An evening so clearI would that I wereTo kiss thy soft cheekWith the faintest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly above,I would that I wereTo en-lighten my love.
An evening so clearI would that I wereTo kiss thy soft cheekWith the faintest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly above,I would that I wereTo en-lighten my love.
An evening so clearI would that I wereTo kiss thy soft cheekWith the faintest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly above,I would that I wereTo en-lighten my love.
An evening so clear
I would that I were
To kiss thy soft cheek
With the faintest of air.
The star that is twinkling
So brightly above,
I would that I were
To en-lighten my love.
He played very softly, and as he played the words of the song formed and passed faintly over Urith's lips. She may have recalled that evening when Anthony sang it, coming up the hill, and so was carried away from the torturing present back into a pleasant past.
If I were the seas,That about the world run,I'd give thee my pearls,Not retaining of one.If I were the summer,With flowers and green,I'd garnish thy temples,And would crown thee my queen.
If I were the seas,That about the world run,I'd give thee my pearls,Not retaining of one.If I were the summer,With flowers and green,I'd garnish thy temples,And would crown thee my queen.
If I were the seas,That about the world run,I'd give thee my pearls,Not retaining of one.If I were the summer,With flowers and green,I'd garnish thy temples,And would crown thee my queen.
If I were the seas,
That about the world run,
I'd give thee my pearls,
Not retaining of one.
If I were the summer,
With flowers and green,
I'd garnish thy temples,
And would crown thee my queen.
She was quieter, lying with eyes closed, murmuring the words as Uncle Sol played in the room below.
If I were a kiln,All in fervour and flame,I'd catch thee, and then beConsumed in—the—same.
If I were a kiln,All in fervour and flame,I'd catch thee, and then beConsumed in—the—same.
If I were a kiln,All in fervour and flame,I'd catch thee, and then beConsumed in—the—same.
If I were a kiln,
All in fervour and flame,
I'd catch thee, and then be
Consumed in—the—same.
Luke lightly raised his hand, and put his finger to his lip.
Urith was asleep.
Bessie was in the garden, the following afternoon, with scissors and an apron pinned up, trimming her flowers, yet with her mind away from the plants; she was unhappy on her own account, yet strove after resignation, and she felt the consciousness of having done right in sacrificing herself for her father. He must now behave more kindly towards her; be more ready to listen to her intercessionfor poor Anthony. Poor Anthony! she had heard that morning that he was gone, gone to extreme risk, and that Urith was in danger. She had resolved that now she must go to Willsworthy and see her sister-in-law, and be of what use to her she could. Her father could no longer forbid that. Even if he did, in that she would not obey him.
She was stooping over her plants, with tears in her eyes, snipping, picking off dead flowers and leaves, and tying up the carnations, when she heard behind her the voice of Fox.
"What!—busy?"
She winced, but rose, and with a little hesitation, held out her hand to him.
"Yes," she said, "I must do something with my hands to keep my thoughts from resting on troubles."
"Troubles! what troubles?"
Bessie gave him a look of reproach. "I must feel anxious about my brother, and also for Urith. How is it that you did not go as well as your father and my Anthony, to draw a sword for the good cause?"
"You ask that? Why, you are my attraction. I cannot leave you to venture my precious life in crack-brain undertakings. Before either of them returns, I suppose we shall be married."
"I am ready to fulfil my promise at any time," said Bessie.
"The sooner the better. Your father has already sent a messenger for a licence. I shall not rest till you are mine."
Bessie knew that what Fox desired was to have his foot in Hall, and be established there in the position of heir, and that his pretence of caring for her was hollow. A colour came into her cheeks like the carnations she was tying up. "Enough of that," she said; "you know the conditions on which I take you?"
"Conditions! On my soul I know of none."
"I told you that I did not love you, that I never had felt any love for you."
"You had the frankness to inform me of that, and to say that you had thrown your heart away on some one else, who declined the gift altogether."
Bessie bowed her head over her flowers.
"Yes, you told me that as we walked in the mud on the road; and then you refused me, but changed your mind before many hours had passed. I have no doubt that, when I am your husband, you will learn to love and admire me. However, this is no condition."
"No condition?" asked Bessie, rising, and looking him in the face. "Surely it is. I will take you, as you insist on it, and as my father desires it; but it must be on the understanding that you do not ask of me at once what is not in my power to give, I will try to love you, I promise you. I will strive with my whole heart to give you all I undertake; but I cannot do that at once."
"Oh! you call that a condition. It is well. I accept it." There was a veiled sneer in his tone.
"Then, again," continued Bessie, "I made my father promise, if I gave my consent, that he would try to forgive Anthony."
"What!—forgive and reinstate him?" asked Fox, sharply.
"There was nothing said about reinstating him. I suppose that my father and you have talked about Hall, and everything that concerns the property, and that you understand the circumstances fully."
"To be sure I do," said Fox.
"Then, of course, I said nothing to him about reinstating Anthony, except in his old place in my father's heart. I believe that he will, himself, be glad to forgive the past. He cannot have cast out all the old love for, and pride in Anthony."
"And he has promised that?"
"He has promised to try and forgive him. And now, Fox—I mean Tony Crymes—you are ready to take me, knowing that I do not love you, and can only try to render you that love which will be due from a wife to a husband?"
"Oh, yes! I take you as you are."
Of course he would. It was indifferent to him whether Elizabeth loved him or not, so long as his ambition and greed were satisfied.
"You see, Bess, I have a sharp tongue, and have made many enemies with it, who say in return sharp things of me, but with this difference—I say these things to their faces, they malign me behind my back. When we aremarried you will know me better, and not believe all you hear said of me."
Bessie slightly shook her head, and stooped again over her carnations.
"There is one thing further," she said; "you must help me to persuade my father to be completely reconciled to Anthony."
"To be sure I will," answered Fox. "You want to see how good a fellow I am, in spite of all that is said of me. Here, take my hand, in token that I will do all you ask of me."
He gave her a cold, moist hand.
"And you promise me," she said, taking it, "on your honour that you will stand by me and back me up when I try to bring Anthony and my father together once more on the old terms?"
His mistrust was roused, and he did not answer at once. Her frank grey eyes rested full on his face, and his eyes fell before her steady glance.
"I will do what you will," he said; "but I do not suppose that your father will prove as wax in our hands, to mould as we like. Anthony has too deeply offended him, and Urith he will never see."
They dropped hands, for at that moment Julian entered the garden.
"I will go, see your father at once, and make trial in this matter," said he.
"You will find him in his room; he is looking at some papers."
Fox walked away, giving Julian a nod and a sneer as he passed, and entered the house.
Julian came hastily up to Bess.
"My dear Bessie! Is it true? Are you really going to take my brother? It cannot—it must not be. It is intolerable to be in the house with him when one is master, and he there only on sufferance; but to have him lord superior, and to be his slave!" Julian shivered.
"It is settled. I have passed my word, and I will not withdraw it."
"Bess! And after the lesson you have had from Anthony!"
"How a lesson, Julian?"
"Why, dear child, a lesson that it does not answer to marry without love."
"Surely, Julian, there was love there, on both sides."
"Oh! love! A passing caprice. Do you not know that Anthony always loved me? Why has he gone off to join the Duke of Monmouth? Do you suppose it is because he cares so greatly for the Protestant cause? Nay, wench, it is that he may escape from me—and from the sight of Urith. I am dangerous, Urith is odious to him. Better be where balls are flying than where my eyes flash with temptation and Urith's dart with jealousy."
"Julian! how canst thou speak thus?" Bessie stepped back from her visitor, without offering to take her extended hands.
"Nay! do not be so offended. What I speak is the truth, and it all comes of marrying where there is no true affection. I am holding up thy brother as a warning to thee. Dost think that Fox cares a rush for thee? Not half a rush—all he looks to is Hall; he takes thee because he cannot have Hall without thee; and to have Hall is double pleasure to him, for he will have the place as his own, spiced with the satisfaction of having robbed his friend of it."
"I cannot help myself. I have passed my word, and stand to it."
"Look how things are now at Willsworthy. There is Urith dying, maybe; and Anthony far away. I hope she may die. It is best so, for she will have no happiness any more with Anthony. He is weary of her, he has found out that he cannot find his rest in her, his heart is with me. It has come back to me. It flew away a little while, and now it has returned. Anthony is mine. He does not belong any more to Urith."
"Shame on you!" said Bessie. "But I am glad you have spoken on this matter. You have acted sinfully, you have striven to turn Anthony from his duty."
"I have done so. Urith and I have wrestled a hitch together, and I have given her the turn, a fair back—three points. That is what she knows, and she is eating her heart out at the thought."
"Do you know what has happened? Urith has become a mother of a dead child."
"Is it so?" Julian was startled and changed colour. She had not heard this, she only knew that Urith was ill.
"She is in high fever and derangement of mind. If you have driven Anthony away, driven him to his death in the battle-field, and Urith also dies, then there will be the lives of all three you will be answerable for. It may be that Anthony was too hasty in marrying Urith, but once married, you should have left him alone. I do not believe, Julian, that he ever loved you. No, you may look at me in anger and doubt, but I am sure of it; I am his sister, I have seen and heard him, and if you fancy that he ever loved you, you are utterly in error. He never did. He never loved any girl till he saw Urith. She was his first love, not you. No, you never stirred his heart. He liked you. It flattered his vanity to see that you admired, almost worshipped him, but love you he did not. No, Julian, never—never! Urith was his first love, and, please God! will remain his only love."
Julian Crymes turned deadly white, and clenched her hands against her bosom.
"I saw what you were doing at that dance at the Cakes. Then you strove to draw him from his wife—then you threw the seeds of mistrust into her heart! You played a cruel and wicked game. But do not think, even although you may for a while have lured Anthony away from his wife, that you will separate them for ever. No! She was his first love, and to her he will return with redoubled love when this misunderstanding, this estrangement, is at an end—that is to say, if they live."
Bessie did not speak reproachfully, but sadly.
"Julian, you have been thoughtless, not malicious. I can tell you what the end will be, if Anthony do come back and find Urith dead. He will not go to you, and throw himself at your feet. No; he will hate you with a hatred that will be lasting as his life. He will look on you as—if not his wife's murderer—at all events, as one who engalled the last hours of her life—who drew briars and thorns between them, tearing their hearts when they last met. What passed between them I cannot say; but something must have—something terrible—to account for her present condition, and for his absence. You are answerable for that. Your thoughtlessness, and Anthony's loveof flattery, have contrived to ruin a home. Anthony and Urith might have been happy parents of a sweet, innocent little one, who would have bowed the heart of his grandfather, and wiped off it all the rust that has gathered there. That little life, with all it might have been to itself, or to others, is destroyed—by you! You and Anthony broke the heart of Urith, and brought about what has taken place. You cannot give back the little life—you cannot mend the wreckage of happiness you have brought about. Pray to God to have pity on you, and forgive you your sins!"
"I have no cause to repent," answered Julian; but she did not speak with her old confidence, and she spoke with veiled eyes, resting on the gravel of the walk. "I am sorry Urith is ill. I am sorry that she and Anthony are disappointed in their hopes. I have always loved Anthony. There is no sin in that. If Urith succeeded in drawing him away from me to whom he was all but assured, must I not feel it? May I not resent it? She stole him from me, and the blessing at the altar does not hallow her theft."
"What are you saying!" exclaimed Bessie, fixing her eyes on Julian. "Is it not a sin to love a man who has sworn before heaven that he will be true to one, and one only, and that not yourself? Is it not a sin to endeavour to make him false to his oaths?"
"I cannot force him to be true to Urith, and to love her. You are going to marry Fox. You will swear to love and honour him, and you know you can do neither. You will swear and be false to your oath, for it is an impossibility to keep it. Anthony swore, but he could not keep his oath, he found out that he had make a mistake——"
"You tried to persuade him that he had. Be sure he will return to Urith with tenfold deeper, sincerer love, and will bitterly rue that he let himself be deluded by you."
Julian stood brooding, with her eyes on the ground. She recalled how Anthony had brushed out her initials linked with his, and interwoven in their place his own with those of Urith.
"There," said she, hastily, "I came here for something else than to be judged and condemned by you."
"I neither judge nor condemn you," answered Bessie,"but I tell you the truth. Anthony can never be yours, not even if Urith dies. He never did love you."
Julian stamped. "You do not know—he did, and I loved him."
"What token did he give that he cared for you?—answer me now."
"I loved him, I love him still. In love all is fair. If I thought he did not love me——"
"Well," said Bessie, "what?" She looked steadily into Julian's eyes.
"I would dash my head against the stones, and kill thought for ever."
The marriage took place so speedily after the report of the engagement as to take every one by surprise; for everywhere a wedding is expected to be much discussed and prepared for beforehand. In the case of Fox and Bessie, all was over almost as soon as it was known to be in the air.
No great ceremony was made of it. Indeed, there was not time to make great preparations; nor did Squire Cleverdon care for display, or, on this occasion, for expense. His one desire was to have it over, and Fox settled in his house, for his affairs were causing him the utmost alarm—they were gathering to a crisis. It was with them but a matter of days; and, unless Fox were married to Bessie before the crisis arrived and became known, it was possible that the engagement, on which now all his hopes for the salvation of the property hung, might be broken off.
The licence was obtained, and almost simultaneously came the grant from the Garter King of Arms, and Clarenceaux King of Arms, "of the South, East, and West parts of England, from the River Trent southwards," to the effect that "whereas His Majesty, by warrant under his Royal Signet and Sign Manual, had signified to the Most Noble the Earl Marshal that he had been graciously pleased togive and to grant unto Anthony Crymes, Gent., son and heir apparent to Fernando Crymes, Esquire," the licence to bear henceforth the arms and name of Cleverdon, in lieu of that of Crymes; that therefore a patent to this effect was issued, etc. Consequently, Anthony Crymes was married, not in his paternal name, but in that which he had acquired.
The day was grey and sunless, with a raw northeast wind blowing.
Bessie returned, after the marriage, to the house where she had been born, and Fox came with her. She went to her old room, and there laid aside her wedding-dress, and then came quietly down the stairs into her father's chamber, where she patiently awaited him.
The old man had been giving orders without, and she heard his voice in the passage. She had not long to wait before he came in.
He looked at her with lifted eyebrows, and took off his hat, and asked what she wanted there.
"One word with you, dear father," said she, gently.
"Very well; make haste—I am busy. There is much to see to to-day. Where is Fox?"
He threw himself into his armchair, and crossed his feet.
"Father," said Bessie, "I have done what you desired, and with this day a new life begins with me. I have come to ask your pardon for any grief, annoyance, or trouble I may have at any time caused you. I also ask you to forgive me for having opposed your wishes at first when you wanted me to marry Fox. I did not then understand your reasons. But it has been a hard thing for me to submit. I dare say, dear father, you can have no idea how hard it has been for me. Now I have sworn to love Fox, and I will try my best to do so."
"Oh, love! love!" said the old man; "that is a mere word. You will get accustomed to each other, as I am to this chair."
"That may be. And yet—there is love—love that is more than a word. I suppose you loved my mother."
The old man made a deprecatory motion with his hand.
"Oh! father, without love in the house, how sad life is! I ought to know that, for I have had but little love shown me by you. Do not think I reproach you," she said, hastily,a little colour mounting into her pale face; "but I have felt the want of what, perhaps, I was not worthy to receive."
"Come—come!" said the old man; "I have no time for such talk that leads to nothing."
"But it must lead to something," urged Bessie; "for that very reason have I come here. You know, my dear father, that you made me a promise when I gave my consent, and I come now to remind you of it."
"I made no promise," said the old man, impatiently.
"Indeed, father, you did; and on the strength of that promise I found the force to conquer my own heart, and make the sacrifice you required of me."
"Oh, sacrifice! sacrifice!" sneered Squire Cleverdon. "I have been a cruel father, to be sure; I have required you to offer yourself up as a victim! Pshaw! You keep your home—it becomes doubly yours—you get a husband, and retain your own name of Cleverdon. What more do you require? It is a sacrifice to become heiress of Hall! Good faith! Your brother would give his ears for such a sacrifice as this. Go and get ready for the guests."
"I cannot go from you, father," answered Elizabeth, with gentleness, and yet, withal, with firmness. "I should be doing an injustice to myself, to my brother, and to you, were I not now to speak out. There was a compact made between us. I promised to take him whom you had determined on for me because it was your wish, and because it was necessary for the saving of the estate. I suppose Fox made it a condition. He would not help you out of your difficulties unless I gave him my hand."
"Fox knows nothing about them."
"What!" Bessie turned the colour of chalk. "Father! you do not mean what you say? He has been told all. He is aware that the mortgage is called in, and must be paid."
The old man fidgetted in his chair; he could not look his daughter in the face. He growled forth:
"You wenches! what do you understand of business—of money concerns—mortgages, and the like? Say what you have to say and be gone, but leave these money-matters on one side."
"I cannot, father," exclaimed Bessie, with flutteringheart; "I cannot, indeed, father. Is it so that Fox has been drawn on to take me without any knowledge of how matters stand with regard to the property?"
"All properties are burdened more or less with debts. He knows that. He does not keep his wits in his pocket. I have told him nothing, but he must know that there are mortgages. Show me the estate without them. But there, I will not speak of this matter with you; if you will not leave the room, I shall." He half rose in his seat.
"Very well, father, no more of that now. Time will show whether he was aware of, or suspected the condition Hall is in; and I trust that he may not then have to reproach you or me. That is not what I desired to speak of when I came here. I came about Anthony."
"I know but one Anthony Cleverdon, and he is your husband."
"I came in behalf of my brother and your very flesh and blood, which Fox is not. Father, you must—you must indeed suffer me to pour out my heart before you."
He growled and turned uneasily in his chair, and began to scrape the floor with his heel. His brows were knit, and his lips close set.
"Father," said Bessie, with her clear, steady eyes on him, "you speak of love as empty air, but it is not so. What but love induced me to submit myself to your will? I love you. To me Hall is nothing; a cottage with love in it, where I might sit at your feet and kiss your hand, were a thousand times dearer to me than this new, cold house, where all is hard, and love does not settle to live." She drew a long breath. "I love you, therefore I have bowed myself before you; and I love Anthony, and for his sake I have made the greatest sacrifice any mortal can make. I have given my life up to another, whom as yet I can neither love nor respect, that I might by so doing obtain from you pardon for my brother."
"A fine pattern of love Anthony has shown!"
"Father, there is great sorrow and sickness in his house, and he is far away, venturing his life for a cause that he thinks right. He may never return. His babe is dead, his wife ill. See what misery there is hanging over him! Nothing but my love for my brother, my desire to see him again in your arms, has kept me here. When I was plaguedabout Fox—that is to say, when I first heard about him as seeking me—I had resolved never to marry him, and rather than marry him, I would have run away to Anthony; he would have taken me in. But I thought of you alone in this house, deserted by both your children, and I thought that by staying here I might do something for Anthony, find a proper time for speaking in his favour, and so I stayed; and then, father, when you told me in what peril the property stood, when I saw what agony of mind was yours, when I thought that with the break down of the whole ambition of your life, your grey hairs would certainly be bowed to the dust—then I conquered myself and gave up my will to yours. There is love that is more than a mere word, it is a mighty force, and oh! father, I would that you knew more of it! Father, you—your own self—have suffered most of all through your lack of love. I have seen how the consequences of your harshness towards Anthony have fallen on you, and you have suffered. I dare say you may have loved him, but I think, as you say love is nought but a word, that you can have had only pride in him, and not love—for love suffereth long and is kind. He rebelled against you because you showed him pride—not love. He offended your ambition because you had set your heart on his taking Julian and winning with her Kilworthy; he embittered your heart because he married the daughter of a man that was your enemy. What has been wounded in you has been ambition, not love. Well, Anthony has done wrong. He ought to have considered you. He has ill repaid you all that was lavished upon him from infancy. But, father, if you had given him love, instead of setting your ambition on him, it would not have been so light a matter for him to resist your will. I feel his conduct more than do you. It is because of him that I have married Fox. I have loved and cared for him since he was an infant, as though I were his mother as well as his sister. I promised my mother and his to be his guardian angel, and I have been what I could to him, and now, dutiful to my promise to her and my love of him, and my desire for your own happiness, I have given up myself. So now, father, accept the sacrifice I have made, and forgive Anthony his inconsiderate offence against you."
The old man felt rather than saw that she was nearinghim with extended hands, with tearful eyes fixed entreatingly on him. He thought how he had almost gone on his knees to her to obtain her consent to marry Fox, and he was ashamed of his temporary weakness, the outcome of his distress; now he thought he must compensate for this weakness by obstinate perseverance in his old course.
"Now, Bess," said he, roughly, "no more of this. What I did promise that I will keep. I did not undertake to forgive Anthony. I never—no, not for one instant—gave way to your intercession for that girl—that Urith. Her I will never forgive!"
"What, father! Not if she dies?"
"No, never! not if she dies!"
"Then how can you expect forgiveness for your transgressions? Father, consider that it was not her will to marry Anthony. It was his. You taught him to be headstrong, self-willed, imperious. You taught him to deny himself nothing that he wished. He acted on the teaching you gave, and yourself is answerable for the result."
The old man drew back in his armchair and clenched his hands on the arm of the seat, so that the tendons stood out as taut strings, and the dark veins were puffed with blood.
"Father! You have now a son-in-law, taking the place in the house that should have been—that was—Anthony's. He takes his place, occupies his seat, wears his very name. Compare the two. Which is the most worthy representative of the Cleverdons, of whom you are so proud? Which is the finest man—the tall, strong, splendidly-built Tony, your own son, with his handsome face and honest eyes, or this other Anthony—this Fox who has stolen into his lair? Which is the better in heart? Tony, with all his faults, has a thousand good qualities. He has been vain, self-willed, and self-indulgent, but all this came on him from outside; you and I, and all who had to do with him, nurtured these evil qualities. But in his inner heart he is sound, and true, and good. What is Fox? What good do we know of Fox? Will anything make of him a generous and open-hearted man?"
It seemed to Bessie as though the hands of her father that clenched the chair-arms were trembling. He moved his fingers restlessly; and for a moment she caught his eye,and thought she saw in it a tender look. She threw her arms about him, and, stooping, kissed the backs of his hands. It was the first time she had dared to kiss him. He thrust her from him.
"Pshaw!" said he. "Do you suppose I am to be cajoled against my judgment?"
"Is that all you have to say?" asked Bessie, drawing back. "No, father, you shall not put me off. I will not be put off. I have won a right to insist on what I ask being heard and granted."
"Indeed!" He looked up at her with recovered hardness in his eye, and with his hands nerved to the same icy grip. "Indeed! You have acquired a right over me?"
"I have, father. I will be heard!"
"Very well; I hold to what I promised. Perhaps," he laughed bitterly, "perhaps I may think of the possibility of Anthony obtaining my forgiveness. Yes," said he, as a sudden access of better feeling rushed over him, as in his mind's eye the form of his handsome son rose up before him; "yes, let him come to me as the prodigal son, and speak like the prodigal, and desert his swine-husks, and then I will kill the fatted calf and bring forth the ring."
Still the same. He could see no fault in himself—no error in his treatment of his son.
Bessie would have answered, but that the door was thrust open, and in came Fox, agitated, angry, alarmed.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, addressing the Squire, regardless of the presence of Bessie. "What is this about? Here is that fellow—that man from Exeter—here again at the door, with two others—and——"
"And what?"
"He says they are bailiffs, come to take possession."
"What! to-day! Then, son-in-law, you must pay them off. I cannot. Save Hall for yourself."
"What is the meaning of this?" asked Fox. "Are these wedding-guests invited to help to make merry?"
Old Cleverdon looked at Fox, then at the door, in which, behind his son-in-law, entered the stranger from Exeter.
"This is Master French," said the Squire.
"I do not care what be his name, but what his business?" said Fox, rudely. "Come in, Master French, and let us have this load winnowed. You had better go." The last words were addressed to Bessie.
"This is what I have come about," said the stranger, entering: "The bill for foreclosure has been filed; and, unless the mortgage-money be paid within fourteen days, then, Master Cleverdon, you stand absolutely debarred and precluded from all rights, title, suit, and equity of redemption in or to the premises, which thenceforth become the absolute property of the mortgagee."
"And this," exclaimed Fox—"this is the meaning of my being constituted heir to Hall! Come, Squire, you must take me into council; for, please to know that now you have hooked me into your family and house, I must eat off the same trencher as you. You don't suppose I married Bess for her beauty, do you? What have you there?"
The old man had gone to his desk, and unlocked it.
Fox pressed after him, put his hand on his shoulder, and thrust him aside. "Let me see your accounts, your mortgages, and whatever you have beside stuffed into that cabinet of mysteries."
"Is there no means of raising the requisite money?" asked French. "Times are bad; but—still money is to be had somewhere. You must have friends and relatives who can help."
"Relatives—none," said the old man. "Friends—I have but Justice Crymes."
"And he is away," said Fox, looking over his shoulder "Away, putting his head into a noose."
"You have a fortnight," said French. "I was sorry for you, but—I must perform my duty. If in a fortnight the sum be not forthcoming——"
"A pretty sum it is!" shouted Fox, who had got hold of the mortgage. "And this is what my father is to be cajoled into finding? That is the meaning of all the hurry and scramble of the marriage?"
"I have debts due to me, but I cannot get the money in—in time," said old Cleverdon.
"If not in time, then as well never," said Fox. "Come, you French, tell me all about it."
The stranger—an attorney from Exeter—looked at Mr. Cleverdon, who nodded his head. He knew that eventually the whole matter must be made known to his son-in-law, but he had not reckoned on it coming to a crisis so soon.
Mr. French plainly stated all the circumstances. A large sum had been borrowed on the property some years ago when purchased by Anthony Cleverdon, the elder, and this sum had been called in. His client, the mortgagee, was dead, and the executors were resolved, obliged, in fact, to realise the estate, and could not be put off. Mr. Cleverdon had been given due notice, and had neglected to attend to it; the mortgage money had not been paid, consequently a bill had been filed in Chancery, and unless the entire sum were forthcoming within fourteen days, the Cleverdons would have to leave the place, which would pass over to the executors, who would sell it.
Fox followed what was said with close attention, and without interruption. The only token of his feelings was the contraction and twitching of his hard sandy eyelashes. When Mr. French ceased speaking, he laughed aloud, hoarsely and hysterically, and became deadly white. His eyes turned to old Cleverdon, and with lips curled and livid over his teeth, he looked at him in speechless rage for some minutes. He was like a mean and angry beast, driven to bay, and watching his opportunity to fly out and bite.
Then all at once, with a voice half in a scream, half-choked, he poured forth reproaches on the Squire.
"By heaven! I did suppose that no one could get the better of me; but I had not reckoned on the craft of anold country farmer, in whom sharp dealing has gone down from father to son, and roguery has been an heritage never parted with, never diminished, always bettered with each generation. And I have had to take this scurvy name of Cleverdon so as to involve me in the disgrace of the family, and mated with it to a maid with an ugly face and no wit—all to get me entangled so that I must with my own hands pull the Cleverdons—the Cleverdons," he sneered and spat on the floor, "pull with my hands, these Cleverdons out of the ditch into which they have tumbled, or lie down and be swallowed up in the mire with them. I will not do it. I will neither help you nor go into the dirt with you. I will leave you to yourselves, and laugh till my sides crack when you are turned out of the house. Where will you go—you and your beggarly daughter? Shall I see if there be room in the poorhouse at Peter Tavy? Listen!" he screamed and turned to the attorney, "listen to what this man, this old grey-haired rascal has done. He comes of a breed of sheep-dealers, accustomed to get a wether between the knees and sheer her; got horny hands from the plough-tail, boots that smell of the stables, arms accustomed to heave the dung-fork—this is what they have been, and he goes and buys Hall with other folks' money, and buys himself a coat of arms with other folks' money, and builds a mansion in place of his old tumble-about-the-ears farmhouse with other folks' money, and puts what money he will into the hands of that brag and bombast talker, his son, to humble and insult the young gentles of good blood and name—and, mark you, it is other folks' money—and then—then he offers to make me his heir if I will take his daughter, whom no one else will look at and give a thank-you for, and assume his name—his name that reeks of the stable-yard. When I do so, then I find I am heir to nothing but beggary!" He shrieked with rage, and held out his hands threateningly at the old man.
The Squire became at first purple with rage; he rose from his seat slowly. His eyes glittered like steel. He was not the man to be spoken to in this manner, to be insulted in himself and his family! His hand clenched. Old though he was, his sinews were tough and his hands were heavy.
Fox came at him with head down between his shoulders,his sharp chin extended, his hand like the claws of a hawk catching the air.
The attorney stepped between them, or father and son-in-law would have done each other an injury. He laid hold of Fox by the shoulder and thrust him back, and bade him cease from profitless abuse of an unfortunate man, who was, moreover, his father, and to collect his thoughts, consider the situation, and decide whether he and his father would find the money and save Hall.
"Find the money!" said Fox. "Do you not hear that my father is away on a fool's errand, gone to join the rebels; was taking them money, several hundreds of pounds, when he was robbed by the way." He burst into harsh, hysterical laughter once more. "My father will not be home for a fortnight if he does come home at all. How am I to find the money? Kilworthy is not mine. It belongs to my sister."
"Cannot your sister assist you?"
"She would not if she could, but she can touch nothing, it is held in trust, and my father is trustee. Let Hall go, and the Cleverdons along with it. What care I?"
"You are now yourself a Cleverdon," retorted the Squire.
"By heavens," gasped Fox, "that I—that I should be outwitted, and by you!" Then he swung through the door and disappeared.
The old man remained standing with clenched hands for some minutes. The sweat had broken out on his brow, his grey hair, smoothed for the wedding ceremony, had bristled with rage and shame, and become entangled and knotted on his head. If it had not been for the convulsive twitching of the corners of the mouth, he might have been supposed a statue.
Presently he put his hands down on the arms of his chair, and slowly let himself sink into the seat. The colour died out of his cheeks and from his brow, and he became ashen in hue. His hands rested on the chair-arms, motionless. His lips moved as though he were speaking to himself; and he was so—he was repeating the insolent words—the words wounding to his pride, to his honour, that had been shot at him from the envenomed heart of Fox; and these hurt him more than the thoughts of the disaster that menaced.
"Do not be overcome by his spite," said French. "He is disappointed, and his disappointment has made him speak words he will regret. He must and will help you. My clients would not deal harshly with you—they respect you, but are forced to act. They do not want your estate but their money—that they are compelled to call together. If this young gentleman be your son-in-law and heir, it is his interest to save the property, and he will do it if he can. His father can be found in a couple of days, and when found can be induced to lend the money, if he has the means at his disposal. Perhaps in a week all will be right."
Squire Cleverdon did not speak.
"And now," said French, "with your consent I will refresh myself, and leave you to your own thoughts. It is a pity that you did not take steps earlier to save yourself."
"I could not—I could not. I was ashamed to ask of any one. I thought, that is, I never thought the demand was serious."
Fox had gone forth to the stable to saddle a horse; finding no one about in the yard, he seated himself on the corn-box, and remained lost in thought, biting his nails. All the men connected with the farm were in the kitchen having cake and ale, and drinking the health of the bride heartily, and secretly confusion to the bridegroom, whom they detested, both for his own character, which was pretty generally judged, and also, especially, because he had stepped into the place and name of their beloved young Anthony, who, though he had tyrannised over them, was looked up to, and liked by all.
All was silent in the stable save for the stamp occasionally of a horsehoof and the rattle of the halters at the mangers. Bessie's grey was nearest to Fox, and the beast occasionally turned her head and looked at him out of her clear, gentle eyes.
Fox put his sharp elbows on his knees, and drove his fingers through his thin red hair. He was in a dilemma. He was married to Bessie, and adopted into the family. As the old man had said to him, he was now a Cleverdon. It had cost him a large sum to obtain this privilege, and he could not resume his patronymic without the cost of afresh grant from the College of Arms. Moreover, that would not free him from his alliance.
Nothing, perhaps, so galled the thoughts of Fox as the consciousness that he had been over-reached—he who had deemed himself incomparably the shrewdest and keenest man in the district; who had despised and laughed at old Cleverdon—never more than when luring him on with the hopes of winning Julian. He had done this out of pure malice, with the desire of making the old man ridiculous, and of enjoying the disappointment that was inevitable. He had played his trick upon his father-in-law; but the tables had been turned on him in compound degree.
His father-in-law was right—he was a Cleverdon, and his fortunes were bound up with Hall. If Hall were lost, he had lost all but the trifle he was likely to receive from his father. If Hall was to be saved, it must be saved by him; and, had he known that it was likely to be sold, he would never have encumbered himself with a wife—with Bessie—and degraded himself to take the name of Cleverdon instead of his own ancient and honourable patronymic. He would have waited a fortnight; and, if he could get the money together, would have bought Hall, and enjoyed the satisfaction of turning the Cleverdons out of it.
It was now too late. He must decide on his course of conduct. He did not think of doing what Mr. French supposed he would—ride in quest of his father. He would not venture himself near the quarters of Monmouth, and run the risk of being supposed to have any sympathy or connection with the rebellion. Moreover, he very much doubted whether his father could, if he would, assist in this matter.
Presently he stood up, went to the grey, saddled her, and rode to Kilworthy.
On reaching that place he put up the horse himself, and stole up the steps to the first terrace, on which grew a range of century-old yews, passed behind the yews to the end of the terrace, where was an abandoned pigeon-house, a circular stone building, with conical roof. The door was open, and Fox went in. The wooden door had long disappeared, for the pigeon-house had been given up. Within were holes in tiers all round the building, in which pigeons had formerly built and laid. But the owls andrats had so repeatedly and determinedly invaded this house, and had wrought such havoc among the pigeons, that at last it had been abandoned wholly, and the pigeons were accommodated in the adjoining farm-yard, on casks erected on the top of poles, where, if not out of reach of owls, they were secure from rats. The neglected pigeonry was too strongly built to fall to ruin, but the woodwork was rotted away, and had not been replaced. It was a dark chamber, receiving its light from the door, and was not used for any purpose.
Into this, after looking about him cautiously, Fox entered. A short ladder was laid against the wall, and this he took, and after carefully counting the pigeon-holes, set the ladder, and after ascending it, thrust his hand into one of the old resting-places, and drew out a canvas bag. It had been sealed, but the seal was broken. It had been opened and then tied up again. Then Fox went to the next pigeon-hole, and felt in that, and again drew forth a bag similar to the first.
"Here is the money," muttered he. "Enough to save Hall, but whether I shall risk doing it is another matter."
Suddenly the place was darkened—the light entering by the door was intercepted.
Fox's heart stood still. For a moment only he was in darkness. He fell rather than climbed down the ladder, hastily put it back where he found it, and ran outside.
At the further end of the terrace was Julian. As he caught sight of her he attempted to withdraw, but she had seen him, and she beckoned, and came to him with quick steps.
"Why, Fox! you here!—and you were married but an hour or two agone! Why here? Why not at the side of Bessie at table answering the toasts?"
"Where have you come from?" retorted Fox, uneasily.
"Nay? that is for me to ask. I have but just come to walk up and down for air, and you—you spring out of the earth. What has brought you back? Quarrelled already with your bride?"
"I have returned for you, Julian. Bess is pained and aggrieved that you have not come to Hall to be with her. She has none as a friend but you."
"What! you have come after me?"
"For what else should I come?"
"Nay," laughed Julian; "who can sound thy dark and deep thoughts, and thread thy crooked mind? I cannot believe it."
"I have ridden Bess's own mare."
"That may be. And you came here to fetch me? And for that only?"
"I did."
"I won't go." Julian looked at Fox with twinkling eyes. "Oh, Fox! I do love and pity Bess too greatly to bear to see her at thy side. So you came for me? You came out here on the terrace after me?"
"I have told you so. How long have you been here?"
"But this minute. I took one walk as far as the old pigeon-house and back, and then—saw you. Did you come up the other way? From the yard?"
"I did."
"Oh! I will not go with you. Return to Bess. Tell her I love her and wish her well, but I cannot see her; I cannot now, I love her too well. Get thee gone, Fox."
The day was drawing to its decline before Fox returned to Hall. He had been alarmed at having been seen by his sister in the dove-cote, and he tried by craft to extract from her whether she had observed what he had been doing in it. He hung about Kilworthy for several hours, uncertain what course to pursue. He could draw nothing from Julian to feed his alarm, and he persuaded, or tried to persuade, himself that she had no suspicions that he had been in the dove-cote; then he considered what he had best do with the money-bags concealed there. He could remove them only at night, and if he removed them, where should he hide them? No more effectual place of concealment could well be imagined than the pigeon-house with its many lockers, the depths of which could not be probed by the eye from below, and only searched by the handfrom a ladder. He puzzled his brain to find some other place, but his ingenuity failed him. He was angry with Julian for having come on the terrace at the inopportune moment when he was in the pigeon-house, and he was angry with himself for having gone there in daylight.
He asked, was it probable that Julian, had she suspected anything, would not at once have assailed him with inquiries wherefore he had gone to that deserted structure, and what he was doing within it, on the ladder. It would be unlike her not immediately to take advantage of an occasion either against him, or of perplexity to him, and he almost satisfied himself that she had believed his account, and was void of suspicion that there was concealment behind it. Even if she did suspect and search the lockers of the pigeon-cote, he must know it. He would find she had been there, and he deemed it advisable not to disturb his arrangement, but leave the money hidden there till he was given fresh cause for uneasiness relative to its safety, at all events for a few days, till he could discover another and more secret place for stowing it away.
He remained for some hours, lurking about and watching; for he argued that, if Julian entertained any thought that he had been in the dove-cote on private ends, like a woman she would take the earliest occasion of trying to discover his ends, and would go, as soon as she thought she was unobserved, to the place and explore its lockers.
But though he kept himself hidden, and narrowly watched her proceedings, he could find no cause for mistrust. She left the terrace and went off to the stables to see her horse; she ordered it out for a ride; then, as rain began to fall, she countermanded it; then she went to the parlour, where she wrote a letter to her father to give him an account of the marriage of his son, and to express her views thereon.
Finding her thus engaged, and with his mistrust laid at rest, Fox left Kilworthy and went to Tavistock, where he entered a tavern and called for wine. He had not resolved what to do about the mortgage money on Hall.
He believed that, with the five hundred pounds stowed away in the pigeon-holes at Kilworthy, and with what money old Cleverdon was able to raise, sufficient, or almost sufficient, could be paid to secure Hall. If more hadto be found, it could perhaps be borrowed on the security of the small Crymes estate in Buckland; but Fox was most averse to having his own inheritance charged for this purpose. If Hall were let slip, then he was left with nothing save his five hundred pounds and the small Buckland property.
He sat in the tavern for long, drinking, and trying to reach a solution of his difficulty, consumed with burning wrath at the manner in which he had been imposed upon, and entangled in the embarrassments of a family into which he had pushed his way, believing that by so doing he was entering into a rich heritage.
When he reached Hall, at nightfall, he had drunk so much, and was in such an inflamed and exasperated frame of mind, as to promise trouble.
Bess saw the condition he was in the moment he entered the door, and she endeavoured to turn him aside from her father's room, towards which he was making his way, unsteadily.
The serving-men and maids were about, and a few guests. Comments, unfavourable to Fox, had passed with some freedom, and not inaudibly, relative to his absence on that afternoon. No one desired his presence, and yet the fact of his being away provoked displeasure. It was taken as an insult to those present. That some trouble had fallen on Squire Cleverdon, that his position in Hall was menaced, was generally known and commented on in the house, by guests and servants alike. That Fox had left in connection with this difficulty was admitted but nevertheless not excused.
French was there disposed to make himself merry, with a fund of good stories to scatter among the guests. When Fox appeared, all present, guests and servants, were in jovial mood, having eaten and drunken to their hearts' satisfaction; some were in the passage, some in the dining-room that opened out of it, with the door open. Mr. Cleverdon was with the guests, and when he beheld his son-in-law in the entrance, he started up and came towards him. Fox saw him at once, and hissed, caught at the side-posts of the door with his left, and pointed jeeringly at the Squire.
"I want to have a talk with you, my plump money-bag,my well-acred Squire father-in-law, and if there are others by, so much the better. It is well that all the world should see the bubble burst. Ha! ha! ha! This is the man who was a little farmer, and pushed himself to become a justice! The little shrivelled toad who would blow himself out to be like an ox. His sides are cracking, mark you!"
"Take him away," said the old man, "he is drunk."
"Go—I pray you go!" pleaded Bessie. "Prithee, respect him, at least in public, look at his grey hairs, consider the trouble he is in."
"His grey hairs!" retorted Fox. "Why should I respect them? They have grown grey in rascality. So many years of sandy locks, so much roguery, so many more with grey hair, double the amount of roguery. Why should I respect an old rogue? I would kick and thrash a young one out of the house. His trouble—forsooth! His trouble is naught to mine, hooked on to a disreputable, drowning family, and unable to strike out in their faces, and wrench their hands away, and let them swallow the brine and go down alone."
The Squire and the guests stood or sat spell-bound. What was to be done with the fellow? How could he be brought to silence? The stream of words of a drunken man is no easier stopped than is a spring by the hand laid against it.
"Ha! ha!" jeered Fox, still pointing at his father-in-law; "there is the man who has ruled so tyrannically in his house, who drove his son out-of-doors because he followed his own example and married empty pockets. But his son did better than the father, he did take a girl with a few lumps of granite and a few shovelfuls of peat, but the father's own wife had nothing. What he suffered in himself he would not suffer in his son."
The old man, shaking with rage as with the palsy, and deadly white, turned to the servants, and called to them to take away the fellow.
"Take me away!" screamed Fox. "Take and shake me, and see if there be any gold in my pockets that will fall out, and which he may pick up. I tell you I am rich; I have the money all ready, I could produce that in an hour, which would save Hall, and send that fellow there, the lawyer, and his men back to Exeter to-night, if they cared togo over Black Down in the dark, where robbery is committed and coaches stopped and plundered. I have the gold all ready, but do not fancy I will give one guinea to help a Cleverdon. I hate them all—father, daughter, and son; I curse the whole tribe, I dance on their heads, I trample on their hearts, I scorn them. They hold out their hands to me, but I will not pick them up."
Bessie put her arms about him, and, with eyes that were full of tears, and face blanched with shame, entreated him to go, to control himself, to remember that this old man that he insulted was his father-in-law, and that, for better, for worse, in riches or poverty, he was her husband.
"I am not like to forget that," hissed Fox. "O, troth, no! Linked to thee—to thee, with thy ugly face and empty purse; thee, whom no one else would have, who has been hawked about and refused by all, and I am to be coupled to thee all my life. 'Fore heaven, I am not like to forget that."
This, addressed to Bessie, whom every servant in the house loved, and every guest who knew her respected, passed all bounds of endurance.
An angry roar rose from the men and maids who had crowded into the entrance-hall from the kitchen, from the courtyard, from the stables. The guests shouted out their indignation, and a blow was aimed at Fox from a groom behind, that knocked him over, and sent him down on his knees into the dining-room. He was not seriously hurt—not deprived of his senses—but other blows would have followed from the incensed servants had not Bessie thrown herself in the way to protect him.
"Take him up—throw him into the horse-pond!"
"Get a bramble, and thrash him with it till he is painted red."
"Cast him in with the pigs."
Such were the shouts of the servants, and, but for the interposition of Bessie, serious results would have followed. She gave Fox her hand, and, leaning on her shoulder, he was able to stagger to his feet. The blow he had received had driven the final remains of caution he had about him from his brain; he glared around in savage rage, with his teeth showing, and his short red hair standing up on his head like the comb of an angry cock.
"Who touched me? Bring him forth, that I may strike him." He drew his hunting-knife, and turned from side to side. "Ah! let him come near, and I will score him as I did Anthony Cleverdon."
Bessie uttered a cry and drew back.
Fox looked at her, and, encouraged by her terror and pain, proceeded. "It is true, I did. We had a quarrel and drew swords, and I pinked him."
"A lie!" shouted one present. "Thou wearest no sword."
Fox turned sharply round, and snarled at the speaker. "I have not a bodkin—a skewer—but I have what is better—a carving-knife; and with that I struck him just above the heart. He fell, and ran, ran, ran"—his voice rose to a shriek—"he ran from me as a hare, full of fright, lest I should go after him and strike him again, between the shoulder-blades. Farmer Cleverdon! Gaffer Cleverdon! Thou hast a fool for a son—that all the world knows—and a knave as well, and add to that—a coward."
He stopped to laugh. Then, pointing with his knife at his father-in-law, he said:
"They say that he has gone to join the rebels. It is false. He is too great a coward to adventure himself there, and add to that I have cut too deep and let out too much white blood. He is skulking somewhere to be healed or to die."
Bessie had staggered back against the wall. She held her hands before her mouth to arrest the cries of distress that could barely be controlled. The old man had become white and rigid as a corpse.
"I would he were with the rebels. I hope he will be so healed, and that speedily, that he may join them, and then he will be taken and hung as a traitor. I' faith, I would like to be there! I would give a bag of gold to be there—to see Anthony Cleverdon hung. I'd sit down on the next stone and eat my bread and cheese, and throw the crusts and the rinds in his face as he hung.—The traitor!"
An hour later there came a tap at the door of Willsworthy. Uncle Sol opened, and Bessie Cleverdon entered, pale.
She asked to see her grandmother, Mistress Penwarne, who was still there.
"I am come," she said, "to relieve you. Go back to Luke, and I will tarry with Urith. Luke must need you, and I can take your place here. I will not lay my head under the roof of Hall whilst Fox is there. It is true that I promised this day to love and obey him, but I promised what I cannot perform. He has forfeited every right over me! Till he leaves Hall I remain here—with Urith—both unhappy—maybe we shall understand each other. My poor father! My poor father! I cannot remain with him whilst Fox is there!"
Ever full of pity and love for others, and forgetfulness of self, Bessie sat holding Urith's hand in her own, with her eyes fixed compassionately on her sister-in-law.
Urith's condition was perplexing. It was hard to say whether the events of that night when she saw Anthony struck down on the hearthstone, and her subsequent and consequent illness, with the premature confinement and the death of the child, had deranged her faculties, or whether she was merely stunned by this succession of events.
Always with a tendency in her to moodiness, she had now lapsed into a condition of silent brooding. She would sit the whole day in one position, crouched with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, looking fixedly before her, and saying nothing: taking no notice of anything said or done near her.
It almost seemed as though she had fallen into a condition of melancholy madness, and yet, when spoken to, she would answer, and answer intelligently. Her faculties were present, unimpaired, but crushed under the overwhelming weight of the past. Only on one point did she manifest any signs of hallucination. She believed that Anthony was dead, and nothing that was said to her could induce her to change her conviction. She believed that everyone was in league to deceive her on this point.
And yet, though sane, she had to be watched, for in her absence of mind and internal fever of distress, she wouldput her hands into her mouth, and bite the knuckles, apparently unconscious of pain.
Mrs. Penwarne, who was usually with her, would quietly remove her hands from her mouth, and hold them down. Then Urith would look at her with a strange, questioning expression, release her hands, and resting the elbows on her knees, thrust the fingers into her hair.
The state in which Urith was alarmed Bessie. She tried in vain to cheer her; every effort, and they were various in kind, failed. The condition of Urith resembled that of one oppressed with sleep before consciousness passes away. When her attention was called by a question addressed to her pointedly by name, or by a touch, she answered, but she relapsed immediately into her former state. She could be roused to no interest in anything. Bessie spoke to her about domestic matters, about the rebellion of the Duke of Monmouth, about the departure of Mr. Crymes, finally, after some hesitation, about her own marriage, but she said nothing concerning the conduct of Fox on the preceding evening, or of her desertion of the home of her childhood. Urith listened dreamily, and forgot at once what had been told her. Her mind was susceptible to no impressions, so deeply indented was it with her own sorrows.
Luke, so said Mistress Penwarne, had been to see her, and had spoken of sacred matters; but Urith had replied to him that she had killed Anthony, that she did not regret having done so, and that therefore she could neither hope in nor pray to God.
This Mrs. Penwarne told Bessie, standing over Urith, well aware that what she said passed unheeded by the latter, probably unheard by her. Nothing but a direct appeal could force Urith to turn the current of her thoughts, and that only momentarily, from the direction they had taken.
"She has been biting her hands again," said Mrs. Penwarne. "Bessie, when she does that, pull out the token that hangs on her bosom and put it into her palm. She will sit and look at that by the hour. She must be broken of that trick."
Urith slowly stood up, with a ruffle of uneasiness on her dull face. She was conscious that she was being discussed, without exactly knowing what was said about her.Without a word of explanation, she went out, drawing Bessie with her, who would not let go her hand; and together, in silence, they passed through the court and into the lane.
Their heads were uncovered, and the wind was fresh and the sun shone brightly.
Urith walked leisurely along the lane, accompanied by Bessie Cleverdon, between the moorstone walls, thick-bedded with pink and white flowering saxifrage, and plumed with crimson foxgloves. She looked neither to right nor to left till she reached the moor-gate closing the lane, a gate set there to prevent the escape of the cattle from their upland pasturage. The gate was swung between two blocks of granite, in which sockets had been cut for the pivot of the gate to swing. Urith put forth her hand, thrust open the gate, and went on. It was characteristic of her condition that she threw it open only wide enough to allow herself to pass through, and Bess had to put forth her disengaged hand to check the gate from swinging back upon her. This was not due to rudeness on the part of Urith, but to the fact that Urith had forgotten that any one was with her.
On issuing forth on the open waste-land among the flowering heather and deep carmine, large-belled heath, the freedom, the fresh air seemed to revive Urith. A flicker of light passed over her darkened face, as though clouds had been lifted from a tor, and a little watery sunlight had played over its bleak surface. She turned her head to the west, whence blew the wind, and the air raised and tossed her dark hair. She stood still, with half-closed eyes, and nostrils distended, inhaling the exhilarating breeze, and enjoying its coolness as it trifled with her disordered locks.
Bessie had tried her with every subject that could distract her thoughts, in vain. She now struck on that which nearly affected her.
"Urith," she said, "I have heard that a battle is expected every day, and Anthony is in it. You will pray God to guard him in danger, will you not?"
"Anthony is dead. I killed him."
"No, dear Urith, he is not dead; he has joined the Duke of Monmouth."
"They told you so? They deceived you. I killed him."
"It is not so." Bessie paused. Her hand clenchedthat of Urith tightly. "My dearest sister, it is not so. Fox himself told me, and told my father—hestruck Anthony."
"I bade him do so—I had not strength in my arm, I had no knife. But I killed him."
"I assure you that this is not true."
"I saw him fall across the hearthstone. My mother wished it. She prayed that it might be so, with her last breath; but she never prayed that I should kill him."
"Urith! Poor Anthony, who is dear to you and to me, is in extreme danger. There is like to be bloody fighting and we must ask God to shield him."
"I cannot pray for him. He is dead, and I cannot pray at all. I am glad he is dead. I would do it all over again, rather than that Julian should have him."
"Julian!" sighed Elizabeth Cleverdon. "What has been told you about Julian?"
"She threatened to pluck him out of my bosom, and she has done it; but she shall not wear him in hers. I killed him because he was false to me, and would leave me."
"No—no—Urith, he never would leave you."
"He was going to leave me. His father asked him to go back to Hall."
"But he would not go. Anthony was too noble."
"He was going to desert me and go to Julian, so I killed him. They may kill me also; I do not care. God took my baby; I am glad He did that. I never wish for a moment it had lived—lived to know that its mother was a murderess. It could not touch my hand with his blood on it; so God took my baby. I am waiting; they will take me soon, because I killed Anthony. I am willing. I cannot pray. I have no hope. I wish it were over, and I were dead."
On her own topic, on that which engrossed all her mind, on that round which her thoughts turned incessantly, on that she could speak, and speak fairly rationally; and when she spoke her face became expressive.
They walked on together. Bessie knew not what to say. It was not possible to disturb Urith's conviction that her husband was dead, and that she was his destroyer.
They continued to walk, but now again in silence. Urith again relapsed into her brooding mood, went forward,threaded her own way among the bunches of prickly gorse, now out of flower, and the scattered stones, regardless of Bessie, who was put to great inconvenience to keep at her side. She was forced to disengage her hand, as it was not possible for her to keep pace with her sister-in-law in such broken ground. Urith did not observe that Bessie had released her, nor that she was still accompanying her.
She took a direct course to Tavy Cleave, that rugged, natural fortress of granite which towers above the river that plunges in a gorge, rather than a valley, below.
On reaching this she cast herself down on the overhanging slab, whereon she had stood with Anthony, when he clasped her in his arms and swung her, laughing and shouting, over the abyss.
Bessie drew to her side. She was uneasy what Urith might do, in her disturbed frame of mind; but no thought of self-destruction seemed to have crossed Urith's brain. She swung her feet over the gulf, and put her hands through her hair, combing it out into the wind, and letting that waft and whirl it about, as it blew up the Cleave and rose against the granite crags, as a wave that bowls against a rocky coast leaps up and curls over it.
Bessie allowed her to do as she liked. It was clearly a refreshment and relaxation to her heated and overstrained mind thus to sit and play with the wind.