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 candles he lighted, to be devoted to the exercise of his master’s functions as justice of the peace. Near one end was a large table whereon were an inkstand, pens, and a few weighty-looking books. The walls were paneled in oak, and the bare floor was of the same wood. There were two armchairs drawn up to the table, and two before the fireplace, while oak settles stood against the wall. The servant fanned the smouldering fire into a blaze, put on a fresh log, and left the apartment.
Everell had been looking at a door in the side of the room, near the table. It was slightly ajar, and its key was in place,—two indications that it sheltered no secret. As soon as he and Georgiana were alone, Everell led her hastily to it, and, throwing it open, discovered a large closet containing a disorderly array of shabby cloaks, wigs, whips, hats and such, on pegs; and old record books piled in a corner.
“’Tis none so roomy, but ’twill do at a pinch,” said Everell. “I think it best you should be out of sight altogether, miss. I can tell my story better. I must command you to enter.” And he gently pushed her into the closet. “Do not dare to cry out; and when I open the door to fetch you, be veiled, cloaked, and silent, as you are now. Remember!—or injury will be done.—Stay, those books will serve you to sit on—you will be tired standing.” He guided her to the pile of old volumes, and then came out of the closet, and locked the door. The key, long unused save as a door handle, turned hardly, and he had difficulty in getting it from the lock in order to pocket it. As he was in the act of drawing it out, a heavy step made him glance around. He beheld a robust-looking man with a red face, who stood regarding him with pugnacious astonishment.
“Your servant, sir,” said Everell, with an easy bow. “Mr. Thornby, I believe.”
“That’s my name, sir,” said the Squire, bluntly. “Might I ask what you’re doing at that there closet door, sir?”