“H’sh!” warned the other, cautious as ever.
“Good heaven!—if we had killed each other!”
“We should have been served right for not knowing each other. But till this moment I didn’t rightly see you. Your husky voice deceived me: I should never have thought it your voice.”
“’Tis the best voice I can muster at present. But you seem to have two voices.”
“The other was put on—like the muffler, handkerchief, and toothache. I was recognized on my way South after leaving you; and now, coming back through the same country—”
“But why coming back? I supposed you safe in France.”
“I saw her whom I wished to see; but I could not persuade myself to sail without you, or knowledge of you. As days passed and you arrived not—In short, I feared your rash resolve had got you into trouble—”
“And you were coming to my aid! Dear Roughwood!”
“But we lose time. You spoke of a lady.”
“You will recognize her,” said Everell, and hastened to conduct Georgiana into the light. Leaving her and Roughwood to mutual surprise and explanation, he returned to the bar of the inn, and, having overcome the landlady’s refusal of payment, possessed himself of his and Georgiana’s luggage. When he reappeared in the yard, his friend had already handed the young lady into the chaise, and was giving directions to the postilion. Everell was for Roughwood’s taking the place beside Georgiana, but that gentleman cut short all dispute by mounting the bar in front and allowing Everell ten seconds in which to enter the chaise. Before less time had passed, Everell was seated at his Georgiana’s side, her hand was stealing into his, the hostler had closed the door of the chaise, and the postilion had given the word of starting. He drove carefully out through the gate with the solitary lamp, slowly on through the lane to the street, and then for the open road southward, the horses getting up speed at the crack of the whip.