CHAPTER XIV
ROADS
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.”