"If I were a kiln,All fire and flame,I'd mantle and girdle theeRound with the same."
"If I were a kiln,All fire and flame,I'd mantle and girdle theeRound with the same."
"If I were a kiln,All fire and flame,I'd mantle and girdle theeRound with the same."
"If I were a kiln,
All fire and flame,
I'd mantle and girdle thee
Round with the same."
Then he caught her round the waist and drew her towards him; but by a sharp turn she freed herself from his grasp.
"No," she said; "one must give way, and that shall not be I."
"Nor I," he said, resolutely, and the blood rose in his cheeks; "I am wholly unwont to give way."
"So am I."
"Then it is—which is strongest."
"Strongest in will—even so; there I doubt if you will surpass me."
"I tell you this is folly, mad folly," said Anthony, with violence; "my happiness—my everything depends on you. I have broken with my father. I am too proud to go back to Hall and say to him, 'Urith has cast me off, now she finds that I am penniless.' What am I to do? I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed, and I have no stewardship in which to be dishonest. If I cannot have you, I have nothing to live for, nothing to work for, nothing, and no one to love." He stamped on the hearthstone. "By heavens, may I be struck dead here if only I get you, for without you I will not live. Let it be as your mother wished, so that I have you."
She remained silent, with hands clasped, looking down—her face set, colourless, and resolved with a certain dogged, sullen fixity.
"Am I to be the laughing-stock of the parish?" asked Anthony, angrily. "Turned out of Hall, turned out of Willsworthy! My father will have naught to do with me because of Urith Malvine, and Urith Malvine will have naught to say to me because of Squire Cleverdon. This is too laughable—it would be laughable if it concerned another than me—but I am the sufferer, I am the ball tossed about and let drop by every hand. I will not be thus treated. I will not be the generally rejected. You must and you shall take me."
"Listen to me, Anthony," said Urith, in tones that hardly vibrated, so complete was her self-control. "If you will not ask your father's pardon——"
"What for? I have done him no harm."
"Well, then, if you will not, go to your father and say I will not take you, and therefore all is to be as before."
"No, that I will not do; I will have you even against your will. You may give me up, but I will not so lightly let you fall."
"Hear me out. If you will not do this, go away from this place."
"Whither?"
"Nay, that is for you to decide. I should say, were I a man, that I could always find a where—in the King's army."
Anthony laughed scornfully. "In the King's forces, that on the accession of the Duke of York will be employed to put down the Protestants, and treat them as they have been treated in Savoy and in France? No, Urith, not at your wish will I do that; but if the Duke of Monmouth or the Prince of Orange were——"
Urith held up her hand. In at the door came her uncle, red and wine-flushed, carrying his viol.
"Halloo!" shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "in vino veritas. Hussey, you don't understand Latin. I have learnt something—slipped out unawares from Moorman Ever. To-morrow—What think you? A Drift."
"A Drift!" For the moment Urith forgot all about the presence of Anthony, in the excitement of the announcement.
"A Drift!" Anthony tossed up his head and clasped his hands, and forgot Urith and all else, for a moment, in the excitement of the announcement.
"Ay," said Uncle Solomon; "and Tom Ever would have bitten out his tongue when he said it, he was so vexed."
A Drift? What is a Drift?
The vast expanse of Dartmoor, occupying nearly a hundred and fifty thousand acres, for the most part, but not altogether, belongs to the Duchy of Cornwall. Considerable, and, in many cases, fraudulent encroachments have been made on Duchy property—slices taken out of it in past times—and the Duchy agents bribed to turn their eyes away; or simply taken and secured to the squatters by prerogative of long squatting unmolested. The main mass of moor constitutes the ancient and Royal forest of Dartmoor; but much waste land exists outside the forestbounds in the possession of private owners, or as common land, over which the lord of the manor has but manorial rights.
Around the circumference of the moor are, and always have been, stationed certain men having a position under the Duchy, corresponding to that of foresters elsewhere. But, as there are no trees on Dartmoor, these men have no care of timber; nor have they, as foresters elsewhere, the custody of the deer, as there are no red deer in this Royal forest. Red deer there were in times past; but they were all destroyed at the close of the last century, when large plantations were made on the moor and in its confines, because the deer killed the young trees.
On account of the rugged and boggy nature of Dartmoor, no Royal hunters had come there since the Saxon kings; consequently, no pains were taken to preserve the deer, and every moorman and squire neighbouring on the wilderness considered that he had a right to supply himself with as much venison from off it as he could eat, and every farmer regarded himself as justified in killing the deer that invaded his fields and swarmed over his crops. The men answering to foresters elsewhere, living under the Duchy, and posted around the borders of the moor, inherited their offices, which passed in families for generations, and it is probable that the Evers, the Coakers, and the Widdecombes of to-day are the direct descendants of the moormen who were foresters under the Conqueror—nay, possibly, in Saxon times.
They are a fine-built race, fair-haired, blue-eyed, erect, better able to ride than to walk, are bold in speech, and perhaps overbearing in action, having none above them save God and the Prince of Wales—theDuke, the only Duke above their horizon.
Around the forest proper is a wide tract of common land, indistinguishable from moor proper, and this does not belong to the Duchy, but the Duchy exerts, for all that, certain rights over this belt of waste. The parishes contiguous on the moor have what are termed Venville rights, that is to say, rights to cut turf and to free pasturage on the moor; the tenants in Venville may be said to have the right to take anything off the moor that may do them good except green oak and venison, or more properly, vertand venison. This has led to the most ruthless destruction of prehistoric antiquities, as every farmer in Venville carries away as his right any granite-stone that commends itself to him as a gate-post, or a pillar to prop a cowshed; sheep, bullocks, and horses are turned out on Dartmoor, and the horses and ponies live in all weathers on the wilderness, defy all boundaries, and ask for no care, no shelter, no winter quarters. Bullocks and sheep have their lairs, and want to be levant and couchant, and to be cared for in winter, and therefore are not driven on to the moors till spring, and are driven off in autumn.
The moor is divided into regions, and over each region is a moorman. In each quarter of the moor a special ear-mark is required for the ponies turned out in that district, a round hole punched in the ear, through which is passed a piece of distinguishing tape, scarlet, blue, white, and black. Ponies wander widely: a herd will disappear from one place and appear at another like magic, in search after pasture; but the moormen of each region claim the fines on the ponies belonging to their region, and, to a certain extent, exercise some sort of supervision over them.
Although every tenant in Venville has an undisputed right to free pasturage, yet it is usual for him to fee the moorman for each horse or beast he sends out, and, if this be refused, he may find his cattle stray to a very remarkable extent, and be liable to get "stogged" in the bogs and be lost.
As horses, etc., that are driven on parish commons, or on moors belonging to private individuals, very often leave these quarters for the broader expanse of the Royal Forest, it is necessary, or deemed advisable, on certain days arbitrarily determined on, without notice to anyone, to have a "Drift." A messenger is sent round in the night or very early in the morning to the Venville tenants, from the moorman of the quarter, to summon them to the Drift; on certain tors are upright holed stones, through which horns were passed and loudly blown, to announce the Drift. All the neighbourhood is on the alert—dogs, men, boys are about, squires and farmers armed with long whips, and formerly with pistols and short swords and bludgeons.
All the ponies and colts on the quarter, not only on Dartmoor Forest, but on all the surrounding zone of wasteland, are driven from every nook and corner by mounted horsemen and dogs, towards the place of gathering, which is, for the western quarter, Merrivale Bridge. The driving completed, a vast number of ponies and horses of all ages, sizes, colours, and breeds, and men and dogs, are collected together in a state of wild confusion. Then an officer of the Duchy mounts a stone and reads to the assembly a formal document with seals attached to it. That ceremony performed, the owners claim their ponies. Venville tenants carry off theirs without objection; others pay fines. Animals unclaimed are driven off to Dinnabridge Pound, a large walled-in field in the midst of the moor, where they remain till demanded, and if unclaimed are sold by the Duchy.[4]
To this day a Drift causes violent altercations; formerly free fights between Venville tenants and those who were outside the Venville parishes were not uncommon, and blood was not infrequently shed. That a Drift should excite a whole neighbourhood to the utmost may be imagined. The dispersion of the horses by the fire on the moor occasioned the Drift at this unusual time of early spring.
The morning was windy, clouds large and heavy were lumbering over the sky, turning the moor indigo with their shade, and where the sun shone the grey grass, as yet untinged with spring growth, was white as ashes.
On the top of Smerdon stood a gigantic moorsman, with lungs like blacksmith's bellows, blowing a blast through a cow's horn that was heard for miles around. But the yelping of dogs, the shouts of men proclaimed that the whole world was awake and abroad, and needed no horn to call to attention. Men in rough lindsey and frieze coats and leather breeches, high boots, with broad hats, wild-looking as the horses they bestrode, and the hounds that bayed about them, galloped in all directions over the turf, shouting and brandishing their long whips. Colts, ponies of every colour, with long manes and flowing tails, wild as any bred on the prairies, leaped, plunged, raced about, snorting, frightened, and were pursued by dogs and men.
Although there was apparent confusion, yet a rude ordermight be observed. All the men were moved by one common impulse—to drive the horses and ponies inwards, and though these frightened creatures often broke the ring that was forming and careered back to the outer downs whence they had been chased, to be pursued again by a host of dogs and men, yet there was observable a rough chain of drivers concentrating towards a point on the Walla, spanned by a bridge under Mistor.
The whole neighbourhood was there—Anthony had come, ashamed to be seen afoot, and yet unwilling not to be there. He saw one of his father's servants on his own horse, and he demanded it; the fellow readily yielded his saddle, and Anthony joyously mounted his favorite roan. Fox Crymes was there with his eye bandaged, and glancing angrily at Anthony out of the one uninjured eye. Old Squire Cleverdon did not come out, he could no longer sit at ease on horseback, and had never been much of a rider. Mr. Solomon Gibbs was out in a soiled purple coat, and with hat and wig—as was his wont—awry. And Urith was there. She could not remain at home on such an occasion as a Drift. Her uncle was not to be trusted to recognise and claim the Willsworthy cobs. He was not to be calculated on. There was a tavern at Merivale Bridge, and there he would probably sit and booze, and leave his colts and mares to take care of themselves. There was no proper hind at the manor, only day-labourers, who were poor riders. Therefore Urith was constrained to attend the Drift herself.
She was the only woman present; Julian Crymes had not come out. When Anthony saw Urith he approached her, but she drew away.
"Why, how now!" shouted Fox. "Whose horse are you riding?"
"My own," answered Anthony, shortly.
"Oh! I am glad to hear it. I understood that you had been bundled out of Hall without any of your belongings; but your father, I suppose, allowed you to ride off on the roan?"
"I will thank you to be silent," said Anthony, angrily.
"Why should I, when even dogs are open-mouthed? And as for Ever and his horn, he is calling everyone tospeak in a scream, so as to be heard at all. Were you allowed to take off oats and hay as well?"
Anthony spurred his horse, to be out of ear-shot of his tormentor; but Fox followed him.
"What was it all about?" he asked. "All the country-side is ringing with the news that you and your father are fallen out, and that he has turned you out of doors; but opinions are divided as to the occasion."
"Let them remain divided," answered Anthony, and dug his spurs in so deeply that his horse bounded and dashed away. Fox no longer attempted to keep up with him, but turned to attach himself to Urith. She saw his intention, and drew near to her uncle, who was in conversation with Yeoman Cudlip.
They were now riding through a broad vale or dip between a range of serrated granite heights to the east, and the great trap-rounded pile of Cox Tor crowned with vast masses of cairn piled about the blistered basaltic prongs that shot through the turf at the summit. These cairns were probably used as beacons, for all were depressed in the middle to receive the heaps of fern and wood that were ignited to send a signal far away to the very Atlantic on the north, from a warning given on the coast of the English Channel.
The turf was free from masses of boulder, but was in places swampy. At the water-shed was a morass with a spring, and from this point the stream had been laboriously worked in ancient times for tin; the bed was ploughed up and thrown into heaps in the midst of the course.
"Look yonder," said Cudlip. "Do you see that pile o' stones with one piece o' granite atop standing up? There's P. L. cut on that. Did you ever hear tell how Philip Lang came by his death there? and how he came to lie there? For I tell y' there he is buried, and it is the mark where Peter Tavy parish ends and Tavistock parish begins, and they say he do lie just so that the parish bound goes thro' the middle of him. It all came about in the times of the troubles between the King and the Parliament. Sir Richard Grenville was in Tavistock, and was collecting men for the King; and Lord Essex came up with the Roundheads, and there was some fighting. Then some of the trainbandmen were out here, and among them was Philip. He was a musketeer; but, bless your soul! he didn't know how to use the piece, and I've heard my father say that was the way with many. It was an old matchlock, and to fire it he had a fuse alight. Lord Essex was skirmishing round the country and Sir Richard had set a picket at this point. Well, Philip Lang, not knowing but the enemy might surprise him from one side or the other, had his fuse alight, and his musket charged. But by some chance or other, the fuse was uncoiled, and the lighted end hung down behind him and touched the horse on the croup. The beast jumped and kicked, and Lang could not make it out, for the fuse was behind him. Every time the horse bounded, the burning end struck him again in another spot, and he sprang about, and ran this way and that, quite mad; and Philip Lang, who was never a famous rider, let go his matchlock, and had hard to do to keep his seat. But, though he had dropped the musket, the fuse was twisted round him and kept bobbing against the horse, and making it still madder. Then the beast dashed ahead across the valley, and went head over heels down into the old miners' works, and Philip was flung where you see that stone, and he never breathed or opened his eyes after. 'Twas a curious thing that he fell just on the boundary of both parishes, and there was no saying whether he lay in one or the other. There was mighty discussion over it. The Peter Tavy men said the body belonged to Tavistock, and the Tavistock men said it belonged to Peter Tavy; and neither parish would bury him, for, you see, he was a poor man, without friends or money."
"Say, rather," threw in Fox, "without money and friends."
"As you like," answered the yeoman, and continued. "Well, it was thought that the parishes would have to go to law over it, to find out which would have to bury him, but after a deal o' trouble they came to an agreement to bury him where he fell, and three Peter Tavy men threw stones over him on one side, and three Tavistock men threw stones the other; and when the stone was set up the Peter Tavy men went to the expense of cutting one letter, P, and the Tavistock men went to the cost of the other letter, L."
"Come," said Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "we are fallen into the rear."
They pricked on, and descended the slope to the River Walla, that foamed and plunged over a floor of broken granite at some depth below. In the valley, where was the bridge, two or three mountain-ash trees grew; there was an inn and by it a couple of cottages. Here was now a scene of indescribable confusion and noise. The wild, frightened horses and ponies driven together, surrounded on all sides by the drivers, were leaping, plunging over each other, tossing their manes and snorting. The ring had closed about them. Every now and then a man dashed among them, on foot or mounted, when he recognized one of his own creatures, and by force or skill separated it from the rest, shouted to the drivers, who instantly opened a lane, and he drove the scared creature through the lane of men back on to the free wild moor. To effect this demanded daring and skill, and the men rivalled each other in their ability to claim their animals, and extricate them from the midst of the crowd of half-frantic creatures plunging and kicking. Neither Urith nor Solomon Gibbs had any intention of attempting such a dangerous feat, but purposed waiting till all other horses had been claimed, when they would indicate their own creatures, and the good-humoured moor-men of their quarter would discharge them. Accordingly they remained passive observers, and the sight was one full of interest and excitement; for the extrication of the horses claimed was a matter of personal danger, and demanded courage, a quick eye, great resolution, and activity.
Fox Crymes had no intention of venturing within the ring; he was standing on foot near Anthony's horse. Anthony was awaiting his time when he would rush in to the capture of his father's colts. All eyes but those of Urith were riveted on the struggle with the horses. There were some tall men, or men on large horses, between her and the herd of wild creatures, and as she could not well see what went on within the ring, she looked towards Anthony.
She was a little surprised at the conduct of Fox. In the first place, he seemed to be paying no attention to what was engrossing the minds and engaging the eyes of therest. He held a little back from Anthony, and was striking a light with a flint and a steel which he had taken from his pocket.
What could be his purpose?
Urith was puzzled. Fox was no smoker.
She noticed that he had a piece of amadou under the flint, and the sparks fell on it; it kindled, and Fox enclosed it within his hollowed hand and blew it into a glow.
Then he looked hastily about him, but did not observe Urith. His bandaged eye was towards her, or he must have seen that she was watching him, and watching him with perplexity.
Then he took three steps forward.
Urith uttered a cry of dismay.
Fox had thrust the fragment of burning amadou into the ear of the horse Anthony rode.
FOOTNOTE:[4]See an article on Venville rights on Dartmoor, by W. F. Collier, Esq, in the Devon Association Transactions for 1887.
[4]See an article on Venville rights on Dartmoor, by W. F. Collier, Esq, in the Devon Association Transactions for 1887.
[4]See an article on Venville rights on Dartmoor, by W. F. Collier, Esq, in the Devon Association Transactions for 1887.
The effect on Anthony's horse was instantaneous. With a snort it bounded into the air, threw back its head, then kicked out and began to dance and revolve, put its head down between the fore-legs, then reared into the air, every violent motion fanning the burning bunch of amadou into stronger heat.
Anthony was taken by surprise, but maintained his seat. The horse quickly scattered those around. One man, struck by the hoofs, was drawn away in a state of unconsciousness. Some men were driven in among the enclosed ponies, but quickly ran away; and, in less time than it takes to write, the circle of lookers-on had reformed, enclosing Anthony on his maddened steed in the same arena with the wild cobs and colts.
A scene of indescribable confusion ensued. The tortured horse bounded in among the throng of ponies, and threw them, if possible, into wilder disorder. All that could be seen for some moments was a tumult of heads, flying manes, hoofs, beasts leaping on and over each other,and Anthony with difficulty, and in extreme danger, carried up and down above the sea of horses' heads and heels. If he had fallen, his brains would have been dashed out in one minute. He knew this, and endeavoured to force his horse by deep spur out of the tangle; but, agonised by the fire in its ear, it disregarded rein and spur. Of its own accord, however, it disengaged itself, or by chance found itself free for an instant from the surrounding tossing, plunging mass of its fellows; and then, with a scream rather than a snort, it dashed right among the surrounding men. They divided at once—not a man ventured forward to catch the rein and stay the mad beast.
In front was the river, with the low wall of the bridge over it, and under the arch, among huge masses of granite, leaped, and roared, and tumbled the Walla, as mad as the frightened moorland ponies—of a rich brown, but transparent, colour, where not whipped into foam.
Anthony's horse was dashing at the wall. The brute's head was now round biting itself, then down between its fore-hoofs, in a frantic paroxysm of kicks. Then it rushed forward, halted, spun round, then leaped with all four feet into the air, uttering screams. Everyone was cowed—no one dared approach, and yet the situation of Anthony was critical. Another bound, maybe, and his horse would be over the wall, and roll with him among the masses of rock big as haystacks, over and among which the river dashed itself to threads and flakes of foam, or went down into one of the wine-dark pools, where the eddies swirled and dissolved their foam before taking another leap.
Instinctively, overawed by one of those waves of feeling which come on men and beasts alike, all sounds ceased, the men no longer spoke, nor did the dogs bark. Only the churning of the colts' and ponies' feet was heard within the living ring of men, and the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of a sheep-bell beyond the river.
The horse was rearing to leap.
At that moment—a shot, and the horse fell like lead. Urith had snatched the pistol from the holster of her uncle's saddle, had leaped to the ground, run forward, and fired.
Silence remained as unbroken as before, save for the tinkle of the sheep-bell, till Anthony disengaged himselffrom his fallen horse, stood up, shook himself, and then a cheer burst from all the men present, who pressed forward to congratulate him.
"Stay!" said Urith, still on the bridge, and with the pistol in her hand. She was white with emotion, and her eyes flaming with wrath. "Listen to me—you—all of you. I saw him do it—I saw him light a ball of tinder and thrust it into the horse's ear, to drive the beast mad."
She looked round—her flashing eyes sought out him of whom she spoke.
"I saw him do it, when all were looking elsewhere after their cobs. He hated him, and he sought this mean, this cruel, this treacherous revenge on him."
She panted, her heart was beating furiously, and the blood rushed to her temples, and then ebbed away again, leaving her giddy.
"Take him!" she cried. "He deserves it. Take him and fling him among the horses, and let them trample him down into the dirt. The man who did what he has done deserves no better."
"Who!—who!—name!" shouted the bystanders.
"Who it was who did this? Did I not name him? It is he." She had caught sight of him with his bandaged eye. "Bring him forward—Fox Crymes."
In a moment Fox was hustled forth out of the throng into the foreground.
"I would," gasped Urith, in quivering fury, "that I had another pistol, and I would shoot you as I have the horse, base, vile coward."
Fox looked at her contemptuously out of his one eye. "It is well that none is in your hand—a maniac should not be trusted with firearms, or should practise them on herself."
"What has he done?" shouted Farmer Cudlip. "What is the charge against him?"
"I say," answered Urith, "that whilst all were engaged looking for their colts, I saw him light a piece of tinder with flint and steel, and then thrust it into the ear of the horse."
Silence followed this announcement. The men had been too surprised to follow her charge when first made.
"What do you say to that, Master Crymes?" asked Cudlip.
"It is a lie," retorted Fox. "She did it herself, so as to make a spectacle and appear as the preserver of her lover."
Again silence, save only for the trampling of the enringed ponies. The sheep-bell had ceased; maybe the sheep that bore the bell was lying down.
Urith spoke slowly, in her deepest tones.
"On the moor there is no law—or only the plain law of God that all can understand and obey. He is a murderer in heart. He tried to kill Anthony Cleverdon, and now he—coward that he is—insults me. Take him up and throw him among the horses."
At once a score of hands were laid on Fox Crymes. It was true, there was no law on the moor. There every man was a law unto himself. The Stannary Court sat but once in the year on the top of one of the central Tors, but that took cognisance only of offences against the mining laws. There was no criminal jurisdiction over the moor lodged anywhere—or, it was supposed that there was none. But then—crime was unknown on Dartmoor.
When an act of violence is to be done, especially when sanctioned by some rough rule of justice, there is no lack of hands to commit it.
Fox Crymes was generally disliked, his stinging tongue, his lack of geniality had alienated every acquaintance from him; the farmers present were rude men of the moor confines, brought under little or no control, kings on their own estate, and free of the moor to do thereon what they listed, take thence what they desired, fight thereon any with whom they were at feud, avenge themselves with their own arms for any wrong done to them. Never had a lawyer been invoked to unravel a doubtful claim, or to settle a dispute. Every knot was, if not cut through with a sword, at all events beaten out with the quarterstaff; and every dispute brought to an end by silencing one side with a bludgeon or a pistol.
In one moment, Fox Crymes was caught up, with a roar of many voices giving consent to the execution of the sentence pronounced by Urith, at once accuser and judge.
"Hold off!" cried Fox, and drew his knife; freeinghimself by a twist of the body from those who held him, and who shrank back at the flash of steel.
His one eye glared. "I will drive it up to the haft in the first man who touches me!" he said.
"Strike it out o' his hand!" shouted Cudlip.
Fox, stabbing with his blade to right and left, backed from his assailants towards the wall. Cudgels were raised and aimed at him, but he dexterously withdrew his arm as each descended. The sight of the drawn weapon kindled the blood of the moor men, and those who had held back at first, now pressed forward to take him.
A shout! the colts and horses had made a rush, a dash, and had broken through the ring. It was quickly reformed, and away after those who had escaped rushed some of the men with their whips whirled about their heads.
This caused a momentary diversion. Anthony took advantage to leave his place by the fallen horse, come forward, and with his elbows force his way through to Crymes, and then, planting himself between Fox and his assailants, he shouted:
"No harm has been done. It was a joke. He and I had sport together, and I hit him in the eye and hurt him; he knows I never designed to injure him. Now he tried a merry prank on me. He designed no hurt to me—but it has gone further than he would, as did mine with him. Hands off—here, Fox, show them we bear each other no malice—here before all, give me your right hand, good friend."
Crymes held back.
Cudgels were lowered, and the men drew away.
Fox slipped his hunting-knive up his sleeve, and sullenly extended his arm.
"You see!" called Anthony, looking round, and not regarding Crymes. "You see! We are good friends, and hearty comrades."
Then he clasped the right hand of Fox. As he did so, the blade slipped down the sleeve into the hand of Crymes, and as Anthony clenched his fingers about those of Fox, they closed on the blade in his hand, which was keen, and cut. He felt the knife, but he did not relax his grasp, and when he drew his hand away it was covered with blood.
"It was a mischance," said Crymes, with a malicious laugh. "You did not give me time to sheath the knife."
"Many a mischance falls between us," answered Anthony, hastily, drawing his glove over the wounded hand, lest it should attract attention.
Then he strode up to Urith, who stood palpitating near.
"I have saved you from yourself to-day," he said.
"Yes—I thank you."
"You can thank me but in one way."
"How so?"
"Give me your hand. Take me forever."
She put her hand into his: "I cannot help myself," she said, in a low tone. "Oh, mother, forgive."
Then she loosed her hand, looked on it, and said, "There is blood!"
The blood had oozed through his glove.
"It is my blood," answered Anthony, "on your hand."
Squire Cleverdon gave no token of relenting towards his son. Bessie had her brother's interests so at heart that she ventured, without sufficient tact, to approach him on the subject, but was roughly repelled. The old man was irritated when she spoke, and irritated when she was silent; for then her eyes appealed to him in behalf of Anthony. The father held out, believing that by so doing he would break down Anthony's resolution. He did not believe in the power of love, for he had never experienced love. His son had taken a fancy, a perverse fancy for this Urith, as a child might take a fancy for a new toy. When the lad had had time to feel how ill it was to be an exile from his father's house, without money, without authority over serving-men, hampered and clipped in every direction and all sides, he would come to a better sense, laugh at his folly, and return to obedience to his father and to the suit for Julian Crymes and Kilworthy.
His heart overflowed with gall against Urith. Thethought of having a poor daughter-in-law could never have been other than distasteful to him, when he had set his mind on the wealthy Julian; but there were special reasons which made the acceptance of Urith impossible to him. She was the daughter of the man over whom he had gained a triumph in the eyes of the world, but it was a triumph full of shame and vexation inwardly. It was due to that man that his married life had been one of almost intolerable wretchedness. Not for a moment did he consider himself to blame in the matter; he cast all the responsibility for his unhappiness on Richard Malvine; on him he heaped all the hate that flamed out of envy at the personal superiority of the latter, jealousy because he had won the heart of his wife, and held it so firm that he—Anthony Cleverdon—had never been able to disengage it and attach it to himself; revenge for all the slights and insults he had received from her unsparing, barbed tongue, slights and insults she had known well how to administer, so as to leave rankling wounds which no time would heal. Even now, as he brooded over his quarrel with Anthony, the sneers, the mockery she had launched at him for his meanness, his pride, his ambition, rose up fresh in his memory, charged with new poison, and rankled in him again. But he did not feel anger against his dead wife for that, but against him who had used her as his instrument for torturing him; and as Richard Malvine was dead, he could but retaliate on his daughter.
Old Cleverdon attributed the worst motives to Urith. Margaret Penrose had married him for his money, and, naturally, Urith Malvine compassed the capture of Anthony, his son, for the same reason; he did not see how he involved himself in contradiction, in that he charged Urith with her attempt to become the wife of his son for the sake of his wealth, as if it were a deadly crime, whilst he himself acted on no other motive than ambition and money-greed. She had entangled the young fellow in her net, and he would tear this net to pieces and release him. He would break down his son's opposition. He was not one to be defeated in what he took in hand, and no better means could be chosen by him for his purpose than making Anthony feel what poverty and banishment signified. Anthony had hitherto had at command what moneyhe needed, and now to be with empty pockets would speedily bring him to reason. To attempt gentle means with his son never occurred to him; he had been accustomed to command, not to persuade. He became harder, more reserved, and colder than before; and Bessie in vain looked for a gentle light to come into his steely eyes, a quiver to come on his firm-set lips, and a token of yielding to flicker over his inflexible features.
And yet the old man felt the absence of his son, and had little sleep at night thinking of him; but never for one moment did he suppose that he would not in the end triumph over his son's whim, and bring the young man back in submission to his usual place.
Luke had been to Hall to see his uncle, in behalf of, but without the knowledge of, young Anthony.
"Oh! tired of keeping him, are you?" asked the old Squire. "Then turn him out of the parsonage. I shall be the better pleased; so will he be the sooner brought to a right mind."
Nothing was effected by this visit. After it, with bent head, full of thought, Luke took his way to Willsworthy. On entering the house, he found Anthony there, in the hall, with Urith and Uncle Solomon, the latter on the settle smoking, with a table before him on which stood cider. The light from the window was full and strong on the toper's face, showing its blotched complexion. Mr. Gibbs appeared to his best when partially shaded, just as a lady nowadays assumes a gauze veil to soften certain harshnesses in her features.
I saddled my horse and away I did rideTill I came to an ale-house hard by the road-side,I called for a glass of ale humming and brown,And hard by the fireside I sat myself down,Singing tol-de-rol-de-rol, tol-de-rol-dee,And I in my pocket had one penny!
I saddled my horse and away I did rideTill I came to an ale-house hard by the road-side,I called for a glass of ale humming and brown,And hard by the fireside I sat myself down,Singing tol-de-rol-de-rol, tol-de-rol-dee,And I in my pocket had one penny!
I saddled my horse and away I did rideTill I came to an ale-house hard by the road-side,I called for a glass of ale humming and brown,And hard by the fireside I sat myself down,Singing tol-de-rol-de-rol, tol-de-rol-dee,And I in my pocket had one penny!
I saddled my horse and away I did ride
Till I came to an ale-house hard by the road-side,
I called for a glass of ale humming and brown,
And hard by the fireside I sat myself down,
Singing tol-de-rol-de-rol, tol-de-rol-dee,
And I in my pocket had one penny!
Uncle Sol sang in subdued tones till he came to the tol-de-rol! when he drew the pipe from the corner of his mouth and sang aloud, rattling his glass on the table. He was not intoxicated, but in that happy, hilarious mood which was his wont, even out of his cups.
"Oh, uncle! do be silent," pleaded Urith. "Here comesMr. Luke, and we want to talk of serious matters, and not of——"
"I in my pocket had one penny!" shouted Uncle Sol, diving into the depths of his pouch and producing the coin in question, which he held out in his open palm; "never got more—never from this confounded place. Squeeze, squeeze, and out comes one penny. Never more. If Anthony can do better with it, let him try. I have done my utmost, toiled and moiled, and at the end of all these years I in my pocket have one penny:—
I tarried all night, and I parted next day;Thinks I to myself, I'll be jogging away—
I tarried all night, and I parted next day;Thinks I to myself, I'll be jogging away—
I tarried all night, and I parted next day;Thinks I to myself, I'll be jogging away—
I tarried all night, and I parted next day;
Thinks I to myself, I'll be jogging away—
but you won't send me off with in my pocket but one penny?"
"We will not send you off at all, uncle," said Urith. "But here is Master Luke. Let us talk the matter over with seriousness, and without snatches of song."
"I can't help myself, I must sing," said Mr. Gibbs. "You say on, and I will warble to myself. It is your affair rather than mine."
Luke looked at Anthony and Urith, who stood near each other. He folded his hands behind his back, that he might conceal the nervous twitching of his fingers.
"What is it, Anthony?" he asked.
"Luke, we want your help. I know very well that this is early times since the death of Urith's mother; but that cannot be helped. I cannot live on upon you longer. You are poor, and——"
"I grudge you nothing that I have."
"I have a vast appetite. Besides, I like to have money of my own to spend; and I am not like Mr. Solomon Gibbs, who has in his pocket one penny, for I have none."
"I will give you what I can."
"I will not take it, Luke; what I have and spend shall be mine own. So Urith and I will ask you to make us one, and give me a right to a penny or two."
Luke was confounded; this was acting with precipitation, indeed. He quite understood that Squire Cleverdon would not receive Urith as a daughter-in-law with open arms, and that he would oppose such an alliance by allmeans in his power. Like Anthony, he supposed that the old man's violence of language and threats of disinheritance meant nothing. He would cut off his right hand rather than give up his ambitions set upon his son. But in the end he would yield to the inevitable, if inevitable this were. But this haste of Anthony in precipitating the marriage, in disregard to all decency, must incense the old father, and, if anything could do so, drive him to act upon his word.
Luke became, if possible, graver; the lines in his face deepened. He withdrew his hands from behind his back.
"Anthony," said he, "this will not do. You are acting with your usual hot-headedness. You have angered your father, and must seek reconciliation and the abatement of his wrath, before you take such a step as this."
"I said so," threw in Urith.
"My father never will yield so long as he thinks that I may be brought to change my mind. When he finds that I have taken the irrevocable step, then he will buckle under."
"And is it for the son to bid the father do this?" asked Luke, with some warmth. "No, I will be no party to this," he added, firmly, and set his thin lips together.
"I love her, and she loves me; we cannot live apart. God has made us for each other," said Anthony; "my father can't alter that; it is God's will."
Luke did not meet Anthony's glowing eyes, his were resting on the ground. He thought of his own love, and his own desolate heart. For a moment the bitterness therein overflowed; he looked up sharply, to speak sharply, and then his eyes fell on the two young things—Anthony big, sturdy, wondrously handsome, and full of joyous life, and at his side Urith, in her almost masculine and sullen beauty. Yes, they were as though made for each other—the bright, light temper to be conjoined to the dark and sombre one, each qualifying, correcting the exuberance in the other, each in some sort supplementing the deficiencies in the other. The harsh words that were on his lips remained unspoken. On the settle Uncle Sol was murmuring his tune to himself, every now and then breaking forth into a louder gush of song, and then at once suppressing it again.
Perhaps it was God's will that these two should belong to each other; perhaps the old hostility, and wrath, andenvy that had embittered the lives of their several parents were to be atoned for by the mutual love of the children. Luke was too true a Christian to believe that the words of hate that had shot like fire-coals from a volcano out of the mouth of Madam Malvine, when dying, could avail aught now. In the better light into which she had passed, as he trusted, in the world of clearer vision and extinguished animosity, of all-enwrapping charity, she must, with inner anguish, repent, and desire to have unsaid those terrible words. The dying utterances of the woman did not weigh with Luke, or, if they had any weight, it was to turn the scale against them. No better comfort to the soul of the dead could be given than the certainty that those words had been reversed and cast aside. Luke passed his hands over his brow, and then said, "I will see your father again, Anthony."
"That will avail nothing; you have spoken with him already. I tell you he will not alter till he sees that his present conduct does not affect me. What can he say or do after I am married? He may, indeed, cut me off with a shilling; but he will not do that. He loves me too well. He is too proud of having founded a family to slay his firstborn. Whom could he make his heir but me? You do not suppose he would leave all to you?"
"No," answered Luke. "If he did—as an extreme measure—it would all come to you. I would not keep one penny of it."
"And I in my pocket——"
"Do be quiet, uncle!" pleaded Urith.
"Then whatcanhe do? He must come round. He is as certain to come round as is the sun that sets every evening in the west."
"I hope so."
"I am sure of it. I know my father better than do you, Luke. See here. Urith has Mr. Solomon Gibbs as her guardian, and he is quite willing."
"Oh, heartily!—heartily!" shouted Mr. Gibbs. "I'm quite incompetent to guardian any one, especially such a defiant little devil as my niece. She snaps her fingers in my face."
Luke stood biting his thumb.
He was as fully confident as was Anthony that the oldman would not leave Hall away from his son. He might be angry, and incensed against Anthony; but his pride in the family position which he had won would never suffer him to disinherit his son, and leave the estate away from him—away from the name.
"I cannot—I cannot!" exclaimed Luke, with pain in his tone, for he felt that it was too great a sacrifice to be required of him that he should pronounce the nuptial blessing over Anthony and Urith. He laboured for breath. His brow was beaded with sweat. His pale face flushed.
"Anthony! this is unconsidered. You must postpone all thought of marriage to a later season. Consider that Urith's mother is but recently dead."
"I know it; but whether now or in three months, or three years, it makes no matter—I shall love her all the same, and we belong to each other. But, see you, Luke, I cannot go on three years—nay, nor three months, and hardly three weeks—without an occupation, and without money, and without a position. I am as impatient as you are for my reconciliation with my father. But we can be reconciled in one way only—through Urith's wedding-ring. Through that we will clasp hands. The longer the delay, the longer the estrangement, and the longer does my father harbour his delusion. If you will not marry me at once to Urith——"
"That I will not."
"Then I shall remain here, and work for her as her steward, look after the farm and the estate, and put it straight for her. Why, this is the time of all the year of the greatest importance to a farmer—the time that my direction is most necessary. I tell you, Luke, I stay here, either as her husband or as her steward."
"That cannot be, that must not be," said Luke, with heat, "and that Urith herself must feel."
Urith did feel it. But Urith's mind was disturbed by what had taken place. She had no knowledge of the world, and Anthony's arguments had seemed to her conclusive, so conclusive as to override her own repugnance to an immediate marriage. She had resolved to give him up altogether, and yet she had yielded; that resolve had gone to pieces. She had resolved that if she did take him it should be at some time in the future, but when he pointed out toher that his only chance of reconciliation with his father was through marriage, as to abandon her was an impossible alternative, and that he was absolutely without work, without a position, without means—sponging on his cousin, a poor curate, then she saw that this, her second resolve, must go to pieces, like the first.
"Anthony," said Luke; "you will have to go away for a year—for some months at the least."
"Whither?—To whom?"
"Surely Justice Crymes knows of——"
"How can I accept any help from him when I refuse his daughter, and when I have blinded his son?"
"That is true—and your mother had no relatives?"
"None that I know of but my grandmother, who is with you."
"Then go to sea."
"I have no taste to be a sailor."
"Be a soldier?"
"No, Luke, here I can serve Urith—save Willsworthy from going to destruction. It is not a bad estate, but has been mismanaged. Here I can be of utility, and here I can be a help to Urith, and find work that suits me, and which I understand. It seems plain to me that Willsworthy is crying out for me to come and take it in hand; and, unless it be taken in hand at once, a whole year is lost."
"That is true," threw in Solomon Gibbs, whose great eagerness now was to be disembarrassed of a task that was irksome to him, and obligations that were a burden. "You see, I was never reared to the farm, but to the office. I can draw you a lease, but not a furrow; make a settlement, but not a turf-tye. I wash my hands of it all."
"Then, in God's name," said Luke, in grey pallor, and with quivering features, "if it must be, then so be it. May be His finger points the way. As you will. I am at your service—but not for one month. Concede me that."
"From to-day," said Anthony. "So be it. That is fixed."
Sunday morning. A more idyllic and peaceful scene than Peter Tavy Church on Sunday could hardly be found. The grand old granite church with its bold grey tower and rich pinnacles standing among trees, now bursting with leaf; overhead, the soaring moors strewn with rock; the river or brook bounding, brawling down between the hills, with a pleasant rush that filled the air with a fresh, never-failing music.
The rooks cawing, pee-whits calling, larks thrilling, wood-pigeons cooing, and the blackbirds piping during the pauses of the church-bells. And within the church, after the service had begun, when the psalm was not sung, as an accompaniment to the parson's prayer came in through the open door, with the sweet spring air and the sunlight, and through the ill-set and cracked wavy-green glass of the windows—that wondrous concert of Nature. As an organist sometimes accompanies the Confession and the Creed and Lord's Prayer, with a subdued change of harmonies on the instrument, so did mighty awakening Nature give its changing burden to this voice of prayer within, without a discord, and never unduly loud.
A quaint old church, with fragments of stained glass in the windows, with old oak-carved benches representing on shields various strange sea-monsters, also rabbits running in and out of their holes, moor-birds fluttering over their young, and along with these symbols of trade, a spit with a goose on it, a flax-beating rack, a sheaf of wheat, and a sickle, and again the instruments of the Lord's Passion, and armorial bearings of ancient families, a queer jumble of subjects sacred and profane, a picture of human life. The screen existed almost intact, richly sculptured and gilt, and painted with the saints and apostles. Above this a great Royal Arms.
The church was full. In the great carved pew, mentioned in a former chapter, were the Crymes family; in another, newly erected, were Squire Cleverdon and hisdaughter. Urith and her uncle sat in the old bench belonging to the Willsworthy Manor; the family had not had the stray cash at command to replace this with a deal pew, according to the new fashion. Anthony was within the screen, in the rectory seat.
Looking through the screen, he could see his father, with his blue coat—the collar dusted over with powder—his dark eyebrows and sharp features. The old man looked straight before him, and purposely kept his eyes away from the chancel and his son when he stood up during Psalm and Creed.
The Second Lesson was read, and then ensued a pause. Even Anthony's heart gave a leap and flutter then, for he knew what was to follow.
Luke, in distinct tones, but with a voice in which was a slight tremor, announced: "I publish the banns of marriage between Anthony Cleverdon, of this parish, bachelor, and Urith Malvine——"
He was interrupted by a strange noise—something between a cry of pain and the laugh of a madman. Squire Cleverdon, who had risen to his feet on the conclusion of the Lesson, had fallen back in his pew, with livid face and clenched hands.
The curate waited a moment till the commotion was abated; then he proceeded—"Urith Malvine, of this parish, spinster. If any of you know any just cause why these persons may not be joined together in holy matrimony——"
Squire Cleverdon staggered to his feet, and, clasping the back of the pew with both hands, in a harsh voice that rang through the church, cried, "I forbid the banns."
"This is the first time of asking." Luke proceeded, with a voice now firm: "If any objection be raised, I will hear it immediately after Divine Service."
Little attention was given through the rest of public worship to anything save the old father, his son, and to Urith. All eyes wandered from the Cleverdon pew, in which the Squire sat screened, and in which he no more rose, to Anthony in the chancel, and then to Urith, who was deadly pale.
Luke's sermon may have been eloquent and instructive; not a person in the congregation gave heed to it.
There was another person present who turned white at the announcement, and that was Julian Crymes; but she speedily recovered herself, and, rising, looked across the church at Urith with eyes that flamed with jealousy and hate. Her hand clenched her gloves, wrapped together in it. Yes, that wild moor-girl had won in the struggle, and she—the rich, the handsome Julian—was worsted. Her heart beat so furiously that she was afraid of leaning against the carved oak sides of the pew lest she should shake them. Her eye encountered that of her half-brother, twinkling with malice, and the sight gave back her self-possession; she would not let Fox see, and triumph over her confusion.
The congregation waited with impatience for the conclusion of the service, and then, after defiling into the churchyard, did not disperse; they tarried to hear the result of the objection raised to the publication.
Urith hastened away with her uncle, but she had difficulty in persuading him to go with her. He had so many friends in the churchyard, there was such a topic for discussion ready; but her will prevailed over his, and after a forlorn look back at his friends, and a shrug of the shoulders, he left with her.
But Anthony remained with head erect; he knew that no objection his father could make would avail anything. He nodded his head to acquaintances, and held out his hand to friends with his wonted confidence; but all showed a slight hesitation about receiving his advances, a hesitation that was so obvious that it angered him. He was at variance with his father, and the father held the purse-strings. All knew that, and none liked to be too friendly with the young man fallen out of his fortune, and out of place.
Fox alone was really friendly. He pushed forward, and seized and shook Anthony's hand, and congratulated him. The young man was pleased.
"Bygones are bygones," said Fox, whose eye was covered with a patch, but no longer bandaged. "My sight is not destroyed, I shall receive it again, the doctor says. As for that affair on the moor, at the Drift—you know me better than to suppose I meant you harm."
"Certainly I do," answered Anthony with warmth. "Just as you knew that when I struck you with the glove,I had not the smallest desire to hurt you. It was—well, what you like to call it—a passage of arms or a frolic. It is over."
"It is over, and all forgotten," said Fox. "You will not be deterred by your father's refusal to give consent to this marriage?"
"Certainly I will not," answered Anthony. "He will come round in time. It is but a question of time."
There was no vestry. Old Cleverdon waited in the church till Luke had taken off his surplice, and then went up to him in the chancel.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, rudely. "How dare you—who have eaten of my bread, and whose back I clothed, take the part of Anthony against me?"
Luke replied gravely, "I have done my office; whoever asks me to read his banns, or to marry him, I am bound to execute my office."
"I will send to the rector, and have you turned out of the cure."
"You may do so, if you please."
Luke maintained his calm exterior. The old man was trembling with anger.
"If you have objections to the marriage, state them," said Luke.
"Objections! Of course I have. The marriage shall not take place. I forbid it."
"On what grounds?"
"Grounds!—I do not choose that it shall take place; let that suffice."
"That, however, will not suffice for me. I am bound to repeat the banns, and to marry the pair, if they desire it, unless you can show me reasons—legitimate reasons—to make me refuse. Anthony is of age."
"Heshallnot marry that hussy. I will disinherit him if he does. Is not that enough? I will not be defied and disputed with. I have grounds which I do not choose to proclaim to the parish."
"Grounds I know you have," answered Luke gravely; "but not one that will hold. Why not give your consent? Urith is not penniless. Willsworthy will prove a good addition to Hall. Your son loves her, and she loves him."
"I will not have it. He shall not marry her!" again broke from the angry man. "He does it to defy me."
"There you are in error. It is you who have forced him into a position of estrangement, and apparent rebellion, because you will not suffer him to obey his own heart. He seeks his happiness in a way different from what you had mapped out; but it ishishappiness, and he is better able to judge what conduces thereto than are you."
"I do know better than he. Does it lead to happiness to live separated from me—for I will never see him if he marries that hussy? Will it be to his happiness to see Hall pass away into other hands? Never, so help me God! shall he bring her over my threshold—certainly never as mistress. Answer me that."
The blood mounted to Luke's cheeks, and burnt there in two angry spots.
"Master Cleverdon," he said, and his voice assumed the authority of a priest, "your own wrongdoing is turning against you and yours. You did Urith's father a wrong, and you hate him and his daughter because you know that you were guilty towards him. You took from him the woman he loved, and who loved him, and sought to build your domestic happiness on broken hearts. You failed: you know by bitter experience how great was your failure; and, instead of being humbled thereby, and reproaching yourself, you become rancorous against his innocent child."
"You—you, say this! You beggar, whom I raised from the dunghill, fed, and clothed?"
"I say it," answered Luke, with calmness, but with the flame still in his cheek, "only because I am grateful to you for what you did me, and I would bring you to the most blessed, peace-giving, and hopeful state that exists—a state to which we must all come, sooner or later—some soon, some late, if ever we are to pass into the world of Light—a knowledge of self. Do not think that I reproach you for any other reason. You know that I speak the truth, but you will not admit it—bow your head and beat your breast, and submit to the will of God."
The Squire folded his arms and glared from under his heavy eyebrows at the audacious young man who presumed to hold up to him a mirror.
"You will not refrain from reading these banns?"
"Not without just cause."
"And you will defy me—and marry them?"
"Yes."
The old man paused. He was trembling with rage and disappointment. He considered for a while. His face became paler—a dusky grey—and the lines between his nostrils and the corners of his mouth hardened and deepened. Forgetting that he was still in the church, he put his hat on his head; then he turned to walk away.
"I have shown all—all here, that I am against this; I have proclaimed it to the parish. I will not be defied with impunity. Take care you, Luke! I will leave no stone unturned to displace you. And as for Anthony, as he has made his bed so shall he lie—in his pigstye. Never—I call God to my witness—never in Hall."
As he passed through the richly-sculptured and gilt and painted screen, an old woman stepped forward and intercepted him on his way to the church door.
He put out his hand impatiently, to wave her away, without regarding her, and would have thrust past. But she would not be thus put aside.
"Ah, ha! Master Cleverdon!" she exclaimed, in harsh tones. "Look at me. Do you not know me—me, your wife's mother. Me, whom you threatened with the stick should I venture through your doors to see my daughter?"
Old Cleverdon looked at her with a scowl. "Of course I know you—you old beldame Penwarne."
"There is a righteous God in heaven!" cried the old woman, with vehemence—extending her arms to bar his passage. "Now will he recompense to you all the heartache and misery you brought on my child—aye, and through your own child too. That is well! That is well!"
"Stand aside!"
"I will not make a way for you to go," continued the old woman. "If you venture to go away until I have spoken, I will run after you and shriek it forth in the churchyard where all may hear. Will you stay now?"
He made no further attempt to force his way past her.
"You thought that with your money you could buy everything—even my child's heart; and when you found you could not, then you took her poor heart, and trampled on it; you spurned it; and you trod it again and againunder your cursed foot till all the blood was crushed out of it." Her eyes glowed, there was the madness of long-retained and fostered hate in her heart. "You made a wreck of her life, and now your own child spurns you, and tramples on all your fatherly love, laughs at your ambition, mocks all your schemes, and flings back your love in your face as something too tainted, too base, to be worth a groat. Ah, ha! I have prayed to see this day. I see it, and am glad. Now go."
She stepped on one side, and the Squire walked down the church. In the porch he found Bessie, or rather Bessie found him, for he did not observe her. She put her hand on his arm, and looked earnestly, supplicatingly into his eyes. He shook off her hand, and walked on.
Half the congregation—nearly all the men, and a good many of the women, were in the churchyard in groups, talking. Fox was with Anthony, but as soon as the Squire appeared, he fell from him and drew back near one of the trees of the church avenue, and fixed his keen observant eye on the old man. But every other eye was on him as well. Cleverdon came slowly, and with that mixture of pomposity and dignity which was usual with him, but which was this day exaggerated, down the avenue, he nodded and saluted with his hat the acquaintances whom he observed, but he said no word of greeting to any one. Presently he came opposite his son, then he stayed his foot, looked at him, and their eyes met. Not a muscle was relaxed in his face, his eye was cold and stony. Then he turned his head away, and walked on at the same leisurely pace.
The blood boiled up in Anthony's arteries. A film passed over his sight and obscured it, then he turned and went down another path, and abruptly left the graveyard.