“What!—deliver—” Georgiana became for a moment speechless; then uttered a scream, and was like to have fallen to the floor, had not Everell grasped her more tightly in his arms.
“Heaven pity her!—my dear love!”
“Why, then—did she not know?” cried Lady Strange.
“Not the whole truth—only that I was going away.”
He was about to carry Georgiana to a chair, but she suddenly regained her strength.
“Deliver you up!” she said, excitedly. “My uncle shall not! You shall put it out of his power! Escape now, while you may! Go—we’ll meet again.” She essayed to push him toward the hall, keeping her glance the while on the drawing-room door by which her uncle might enter.
“I cannot,” said Everell. “I’ve given him my word—’twas to purchase this week of love, sweet.”
“Your word! He shall not claim it of you! Your word!—oh, heaven help me, you would keep your word though it broke my heart!—honour, you call it!—’tis men’s madness, women are no such fools!—Nay, forgive me, I would not love you else. But he shall not hold you to your word. He shall not deliver you up. He shall release you.” She broke from Everell’s clasp, and flung open the drawing-room door, calling, “Uncle! Uncle!”
Foxwell appeared, with some playing cards in his hand. He was slightly pallid, and wore the frown of one to whom has fallen a vexation he has dreaded.
“Uncle, you will not deliver him up? You will release him from his word? You will let him go free, will you not? ’Tis no gain to you that he should die. Speak!—uncle, tell me you’ll not deliver him up.”