Bessie clasped her arms about the old man. "Do not listen to him," she said. "He forgets his duty to you, only because he has been excited and wronged to-day." Then to her brother: "Anthony! do not forget that he is your father, to whom reverence is due."
Anthony remained silent for a couple of minutes, then he stood up from his chair, and went over to the old man. "I was wrong," he said. "I should not have spoken thus. Come, father, we have had little puffs between us, never such a bang as this. Let it be over; no more about the matter between us for a day or two, till we are both cool."
"I will make an end of this affair at once," said Squire Cleverdon. "What is the good of putting off what must be said?—of expecting a change which will never take place. You shall never—never obtain my consent. So give up the hussy, or you shall rue it."
"Nothing is gained, father, by threatening me. You must know that. I have made up my mind." He folded his arms on his breast.
"And so have I mine," answered old Cleverdon, folding his arms.
Father and son stood opposite each other, hard and fixed in their resolves—both men of indomitable, inflexible determination.
"Hear mine," said the Squire; "you give the creature up. Do you hear?"
"I hear and refuse. I will not, I cannot give up Urith. I have pledged my word."
"And here I pledge mine!" shouted the old man.
"No—no, in pity, father! Oh, Anthony, leave the room!" pleaded Bessie, again interposing, but again ineffectually; her brother swept her aside, and refolded his arms, confronting his father.
"Say on!" he said, with his eyes fixed on the old man.
"I swear by all I hold sacred," exclaimed the father, "that I will never suffer that beggar-brat to cross my threshold. Now you know my resolution. As long as I am alive, she shall be kept from it by my arms, and I shall take care that she shall never rule here when I am gone.Now you know my mind, marry her or not as you please. That is my last word to you."
"Your last word to me!" repeated Anthony. He set his hat on his head, the hat in which hung the utterly withered marsh marigolds. "Very well; so be it." He walked to the door, passed through, and slammed it behind him.
Luke Cleverdon walked slowly, with head bowed, towards Willsworthy. The day was not warm, a cold east wind was blowing down from the moor over the lowlands to the west, but his brow was beaded with large drops.
Anthony had come to him the night before, and had asked to be lodged. He had fallen out with his father, and refused to remain at Hall. Luke knew the reason. Anthony had told him. Anthony had told him more—that Urith was going to request his, Luke's, intercession with her mother.
Neither Anthony nor Urith had the least suspicion of the burden they were laying on the young man. It was his place, thought Anthony, to do what could be done to further his—Anthony's—wishes. Luke was under an obligation to the family, and must make himself useful to it when required. That he should employ his mediation to obtain an end entirely opposed to the wishes of the old man who had housed and fed, and had educated him, did not strike Anthony as preposterous. For the moment, the interests, credit of the family were centred in the success of his own suit for Urith, his own will was the paramount law, which must be obeyed.
Urith thought of Luke as a friend and companion, very dear to her, but in quite another way from that in which she regarded Anthony. Luke had been to her a comrade in childhood, and she looked on him with the same childlike regard that she had given him when they were children; with her this regard never ripened into a warmer feeling.
Anthony had slept soundly during the night. Care for the future, self-reproach, or self-questioning over the past had not troubled him. His father would come round. He had always given way hitherto. He had attempted bluster and threats, but the bluster was nothing, the threats would never be carried out. In a day or two at the furthest, the old man would come to the parsonage, ask to see him, and yield to his son's determination.
"I don't ask him to marry Urith," argued Anthony. "So there is no reason why he should lie on his back and kick and scratch. There is no sense in him. He will come round in time, and Bessie will do what she can for me."
But Luke had not slept. He was tortured with doubts, in addition to the inward conflicts with his heart. He asked himself, had he any right to interfere to promote this union, which was so strongly opposed by the father—so utterly distasteful to him? And, again, was it to the welfare of his cousin, and, above all, of Urith, that it should take place?
He knew the character of both Urith and Anthony. He was well aware how passionate at times, how sullen at others, she was wont to be. He attributed her sullenness to the nagging, teasing tongue, and stupid mismanagement of her mother, and the blunderheadedness of her uncle—interfering with her liberty where they should have allowed her freedom, crossing her in matters where she should have been suffered to follow her own way, and letting her go wild in those directions in which she ought to have been curbed. He knew that this mismanagement had made her dogged and defiant.
He knew, also, how that his cousin, Anthony, had been pampered and flattered, till he thought himself much more than he was; did not know the value of money; was wilful, impetuous, and intolerant of opposition. Would not two such headstrong natures, when brought together, be as flint and steel? Moreover, Luke knew that Anthony had been regarded on all sides as the proper person to take Julian Crymes. It had been an open secret that such an arrangement was contemplated by the parents on both sides, and the young people had, in a measure, acquiesced in it. Anthony had shown Julian attentions which wereonly allowable on such an understanding. He may have meant nothing by them; nevertheless, they had been sufficiently marked to attract observation, and perhaps to lead the girl herself to conclude that his heart was touched, and that he only tarried a few years to enjoy his freedom before engaging himself.
But Luke was so sensitively conscientious that he feared his own jealousy of his cousin was prompting these suspicions and doubts; and he felt that his own heart was too perturbed for him at present to form a cool and independent survey of the situation.
As he expected and feared, so was it. Urith arrested him on the way up the hill to Willsworthy. She knew he would come to see her mother, and was on the lookout for him. She asked him to plead her cause for her, and in his irresolution he accepted the office, against his better judgment, moved thereto by the thought that he was thus doing violence to his own heart, and most effectually trampling down and crushing under heel his own wishes, unformed though these wishes were.
Luke found Mistress Malvine in her bedroom. She had been greatly weakened by the fit on the previous morning, still more so by the exhaustion consequent on the visits of the afternoon. However ill and feeble she might be, her tongue alone retained its activity, and so long as she could talk she was unconscious of her waning powers. In the tranquillity that followed, when her acquaintances and sympathisers had withdrawn, great prostration ensued. But she had somewhat rallied on the following morning, and was quite ready to receive Luke Cleverdon when announced.
She was in her bed, and he was shocked to observe the change that had come over her. She held out her hand to him. "Ah, Master Luke!" she sighed, "I have need of comfort after what I have gone through; and I am grateful that you have come to see me. Whatever will become of my poor daughter when I am gone! I have been thinking and thinking, and wishing that it had pleased God you were her brother, that I might have entrusted her into your hands. You were here and saw how she went on and took sides with that Son of Belial, that Anthony, when he came concerning the grave of my dear husband. She hasno heart, that child. I know she will be glad when I am gone, and will dance on my tomb. I have not spared her advice and counsel, nor have I ever let her go, when I have my rebuke to administer, under half an hour by the clock."
"Madam," said the young curate, "do not now make boast of the amount of counsel and admonition you have administered; it is even possible that this may have been overdone, and may have had somewhat to do with the temper of your daughter. It is now a time for you to consider whether you are prepared, should it please God to call you—"
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Malvine, "I am thankful to say I am always prepared. I have done my duty to my husband, to my brother, and my child. As for Urith, I have perfectly fed her with my opinions on her conduct in every position and chance of life. My brother has, I am sure, also not to charge me with ever passing it over when he comes home drunk, or gets drunk off our cider, which is no easy matter, but it can be done with application. I have always, and at length, and with vehemence, told him what I think of his conduct."
"You must consider," said the curate, without allowing himself to be drawn into admiration for the good qualities of the sick woman, "you must consider, madam, not how much you have harangued and scolded others, but how much you deserve rebuke yourself."
"I have never spared myself, heaven knows! I have worked hard—I have worked harder than any slave. There are five large jars of last year's whortleberry jam still unopened in the store-room. I can die happy, whenever I have to die, and not a sheet unhemmed, and we have twenty-four."
"There are other matters to think of," said Luke, gravely, "than whortleberry jam—five pots, sheets—twenty-four, rebuke of others—unmeasured, incalculable. You have to think of what you have left undone."
"There is nothing," interrupted the sick woman, "but a few ironmoulds in Solomon's shirts, which came of a nail in the washing-tray. I gave the woman who washed a good piece of my mind about that, because she ought to have seen the nail. But I'll get salt of lemon and take thatout, if it please the Lord to raise me up again; at the same time, I'll turn the laundress away."
"It is by no means unlikely that heaven will not raise you up," said the curate, "and in your present condition, instead of thinking of dismissing servants for an oversight, you should consider whether you have never left undone those things which you ought to have done."
"I never have," answered the widow, with disdain, "except once. I ought to have had Solomon's dog Toby hung, but I was too good, too tender-hearted, and I did not. The dog scratched, and was swarming with fleas. Solomon never cared to have him kept clean, and I told him if he did not I would have Toby hung, but I did not. I have, I admit, this on my conscience. But, Lord! you are not comforting me at all, and a minister of the Word should pour the balm of Gilead into the wounds of the sick. Now, if you would have Urith up and give her a good reprimand, and Solomon also, and if you would hang that dog—that would be a comfort to my soul, and I could die in peace."
"With your complaint, Mistress Malvine, you must be ready to die at any moment—whether in a true or false peace depends on your preparation. I am not here to lecture your brother and daughter, and hang a dog because it has fleas, but to bid you search and examine your own conscience, and see whether there be not therein inordinate self-esteem, and whether you have not encouraged the censorious spirit within you till you have become blind to all your own defects, in your eagerness to pull motes out of the eyes of others."
"There! bless me!" exclaimed the widow. "Did you hear that? The soot has fallen down the chimney. I told Solomon to have the chimney swept, and, as usual, he has neglected to see to it. I'll send for him and give him what I think; perhaps," she added, in a querulous tone, "when he considers that the words come from a dying sister he may be more considerate in future, and have chimneys swept regularly."
"I have," said the young curate, "one question on which I require an answer. Are you in charity with all the world? Do you forgive all those who have trespassed against you?"
"I am the most amiable person in the world, that is why I am so imposed on, and Solomon, and Urith, and themaids, and the men take such advantage of me. There is that dog, under the bed, scratching. I hear it, I feel it. Do, prithee, Master Luke, take the tongs and go under the bed after it. How can I have peace and rest whilst Toby is under the bed, and I know the state his hair is in?"
"You say you are on terms of charity with all the world. I conclude that you from your heart forgive my cousin Anthony his unconsiderate act on St. Mark's Eve."
"What!" exclaimed the sick woman, striving to rise in her bed, "I forgive him that—never—no, so help me Heaven, never."
"So help you Heaven!" said Luke, starting up, and answering in an authoritative tone, whilst zeal-inspired wrath flushed his pale face. "So help you Heaven, do you dare to say, you foolish woman! Heaven will help to forgive, never help to harbour an unforgiving spirit. If you do not pardon such a trespass, committed unintentionally, you will not be forgiven yours."
"I have none—none to signify, that I have not settled with Heaven long ago," said the widow, peevishly. "I wish, Master Luke, you would not worry me. I need comfort, not to be vexed on my deathbed."
"I ask you to forgive Anthony, will you do so?"
She turned her face away.
"Now listen to me, madam. He has fallen into disgrace with his father. He has had to leave his home, and his father will have no word with him."
"I rejoice to hear it."
"And the reason is this—the young man loves your daughter Urith." He paused, and wiped his brow.
The widow turned her face round, full of quickened attention.
"That he did not purpose a dishonour to the grave you may be assured, when you know that he seeks the hand of Urith. How could one who loves think to advance his suit by an outrage on the father's memory? It was an accident, an accident he deplores most heartily. He will make what amends he can. Give him your daughter, and then he will have the right of a son-in-law to erect a handsome and suitable tomb to your husband, and his father."
As he spoke, he heard the steps creak, Urith was ascending the stairs, coming to her mother, to throw herself onher knees at her side, clasp her hand, and add her entreaties to those of Luke Cleverdon.
"Help me up!" said Mrs. Malvine.
Then the curate put his arm to her, and raised her into a sitting position. Her face had altered its expression from peevishness to anger. It was grey, with a green tinge about the nose and lips, the lines from the nostrils to the chin were deep and dark. Her eyes had a hard, threatening, metallic glimmer in them.
At that moment Urith appeared in the doorway. Luke stood, with his hand to his chin, and head bowed, looking at the woman.
"You are here, Urith!" said she, holding out her hand towards her spread out. "You have dared—dared to love the man who has dishonoured your father's grave. You have come here to ask me to sanction and bless this love." She gasped for breath. Her face was livid, haggard; but her dark eyes were literally blazing—shooting out deadly-cold glares of hate. The sweat-drops ran off her brow and dropped upon the sheet. The lips were drawn from the teeth. There was in her appearance something of unearthly horror. "You shall never—never obtain from me what you want. If you have any respect for your father's name—any love lingering in your heart for the mother that bore you—you will shake him off, and never speak to him again." She remained panting, and gulping, and shivering. So violent was her emotion that it suffocated her.
"I know," she continued, in a lower tone, and with her hands flat on the coverlet before her, "what you do not—how my life has been turned to wormwood. His mother stood between me and my happiness—between me and your father's heart; and, after what I have endured, shall I forgive that? Aye, and a double injury—the wrong done by Margaret Penwarne's son to my husband's grave?—Never!"
She began to move herself in bed, as though trying to scramble up into a standing posture, and again her hand was threateningly extended. "Never—never shall this come about. Urith! I charge you——"
The girl, alarmed, ran towards her mother. The old woman warned her back. "What! will you do violence tome to stay my words? Will you throttle me to prevent them from coming out of my lips?"
Again she made an effort to rise, and scrambled to her knees: "I pray heaven, if he dares to enter my doors, that he may be struck down on my hearth—lifeless!"
She gave a gasp, shivered, and fell back on the bed.
She was dead.
Some days passed. Mistress Malvine had been buried. No direct communication had taken place between Anthony and his father. The gentle Bessie, full of distress at the breach, had done what she could to heal it; but ineffectually. Each was too proud and obstinate to make the first advance. Bessie's influence with her father was of the slightest—he had never showed love towards his plain daughter; and Anthony was too much of a man, in his own idea, to allow himself to be guided by a woman. Luke was perplexed more than ever. Urith was now left wholly without proper protection. Her uncle was worse than useless—an element of disorder in the household, and of disintegration in the pecuniary affairs of the family. The estate of Willsworthy did not come to him. It had belonged to his mother, and from his mother had gone to his sister, and now passed to his niece. It was a manor that seemed doomed to follow the spindle. But, though it had not become his property, he was trustee and guardian for his niece till she married; and a more unsatisfactory trustee or improper guardian could hardly have been chosen. He was, indeed, an amiable, well-intentioned man; but was weak, and over-fond of conviviality and the society of his social inferiors, from whom alone he met with deference. He had been brought up to the profession of the law; but, on his father's death, had thrown up what little work had come to him that he might be with his mother and sister, as manager of the estate. When his sister married Richard Malvine he was again thrown on his own resources, andlived mainly on subventions from his sister and friends, and a little law business that he picked up and mismanaged, till his brother-in-law died, when he returned to Willsworthy, to the mismanagement of that property which Richard Malvine had barely recovered from the disorder and deterioration into which it had been brought by Solomon Gibbs's previous rule. The old fellow was unable to stick to any sort of work, to concentrate his thoughts for ten minutes on any object, was irresolute, and swayed by those with whom he associated. His sister lectured and scolded him, and he bore her rebuke with placid amiability, and promises of amendment; promises that were never fulfilled. One great source of annoyance to his sister was his readiness to talk over all family matters at the tavern with his drinking comrades, to explain his views as to what was to be done in every contingency, and dilate on the pecuniary difficulties of his sister, and his schemes for the remedy of the daily deepening impecuniosity. This public discussion of the affairs of the family had done much to bring it into disrepute. Those who heard Mr. Gibbs over his cups retailed what they heard to their friends and wives with developments of their own, and the whole neighbourhood had come to believe that the Malvines were a family irretrievably lost, and that Willsworthy was a poor and intractable estate. Those who used their eyes—as Crymes—did not share in this latter opinion, they saw that the property was deteriorated by mismanagement, but they all readily accepted the opinion that bankruptcy was inevitable to the possessors at that time of Willsworthy.
Luke Cleverdon, knowing all the circumstances, and having gauged the character and abilities of Solomon Gibbs, was anxious concerning the future of Urith. She had tendered a dubious, sullen, and irregular submission to her mother, but was not likely to endure the capricious, unintelligent domination of her uncle. His sister had, moreover, exercised a very considerable restraint on Solomon. He always lived in wholesome dread of her tongue; when relieved of every restraint, there was no reckoning on what he might do with the money scraped together. Urith herself was unaccustomed to managing a house. Her mother had been an admirable disciplinarian in the house, and kept everything there in order, and Urith had run wild.Her mother had not attempted to join her with herself in domestic management, and had driven the girl into a chronic condition of repressed revolt by her unceasing fault-finding. The girl had kept herself outside the house, had spent her time on the moors to escape the irritation and rebellion provoked by her mother's tongue.
The only tolerable solution would have been for Luke to have made Urith his wife, and taken on himself the management of the property, but such a solution was now impossible, for Urith's heart was engaged. It had never been a possibility to Luke's imagination, for he had sufficient cool judgment to be quite sure that he and Urith would never agree. He was quiet, reserved, devoted to his books or to antiquarian researches on the moor, and she had an intractable spirit—at one time sullen, at another frantic—with which he could not cope.
Besides this uncongeniality of temperament, he had no knowledge of or taste for agricultural pursuits, and to recover Willsworthy a man was needed who was a practical farmer and acquainted with business. If he were, moreover, to live at Willsworthy and devote himself to the estate, he must abandon his sacred calling, and this Luke could not justify to his conscience. The choice of Urith, fallen on Anthony, was unobjectionable as far as suitability for the place went. Anthony had been reared on a farm, and was familiar with all that pertained to agriculture. He had energy, spirit, and judgment. But the strong unreasoning opposition of old Squire Cleverdon, and the refusal of Urith's mother to consent to it, made Luke resolve to do nothing to further the union.
Luke spoke to Anthony on the matter, but was met with airy assurance. The old man must come round, it was but a matter of time, and as Mistress Malvine was but recently dead, it could not be that the daughter should marry at once. There must ensue delay, and during this delay old Cleverdon would gradually accustom himself to the prospect, and his anger cool.
Time passed, and no tokens of yielding on the part of the father appeared. Luke spoke again to his cousin. Now Anthony's tone was somewhat altered. His father was holding out because he believed that by so doing he would prevent the marriage, but he was certain to relentas soon as the irrevocable step had been taken. Just as David mourned and wept as long as the child was sick, but washed his face, and ate and accommodated himself to the situation when the child was dead, so would it be with the Squire. He would sulk and threaten so long as Anthony was meditating matrimony, but no sooner was he married than the old man would ask them all to dinner, kiss, and be jolly.
Luke by no means shared his cousin's sanguine views. Mistress Penwarne was in the house, and from her he learnt the circumstances of the marriage and subsequent disagreement of old Anthony and Margaret; and he could to some extent understand the dislike the old Squire had to his son's marrying the daughter of his rival. He knew the hard, relentless, envious nature of the man, he had suffered from it himself, and he doubted whether it would yield as young Anthony anticipated. It was true that Anthony was the Squire's son and heir, that he was the keystone to the great triumphal Cleverdon arch the old man had been rearing in imagination; it was certain that there would be a struggle in his heart between his pride and his love. Luke was by no means confident that old Cleverdon's affection for his son would prove so mastering a passion as to overcome the many combined emotions which were in insurrection within him against this union, and impelling him to maintain his attitude towards his son of alienation and hostility.
When Luke spoke to Anthony of the difficulties that stood in his way, Anthony burst forth impatiently with the words, "It is of no use you talking to me like this, cousin. I have made up my mind, I will have Urith as my wife. I love her, and she loves me. What does it matter that there are obstacles? Obstacles have to be surmounted. My father will come round. As to Urith's mother, the old woman was prejudiced, she was angry. She knows better now, and is sorry for what she said."
"How do you know that?"
"Oh! of course it is so."
"But do you suppose that Urith will go in opposition to her mother's dying wish?"
"She will make no trouble over that, I reckon. Words are wind—they break no bones. I appeal from Alexanderdrunk to Alexander sober, from the ill-informed and peppery old woman, half-crazed on her death-bed, to the same in her present condition. Will that content you?"
"You have not spoken to Urith on this matter?"
"No—I have not seen her since the funeral. I have had that much grace in me. But I will see her to-day, I swear to you. I will tell you what I think," said Anthony, with vehemence. "You are as cold-blooded as an eel. You have never loved—all your interest is in old stones, and pots and pans dug up out of cairns. You love them in a frozen fashion, and have no notion what is the ardour of human hearts loving each other. So you make one difficulty on another. Why, Cousin Luke, if there were mountains of ice I would climb over them, seas of fire, I would wade through them, to Urith. Neither heaven nor hell shall separate us."
"Do not speak like this," said the curate, sternly. "It is a tempting of Providence."
"Providence brought us together and set us ablaze. Providence is bound to finish the good work and unite us."
"There has been neither consideration nor delay in this matter, and Providence, maybe, raises these barriers against which you kick."
"I will kick them over," said Anthony.
"Yes," said Luke, with a touch of bitterness; "always acting with passion and inconsideration. Nothing but headlong folly would have led you to do violence to Master Malvine's grave. The same rash impetuosity made you injure Fox Crymes' eye; and now you will throw yourself headlong into a state of life which involves the welfare of another, just because you have a fancy in your head that may pass as quickly as it has arisen."
"I am not going to listen to a sermon. This is not Sunday."
"I do not believe you will make Urith happy."
"No, not in the fashion you esteem happiness. Certainly not in that. In grubbing into barrows after old pots and counting grey stones on the moor. No. Urith would gape and go to sleep over such dull happiness as this. But I and she understand happiness in other sort from you. We shall manage somehow to make each other happy, and I defy myfather and the ghost of old Madam Malvine to stand between us and spoil our bliss."
Luke bowed his head over the table, and put his hand before his eyes, that his cousin might not observe the emotion that stirred him at these cutting but thoughtlessly uttered words of his cousin. He did not answer at once. After some pause he said, without looking up, "Yes, you may be happy together after your fashion, but something more than passion is wanted to found a household, and that is, as Scripture tells us, the blessing of the parents."
"My father is all right," said Anthony. "He has set his head on my uniting Kilworthy to Hall, and trebling the family estate. He can't have that, so he is growling. But Urith does not come empty; she has Willsworthy. If we do not extend the kingdom of Cleverdon in one direction, we shall in another. My father will see that in time, and come round. The weathercock does not always point to the east; we shall have a twist about, a few rains, and a soft west, warm breeze of reconciliation. I will make you a bet—what will you take?"
"I take no bets; I ask you to consider. In marriage each side brings something to the common fund. What do you bring? Urith has Willsworthy."
"And I Hall."
"No; recollect your father's threat."
"It was but a threat—he never meant it."
"Suppose he did mean it, and perseveres; you will then have to be the receiver, not the giver."
"The place is gone to the dogs. I can give my arms and head to it, and bring it round from the kennel."
"That is something, certainly. Then, again, you are wilful, and have had your way in all things. How will you agree with a girl equally wilful and unbending?"
"In the best way; we shall both will the same things. You don't understand what love is. Where two young creatures love, they do not strive, they pull together. It is of no profit talking to you, Luke, about love; it is to you what Hebrew or Greek would be to me—an unintelligible language in unreadable characters. I will be off to see Urith at once."
"No," said Luke, "you must not go to Willsworthy; you will cause folks to talk."
"I care nothing for their talk."
"If you care nothing for what people say, how is it you fell out with and struck Fox? You must consider others besides yourself. You have no right to bring the name of Urith into discredit. Do you not suppose that already tongues are busy concerning the cause of your quarrel with your father?"
"But I must see her, and come to some understanding."
"I will go to Willsworthy at once, and speak to her of your matter. I have not done so hitherto—I have only sought to comfort her on the death of her mother."
"I do not desire a go-between," said Anthony, peevishly. "In these concerns none can act like the principals."
"But I cannot suffer you to go. You must think of Urith's good name, and not have that any more put into the mouths of those who go to the pot-house. It has been done more than enough already. Stay here till I return."
Luke took up his three-corner hat and his stick and went forth. On reaching Willsworthy he did not find Urith in the house, but ascertained from a maid-servant that she was in the walled garden. Thither he betook himself across the back courtyard. The rooks were making a great noise in the sycamores outside.
He found the girl seated on the herb-bank in the neglected garden, with her head on her hand, deep in thought. She was pale, and her face drawn; but the moment she saw Luke she started up and flushed.
"I am so glad you are come. You will tell me something about Anthony?"
She was only glad to see him because he would speak of Anthony, thought Luke; and it gave a pang to his heart.
"Yes," said he, taking a seat beside her, "I will speak to you about Anthony."
She looked him full in the face out of her large, earnest, dark eyes. "Is it true," she asked, "what I have been told, that he has fallen out with his father, and is driven from Hall?"
"He has taken himself off from Hall," answered Luke, "on your account. His father refuses to countenance his attachment to you."
"Then where is he? With you?"
"Yes, with me. I have come to know your mind. Hecannot always remain with me and at variance with his father."
"On my account this has happened?" she said.
"Yes, on your account. How is this to end?"
She put her hands to her brow, and pressed her temples. "I am pulled this way and that," she answered, "and I feel as if I should go mad. But I have made my resolve, I will give him up. I have been an undutiful daughter always, and now I will obey my mother's last wishes. In that one thing that will cost me most, I will submit, and so atone for the wrong I did all the years before."
"Then you determine to give up Anthony, wholly?"
The colour came and went in her cheek, then deserted it entirely. She clasped her hands over her knee—she had reseated herself—and she said in a low voice, "Wholly."
"You give me authority to tell him this?"
"Yes. It can never be that we can belong to each other after what my mother said. You heard. She hoped if he ever passed through this door, that he might be struck dead on the hearth."
"They were awful words," said Luke, "but——"
"They were her last words."
Luke returned to his home and found Anthony there, pacing his little parlour, to work off his impatience. When he heard what Luke had to say, he burst into angry reproach. "You have spoken like a parson! It was wrong for you to meddle, I knew no good would come of it! I will not hear of this! I will go to Urith myself!"
"You must not."
"I will! Nothing shall stay me." He caught up his hat and swung out of the room.
Anthony strode along the way to Willsworthy. That way took him past Cudliptown. The landlord was at the door of his inn.
"What! pass my house without a step inside?" askedhe. "There's Master Sol Gibbs there and Moorman Ever."
"I cannot stay," answered Anthony.
"Oh!" laughed the taverner, "I see;" and he began to whistle a country song—"An evening so clear."
Instantly the strains of a viol-de-gamba were heard from within taking up the strain, and Uncle Solomon's voice singing lustily:
An evening so clearI would that I were,To kiss thy soft cheekWith the faintest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly above,I would that I wereTo enlighten my love!
An evening so clearI would that I were,To kiss thy soft cheekWith the faintest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly above,I would that I wereTo enlighten my love!
An evening so clearI would that I were,To kiss thy soft cheekWith the faintest of air.The star that is twinklingSo brightly above,I would that I wereTo enlighten 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 enlighten my love!
Anthony walked on. His brow knitted, and he set his teeth. The innkeeper had guessed that he was going to Willsworthy, and suspected the reason. That idiot Solomon Gibbs had been talking.
As he strode along, the plaintive and sweet melody followed him; all that was harsh in the voice mellowed by the distance; and Anthony sang to himself low, as he continued his course:
I would I were heaven,O'erarching and blue,I'd bathe thee, my dearest,In freshest of dew.I would I the sun were,All radiance and glow,I'd pour all my splendourOn thee, love, below!
I would I were heaven,O'erarching and blue,I'd bathe thee, my dearest,In freshest of dew.I would I the sun were,All radiance and glow,I'd pour all my splendourOn thee, love, below!
I would I were heaven,O'erarching and blue,I'd bathe thee, my dearest,In freshest of dew.I would I the sun were,All radiance and glow,I'd pour all my splendourOn thee, love, below!
I would I were heaven,
O'erarching and blue,
I'd bathe thee, my dearest,
In freshest of dew.
I would I the sun were,
All radiance and glow,
I'd pour all my splendour
On thee, love, below!
He remembered how—only a few weeks agone—when he had been at the tavern with some comrades, and songs had been called for, he had expressed his impatience at this very piece, which he said was rank folly. Then he had not understood the yearning of the heart for the loved one, had not conceived of the desire to be all and everything to its mistress. Now he was expelled from his father's house, threatened with being disinherited, and was actuallywithout money in his pocket wherewith to pay for ale or wine at the tavern, had he entered it. He who had been so free with his coin, so ready to treat others, was now unable to give himself a mug of ale. That was what had driven him past the tavern door without crossing the threshold, or rather that was one reason why he had resisted the invitation of the host. Yes—he had suffered for Urith, and he rather plumed himself on having done so. She could not resist his appeal when he told her all he had risked for her sake.
Besides, Anthony was stubborn. The fact of his father's resistance to his wish had hammered his resolution into inflexibility. Nothing in the world, no person alive or dead—neither his father nor her mother—should interfere to frustrate his will. Anthony's heart beat fast between anger and impatience to break down every obstacle; he sang on, as he walked:—
If I were the watersThat round the world run,I'd lavish my pearls on thee,Not keeping of one.If I were the summer,My flowers and greenI'd heap on thy temples,And crown thee my Queen.
If I were the watersThat round the world run,I'd lavish my pearls on thee,Not keeping of one.If I were the summer,My flowers and greenI'd heap on thy temples,And crown thee my Queen.
If I were the watersThat round the world run,I'd lavish my pearls on thee,Not keeping of one.If I were the summer,My flowers and greenI'd heap on thy temples,And crown thee my Queen.
If I were the waters
That round the world run,
I'd lavish my pearls on thee,
Not keeping of one.
If I were the summer,
My flowers and green
I'd heap on thy temples,
And crown thee my Queen.
He had reached the ascent to Willsworthy, he looked up the lane—and saw Urith in it; outside the entrance gates to the Manor House. She was there looking for her uncle, who had been required about some farm-business. She saw Anthony coming to her, with the sun glistening on him over the rude stone hedge hung with fern. She heard his song, and she knew the words—she knew that he was applying them to her. For a moment she hesitated, whether to meet him or to retire into the house. She speedily formed her resolution. If there must be an interview, a final interview, it had better be at once, and got over.
The evening sun was low, the moor peaks over the manor house were flushed a delicate pink, as though the heather were in bloom. Alas! this year no heather would wrap the hills in rose flush, for it had been burnt in the great fire. High aloft the larks were shrilling. She couldhear their song in broken snatches between the strophes of Anthony's lay as he ascended the hill. He had seen her, and his voice became loud and jubilant:—
If I were a kiln,All fire and flame,I'd mantle and girdle theeRound with the same.But as I am nothingSave love-mazed Bill,Pray take of me, make of me,Just what you will.
If I were a kiln,All fire and flame,I'd mantle and girdle theeRound with the same.But as I am nothingSave love-mazed Bill,Pray take of me, make of me,Just what you will.
If I were a kiln,All fire and flame,I'd mantle and girdle theeRound with the same.But as I am nothingSave love-mazed Bill,Pray take of me, make of me,Just what you will.
If I were a kiln,
All fire and flame,
I'd mantle and girdle thee
Round with the same.
But as I am nothing
Save love-mazed Bill,
Pray take of me, make of me,
Just what you will.
He had reached her. He held out his arms to engirdle her as he had threatened, and the flame leaped and danced in his eyes and glowed in his lips and cheek.
She drew back proudly.
"You have had my message?"
"I take no messages—certainly none sent through parsons. The dove is the carrier between lovers, and not the croaking raven."
"Perhaps it is as well," said Urith, coldly. She had nerved herself to play her part, but her heart was bounding and beating against her sides like the Tavy in one of its granite pools beneath a cataract. "I sent by Master Luke Cleverdon to let you know that we must see each other no more."
"I will take no such message. I will—I must see you. I cannot live without."
"My mother's wishes must be followed. I have promised to see and speak to you no more."
"You promised! To whom? To her?"
Urith was silent.
"I will know who twisted this promise out of you. Was it Luke? If so his cassock and our cousinship shall not save him."
"It was not Luke."
"It was your mother?"
"I did not actually promise anything to my mother. But—I must not shrink from telling you—I have made the promise to myself, we can be nothing to each other."
"Unsay the promise at once—do you hear? At once."
"I cannot do that. I made it because I considered itright. Your father is against our—acquaintance——" She hesitated.
"Go on—he is against our being lovers, and more against our marrying. But what of that? He always gives way in the end, and now the only means of bringing him to his senses is for us to go before the altar."
"My mother, with her last breath, warned me from you."
"I know perfectly well for what reason. My mother and your father were to each other what are now you and I; then, by some chance, all went wrong, and each got wed to the wrong person. Neither was happy after that, and my father on one side and your mother on the other, could not forget this, so they have carried on the grudge to the next generation, and would make us do the wrong that they did, and give you to—the Lord knows who?—perhaps Fox Crymes; and me, certainly, to Julian. I have seen what comes of wedding where the heart is elsewhere. I will not commit the folly my father was guilty of. Julian Crymes shall take another, she shall never have me. And you, I reckon, have no fancy for another save me; and if your mother had made any scheme for you, she has taken it with her to the grave, and you are not tied to make yourself unhappy thereon."
As he spoke, Urith retreated through the gateway into the court, and Anthony, vehement in his purpose, followed her.
They were as much alone and unobserved in the little court as in the lane, for only the hall windows and those of an unused parlour looked into it. But Anthony raised his voice in his warmth of feeling. "Urith," said he, "I am not accustomed to take a No, and what I am not accustomed to I will not take."
"No!" she answered, and looked up, with a kindling of her eye. "And what I say, to that I am accustomed to hold; and what I am accustomed to hold, that hold I will. I say No." She set her foot down.
"And I will not take it. I throw it back. Why, look you, you have said Yes. We are pledged to each other. You and I on The Cleave. There I have you, Urith. You passed your word to me, and I will not release you."
She looked on the paved ground of the court, with grasssprouting between the cobble-stones, and played with her foot on the pebbles. Her brows were contracted, and her lips tight closed. Presently she looked up at him steadily, and said—
"It is for the good of both that I withdraw that word, stolen from me before I had weighed and appraised its worth. I will not be the cause of strife between you and your father, and I dare not go against the last words of my mother. Do you know what she said? She prayed that you might be struck dead on the hearth should you dare enter our doors again."
"Very well," said Anthony, "let us see what her prayer avails. Stand aside, Urith."
He thrust her away and walked forward to the entrance of the house, then he turned and looked at her and laughed. The sun shone on the porch, but it was dark within. He put out his hands and held to the stone-jambs, and looking at Urith with the dazzling evening sun in his eyes, he said—
"See now! I defy her. I go through!" and walking backwards, with arms outspread, he passed in through the porch, then in at the second doorway.
Urith had remained rooted to one spot, in astonishment and terror. Now she flew after him, and found him standing in the hall on the hearthstone, his head above the dark oak mantel, laughing, and with his legs wide apart, and his hands in his belt.
"See, Urith!" he jeered, "the prayers are of no avail. Prayers bring blessings, not curses. Here am I on the hearthstone, alive and well. Now—will you fear an idle threat?"
He laughed aloud, and broke out into a snatch of song.