“Nay, sweet, you go too far,” said Everell, tenderly.
“Too far, indeed,” said Foxwell. “No scenes of supplication, I beg,—they are sure to make me more severe. I advise you to go to your chamber, miss. You had best oblige me in this, else stubbornness on your part may awaken stubbornness on mine.”
“Go, dear, and trust all to me,” counseled Everell, who had been regarding her with eyes in which there was no attempt to belie his love. “Go—this is not the end.”
She looked at him a moment; then turned sorrowfully away, and went slowly up the steps and to the house, followed by her maid, to whose proffers of assistance she gave no more heed than if she had been walking in a dream.
“Sir,” said Everell, with a slight huskiness of voice, “let me assure you that I am a gentleman and a man of honour; and that I respect your niece, and have every reason to respect her, as I would a saint.”
“No assurance is needful to convince me you are a gentleman,” replied Foxwell. “I will lodge you in a manner as nearly befitting your quality as security and my poor means will allow. I must be your jailer for to-night, at least.—Caleb, go before with the lantern. To the hall first. And slowly.—I trust you can make shift to walk, sir.”
Placing the gardener and the groom at either side of the prisoner, and the keeper at his rear, Foxwell set the party in motion. The two gentlemen, following close, gave their arms to the ladies upon reaching the head of the steps, and the procession went on at the slow pace which Everell’s ankle-cords made imperative.
“A mighty pretty fellow, whatever he may be,” said Lady Strange, sotto voce.
“Georgiana is to be envied,” said Mrs. Winter. “Such are the rewards of virtue.”
“He is vastly in love with her,” declared Lady Strange. “Did you ever see such tender glances?”