Everell’s last meal at Foxwell Court was not marked by lively conversation. He had his own thoughts, or, rather, his own confused and whirling state of mind, so that he scarce knew whether the others spoke or were silent. Outwardly he still maintained a brave face, so that Georgiana might not yet be alarmed. The young lady herself had never taken much part in the table talk. Lady Strange and Rashleigh felt the occasion too sensibly to be capable of easy discourse, and Foxwell knew a gentleman’s part too well to intrude a gaiety either real or feigned. He quietly kept the ball rolling, however, with Mrs. Winter, who alone—save Georgiana—seemed untouched by the shadow of coming events.

As soon as the ladies had finished, Georgiana left the room for the library. Everell, with a bow to the company, turned to follow her.

Lady Strange, already risen, laid a gentle hand upon his sleeve and said, softly: “Upon my soul, sir, I pity you!”

He looked at her a moment; then, summoning a smile, answered: “I thank you from my heart; but ’tis not near ten o’clock. I have some hours yet remaining. Ladies, your servant.”

When he had gone out, Mrs. Winter said: “So you may keep your pity till ten o’clock, Diana. Sure the young fellow carries it off well. ’Twill be worth seeing if he does so to the end. Ten o’clock—’tis several hours off, and card-playing begins to be tedious. What a long evening ’twill be!”

“Short enough for those two young lovers,” said Lady Strange, with a sigh, as she passed to the drawing-room.

“I suppose you have made your arrangements, Bob,” said Rashleigh, when the two gentlemen were alone; “for delivering him up, I mean.”

“They are very simple. I will send Joseph with a message to Jeremiah Filson an hour or so before ten o’clock. Filson will require a little time to muster the justice’s men; he may have to go to Thornby Hall—no doubt Thornby’s clerk will command the party, to make sure that all is regular. So ’twill scarce be possible for them to arrive before ten: in any case, I’ll warn Filson they mustn’t do so. Till ten I may not call the rebel from Georgiana’s presence. I hope he will leave her in ignorance. Well, we shall see.”

In the library Georgiana sat reading to her lover. What the words meant, what the book was, he hardly knew; she would have preferred to be the listener, but in that case he would have had to keep his eyes upon the page, and he would rather keep them upon her face. He could interrupt when he chose, and then her eyes rose to meet his; so that he often interrupted. Suddenly he remembered the miniature she had started to get for him in the afternoon; and now the desire to possess it—to have that image of her beauty to carry with him to the end—grew strong in a moment. He reminded her.

She rose at once to go to her room for it, saying, as before, that only she could find it. He followed her through the dining-room; which was now deserted, as Foxwell and Rashleigh had soon joined the ladies in the drawing-room. In the wide entrance-hall, as Everell could accompany her no farther, he caught her hand lightly, and said:

“Don’t be long in finding it, I pray. Remember, every moment—” He checked himself, and turned the supplication to gaiety by a smile. “Be considerate of my impatience, dear.”

Struck by his manner, she looked searchingly at his face. But he kissed her hand in a playful way, and gave it a little toss toward the stairway; up which she hastened a moment later, reassured.

There was a footman stationed in the entrance-hall, and Everell, not wishing his mood to be observed, went back into the dining-room to await Georgiana’s return. He still held in one hand the book from which she had been reading. He turned the pages, gazing at the words, but receiving no impression from them. The table remained as the gentlemen had left it, except that the candelabrum had been removed, only two candles in wall-sconces remaining to light the room. The fire in the chimney-place was low, and the air rather chill, for the evening had set in with a cold wind. “Little do I care, though it freeze and blow,” thought Everell, standing by the fireplace. “Why does she delay? Cruel!—but she knows not. The minutes!—the minutes I am losing!”

But in truth she was expeditious, and so quiet in her return that she entered the room before he had heard her step. He went to her with a subdued cry, seized the miniature from her hand, and pressed it—and then the hand itself—with passionate tenderness to his lips.

“It shall never leave me,” he said. “It shall be the last thing I look upon—it shall feel the last beat of my heart.”

“But that will be many, many years in the future,” said Georgiana, with a half-comic air of complaint, “and meanwhile you don’t even look at the picture now!”

“Time enough for that!—Let me look only at you now.”

“What do you mean? There is time enough for looking at me, too. Tell me if the likeness flatters me.”

“Nothing could do that. ’Tis a lovely portrait—never was a lovelier; but the eyes are not as sweet as the original’s—nor the face as angelic—nor the hair as soft—nor the colour as fair—nor the look as tender. ’Tis nothing to the life—and yet ’tis adorable. ’Twas kindly thought, to give it me,—more kindly than you know, dear.”

He kissed it once more; then, having placed it carefully in the breast pocket of his waistcoat, took both her hands, and regarded her with an intentness that reawoke the vague alarm she had felt in the hall.

“Why do you look in that manner, Everell? Why do you speak so strangely this evening? You make me almost afraid—for you, that is—nay, for both of us. What is it?”

“Nothing—nothing, sweet!” But whatever he might say, it was no longer possible for him to counterfeit either gaiety or unconcern with any success. “God knows, I would be the same now—I would have us both be the same now—as we have been all this week. I grudge every thought that we give to anything but our love. Let us have the full worth of each moment, to the very end.—Nay, what am I saying? I rave, I think. Yes, yes, dear, I speak strangely—strangely was well said.”

“Everell, you frighten me! What is behind all this?—what is it you have in mind?”

“Only you, dear: you, as you are at this instant. There is nothing but this instant—no past, no future!—there is only now, with you in my arms, and your eyes looking into mine. Oh, if the course of time could be stopped, and this moment last for ever!”

“I should be content,” said Georgiana, taking refuge in the possibility that his manner might be the effect of a transient excess of emotion, such as ardent lovers sometimes experience. “But haven’t we all our lives in which to love each other? We must only guard against your being taken. But you’ll be safe once you are out of England—as you will be by and by—not yet, of course. And then after awhile we shall meet again in France. My only dread is of the separation meanwhile—’tis fearful to think of separation, even for a short time, but doubtless it must be—” She broke off, with a sigh.

“Ay, must be!” Everell replied, in a low voice.

“But it must not be long. I believe my uncle will be glad of an occasion to visit France. And then, when danger and separation are past, what happiness!”

She had, it will be seen, formed her own plans for the future; and had talked of them, too, more than once in the last few days, taking her lover’s acquiescence for granted, as indeed his manifestations of love gave her full right to do. Such initiative on the woman’s side is, by a convention of romancers, assumed to be indelicate; if it be so, then the world must grant that real women are not the delicate creatures they have been taken for. Be that as it may, Georgiana’s dreams of the future had been bitter-sweet hearing to Everell, though he saw nothing indelicate in her mentioning them. Yet he could not bring himself to disillusion her. But now at last, when the hour was drawing near—

“Nay, talk not of the future, dear,” he said, holding her close in his arms, and endeavouring to speak without wildness. “There is only the present, I say. Life is full of uncertainty. Who can tell? This separation—it may be final—we may not see each other again.”

“Now you start my fears again!” cried Georgiana. “You puzzle me to-night, Everell. There’s something in your thoughts—something in your heart. Look at me: you are pale—one would suppose a calamity was before us. What is it? Oh, in the name of heaven, tell me!”

“Nay, ’tis nothing, I protest.—And yet you must know too soon. Why not from me? Who has such love for you as I have? who can feel for you as I can? who would try so fondly to console?”

“You are right, Everell; let me hear it from you! Oh, speak, dear!”

“’Tis—only this, sweetheart,” he said, when he could command his voice: “we are to part soon. I am going away.”

“Soon? How soon? Certainly, you must go to France—but not yet.”

“Ay, that is it, dear: I must go, I know not how soon. Perhaps—this very night.”

“This night? Impossible! You have said nothing to me of going—’tis too unexpected!”

“Forgive me, dear,” he pleaded, simply. “I wished not to cloud our happiness with any thought of separation; so I never spoke of—my day of departure.”

“Nay, but I must have time—to strengthen my heart! And we have arranged nothing yet—in regard to meeting again—no particulars. There is everything to be discussed before you go. This separation—how long is it to last?” Her voice and eyes were on the verge of tears.

“Longer, dear, than I have the heart to tell!—Oh, sweet, forgive, forgive me! When I bargained for one blissful week, ’twas only of myself I thought—I weighed my happiness against only the price I was to pay. I considered not what you might feel—that a week might turn your fancy into love, and make our parting as cruel for you as for me. Forgive me, dearest, and charge the sin to my love of you—my unthinking, inconsiderate love!”

“Nay, dear, there is nothing to forgive,” she said, with sorrowful compassion. “Parting will be hard—heaven knows it will!—but I must set my thoughts on our next meeting. The separation will be—somewhat long, do you say?—ah, that’s sad to hear. How long, Everell?”

He turned his face from her.

“Speak, Everell,” she pleaded; “how long?—a year?”

“Longer than that,” he whispered.

“Longer!—oh, pity me, heaven!”

Besides the doors at either end of this dining-parlour, to the library and the hall, there was at one side a third, which led to the drawing-room. This door now opened, and Lady Strange appeared: seeing the lovers, she closed it gently behind her. They stood clinging to each other, with looks sorrowful and distraught.

“You have told her, then?” she said, in a tone softened by compassion.

“Almost,” replied Everell; and Georgiana began to sob.

“My poor child,” said Lady Strange, “from my heart I grieve for you. Sir, we are all much to blame. Had we foreseen this a week ago!—Would that this week could be recalled, for the sake of this child’s happiness! I have pleaded with Foxwell; but he is determined to deliver you up.”

“What!—deliver—” Georgiana became for a............