“I could make a good guess at the general event,” answered the lady. “The rebel goes free, and pretty Georgiana marries for love.” “For love!” said Foxwell. “Hardly so, I fear.” “Certainly. For love of one man, she marries another. ’Tis often done—especially in France. ’Tis a plan that has its beauties.” “I’m afraid Georgiana is too English to see its beauties,” said Rashleigh, as Foxwell sat down to write his letter. Return we to another writer, in the adjoining room. Everell had found the book from which Georgiana had been reading to him, which he had dropped in going to support her when she seemed about to faint. He had scarce begun to pencil his message on a blank leaf, when Prudence looked in at the door. “Oh, ’tis here your honour is, sir; and sure I’m sorry you’re going away so suddent,” she said, advancing. “When Caleb told me just now, I couldn’t believe my ears, and I wouldn’t yet, neither, if I didn’t see your cloak and bag, more’s the pity.” “Yes, I am going,” said Everell, handing her the reward of merit. “Oh lor, sir, what princely generosity! I’m sure I aren’t no ways deserving of such! It reely breaks my heart, begging your Honour’s pardon, to see how things have come about. After all that’s took place this past week, to hear of this marriage—’tis enough to make one think of witchcraft—” “This marriage? What marriage?—whose?” “Why, this here marriage, in course. Bean’t that what sends your Honour away all of a suddent at such a time o’ night?” “Whose marriage? Speak, Prudence!—in a word, whose?” “Why, mistress’s marriage, to be sure. Whose else in the world—” “Mistress’s mar—! What mistress?” “Mistress Georgiana Foxwell, in course: I don’t own to no other mistress, I’m sure.” The maid drew back from Everell, wondering if the loss of his sweetheart had affected his wits. “Mistress Georgiana! Are you mad, Prudence? What do you mean?” “Mad, sir? Not me! I scorn the word. ’Tis my betters I takes to be mad, to go and make a match of it with a gentleman she’s scarce set eyes on, be he ever so rich.” “What gentleman do you speak of? Truly I think you _are_ mad.” “I’m a-speaking of Squire Thornby, sir, who but he? Sure then, haven’t they told your Honour?” “Squire Thornby?” repeated Everell, with but vague recollection of the little he had heard of that person. “A neighbour of Mr. Foxwell’s, isn’t he?” “Yes, with a large estate, I’ve heard say. ’Tis all I know of him, barring they’ve arranged he shall marry my mistress; though that’s quite enough, heavens knows, and you could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard as much.” “But ’tis impossible! They little know her: let them arrange as they will, she will never consent.”