a clear brow, and to stifle a bitter sigh, but he could not prevent his face from turning a shade darker. His visitors, who had heard the keeper’s tale, looked with curiosity for the answer. After a moment’s silence, Foxwell said: “Oh, damn the fence!—’tis no matter:—yes, we’ve made a new agreement; let Thornby’s men alone,” and turned his horse to ride off with his guests.
He was by turns morose and excessively mirthful on that day’s excursion. In the afternoon, as the four were riding up the slope toward the house, they saw a mounted gentleman emerge through the gateway. Nearing them, he proved to be Thornby. Foxwell dissembled his inward rage, and had sufficient self-command to greet his enemy with polite carelessness.
“I suppose you came to see me in regard to the fence,” he added, reining in his horse. His companions also stopped, on pretence of viewing the distant sun-bathed hills to the west; but they listened to what passed between their host and his foe.
“Fence?” said Thornby. “Oh no, sir,—no need to see you in regard to that. I don’t consult anybody as to what I do on my own land—not even such a wise fellow as you, Foxwell.”
“Oh, I merely thought it required some particular occasion to persuade you to visit us at Foxwell Court. I heard you were—rebuilding the fence by the four beeches.”
“So I am, that’s true enough. I intend to do a considerable amount of rebuilding of that sort; but I sha’n’t need to come to Foxwell Court on that account. No; ’twas just the whim brought me to Foxwell Court to-day—just a neighbourly visit, that’s all.”
“Then pray turn back with us,” said Foxwell.
“No, thankye, sir. I’ve got business awaiting me at home. Glad to find Miss Foxwell is quite herself again.—No, I won’t trouble you in respect of my fences, Foxwell,—not me. Good evening to you.”
The Squire’s assured, derisive manner made his speeches doubly exasperating. As Foxwell rode on with his guests, he could only suppose that his enemy had come to Foxwell Court for the purpose of exulting over him upon this new settlement of the old boundary dispute. As the reader knows, however, Foxwell Court had another attraction for Mr. Thornby. He had, in fact, rejoiced at Foxwell’s absence, and, upon arrival, had asked to see Miss Foxwell. The servant found her walking in the garden with Everell; but she sent her excuses to the visitor, whom she then casually described to Everell as a neighbour having some business with her uncle. But the servant presently returned, saying that Mr. Thornby declared his business important, and would come to her in the garden if it was a trouble for her to go to him in the house.
Fearing a second refusal might make the Squire too inquisitive, Georgiana obtained leave from Everell to go and get rid of this gentleman. As she entered the drawing-room, where Thornby waited, she began abruptly by saying that she was very much occupied, and that she hoped his business would not take many minutes.
“Why, now, I’ll tell you truth, Miss Foxwell,” was the reply, “’twas just for another glimpse of yourself that I came.”
“But you said important business,” answered Miss Foxwell, looking her displeasure.
“Well, and it was important to me. When I thought of you, I couldn’t let my horse pass the gate without turning in. To tell the truth again, ’twas the thought of you that made me ride in this here direction. You wasn’t at church yesterday—I’d been looking forward to see you there. For my life, I ha’n’t been able to get your face out of my head this whole week past, odd rabbit me if I have!—not that I ever wanted to, neither.” The rustic gentleman had lapsed into a state of red-faced confusion which at another time Georgiana would have pitied; but just now she was merciless in showing her annoyance.
“I’m vastly flattered, Mr. Thornby; but you have come at a time when I’m very much taken up with my own affairs—very much taken up. So I beg you’ll excuse me.”
“Oh, now, wait a minute, Miss Foxwell, as you’ve got a kind Christian heart. Why, rat me! if you knew as how I’ve pined to see you again since t’other day, I’ll warrant you’d never go to treat me so unneighbourly. If you knew as how—”
“Really I must go, Mr. Thornby,—really.”
“Why can’t we be neighbourly, Miss Foxwell,—us two? Your uncle an............