O the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse,How earnestly I do desire thee!Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day,But only to thee to inspire me.
O the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse,How earnestly I do desire thee!Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day,But only to thee to inspire me.
O the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse,How earnestly I do desire thee!Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day,But only to thee to inspire me.
O the Catholic Cause! now assist me, sweet Muse,
How earnestly I do desire thee!
Faith I will not go pray to St. Bridget to-day,
But only to thee to inspire me.
The singer was interrupted by a groan from all in the room, and a shout from Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "Calvinist Géneva and Hollands for me! Catholic French Claret is thin—deuced thin liquor!"
Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey,Which in England will be a new wonder!Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal thingsShall submit, and shall truckle under!
Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey,Which in England will be a new wonder!Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal thingsShall submit, and shall truckle under!
Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey,Which in England will be a new wonder!Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal thingsShall submit, and shall truckle under!
Then the Church shall bear sway, the State shall obey,
Which in England will be a new wonder!
Commons, Nobles, and Kings, and Temporal things
Shall submit, and shall truckle under!
The miners jumped to their feet, and began to swear that they'd rather be crushed in their adits, than live to see that day.
"Things are coming fair on towards it, sure as the clouds have been rolling up, and portending a thunderstorm," said the host.
"Ah!" growled Solomon; "give the Devil his due. Old Noll, who didn't sit by right Divine, knew how to make Britain free and honoured."
"No Dutch in the Medway, then! No burning of Spithead and His Majesty's fleet under His Majesty's nose," said the old singer.
"'Tis a pity," said one of the men present, "that there were not a few more drowned on the Lemon and Ore than those who did. Nay, rather, that certain who escaped should not have sunk, and such as drowned should not have escaped."
This had reference to a sandbank near Yarmouth, on which the frigate bearing the Duke of York had struck, when about a hundred and thirty persons were drowned.
"Here!" called Sol Gibbs. "Here's bad luck to Lemon and Ore for doing the work so foully!" and he put his jug of ale to his lips.
"Lemon and Ore," said each who drank, "better luck next time."
"Folks do say," put in the landlord, "that the King, God bless him, was really married to Lucy Walters. If that be so, why then the Duke of Monmouth should be King after him." Then he shook his head, and added, "But, Lord! I know nought about such matters."
"Here's a health to the Protestant Duke!" said the miners, and looked about them. "Now, my masters! Won'ty all drink to the Protestant Duke?"
"To be sure I will—drink to any one," said Solomon Gibbs.
"Why should he not have married her?" asked the singer. "Didn't the Duke of York marry Mistress Ann Hyde? And Lucy Walters was a gentlewoman every whit as much. When the Duke of Monmouth was born, then His Majesty was Prince Charles, in France, with small chance of coming to his own again; for Old Noll was then in full flower, and making the earth quake at the name of England."
"When the Duke of Savoy was persecuting the Protestants, did not Old Noll hold up his finger, and at the sight of his nail the Duke stayed his hands?" said Anthony Cleverdon. "By the Lord! If it had been in my time, I would have drawn the sword for them."
"When all the giants are dead, every Tom Thumb boasts he would have been a Jack of Cornwall," sneered Fox Crymes.
"What is that you say?" asked Anthony, hotly.
"I was merely saying that it ill becomes a man of spirit to boast of what he would have done had things been other than they are."
"Do you mean to hint that I am a coward?"
"I hinted nothing of the sort. I made a general observation. If the time should come when your sword would be wanted to sustain the Protestant cause, I make no doubt that you will be ready to prop it up—on the point."
"No quarrels here," shouted Solomon Gibbs; then he sang:—
Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast,Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest.We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll,Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast,Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest.We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll,Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast,Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest.We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll,Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Let nothing but harmony reign in your breast,
Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest.
We'll toss off our bumper, together we'll troll,
Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Then he called to the united assembly, "What say you all—shall we have a punch-bowl?Nem. con.Carried. That is it which lacked to establish sweetest concord. Landlord! Bring us the needful, and we'll brew."
From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum,Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come.Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll,Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum,Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come.Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll,Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum,Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come.Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll,Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
From France cometh brandy, Jamaica gives rum,
Sweet oranges, lemons from Portugal come.
Of ale and good cyder we'll also take toll,
Give me the punch-ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
The host called to his wife to produce the requisite ingredients, and went in quest of the ladle, which he kept upstairs, as it had a silver piece of Charles I. let into it.
"I ax," said one of the miners, throwing out his arm as if proclaiming defiance, "how it came about that London was burnt? Warn't them Poperies seen a doing of it—a firing it in several places?"
"And Sir Edmondbury Godfrey—weren't he cruelly and bloodily murdered by 'em?" asked the second.
"Ay! and whose doing is it that that worthy gentleman, my Lord Russell, has been done to death? That every one knows. 'Tis said the Earl of Bedford offered a hundred thousand pounds to save his life; but the Catholic Duke would not hear of his being spared. And the Duke of York will be King after his present Gracious Majesty. By heavens! I would draw sword for the Protestant Duke and swear to his legitimacy."
"I'll tell you what it is," said Fox Crymes, "if this sort of talk is going on here, I'm off and away. If you are not speaking treason, you go pretty nigh to it, too nigh it for safety, and I'll be off."
"There are no informers and spies here," said the yeoman.
"I reckon us be all true Protestants and loyal to the Crown and Constitution. The Constitution! God bless it!"
"You can't go, Fox," said Anthony, "for here comes the storm we have been expecting." He spoke as a flash illuminated the room, and was followed by a boom of near thunder, then down came the rain like the fall of a water-spout on the roof.
Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea,Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me?
Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea,Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me?
Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea,Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me?
Our brothers lie drowned in the depths of the sea,
Cold stones for their pillows, what matters to me?
Mr. Solomon Gibbs was erect, supporting himself on the table by his left hand, whilst he mixed the bowl of punch and stirred it, and sang in snatches:
We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul,Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul,Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul,Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
We'll drink to their healths and repose to each soul,
Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
"Now, then, landlord! Where's the lemons? Bless my soul, you're not going to make us drink unlemoned punch? As well give us a King without a Crown, or a parson without a gown."
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please—Haven't got one, I'm thankful—a sister don't count—Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please—Haven't got one, I'm thankful—a sister don't count—Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please—Haven't got one, I'm thankful—a sister don't count—Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
Your wives they may fluster as much as they please—
Haven't got one, I'm thankful—a sister don't count—
Let 'em scold, let 'em grumble, we'll sit at our ease.
In the ends of our pipes we'll apply a hot coal.
Give me the punch ladle—I'll fathom the bowl.
"—So! the lemons at last? Where's a silver knife to cut them with? Bless my soul! How it rains! I thank Providence the water is without, and the spirit is within."
"This rain will dowse the fires on the moor," said the yeoman.
"And would have washed your Tory zeal out of you,"laughed Anthony, "had you gone out in it just now, shocked at our Whiggery."
"Oh! you," sneered Fox, "you took good care to say nothing. You were wise not to come within seeing distance with a pair of perspective glasses of Tyburn gallows, where men have been hung, disembowelled, and drawn for less offence than some of the words let drop to-night."
"Now—no more of this," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "I am president here. Where the punch-bowl is, there is a president, and I waive my sceptre, this ladle, and enforce abstention from politics, and all such scurvy subjects. You began it, Taverner, with your damnable ballad of the Catholic cause, and you shall be served last. Comrades! 'To the King, God bless him!'"
"And the Protestant cause!" shouted Taverner.
"Ay, ay, which His Majesty swore to maintain," said the miners.
"Bar politics!" cried Mr. Gibbs, "or, curse it, I'll throw the punch out of the door. I will, I swear I will. Taverner, give us something cheerful—something with no politics in it to set us all by the ears."
"Shall I give you something suitable to the evening, Mr. Gibbs?"
"Certainly—tune up. I wish I had my viol with me to give a few chords; but I set out to look for my niece who had strayed, and I forgot to take my viol with me."
The grey-haired ballad-singer stood up, cleared his throat, and with the utmost gravity sang, throwing marvellous twirls and accidentals into the tune, the following song:
My Lady hath a sable coachAnd horses, two and four,My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhoundThat runneth on before.My Lady's coach has nodding plumes,The coachman has no head.My Lady's face is ashen white,As one that long is dead."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, pray step in and ride!""I thank thee, I had rather walk,Than gather to thy side."The wheels go round without a soundOf tramp or turn of wheels,As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight,Onward the carriage steals."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, prithee, come to me."She takes the baby from the crib,She sets it on her knee.The wheels go round, etc."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, pray step in, and ride,"Then deadly pale, in wedding veil,She takes to her the bride.The wheels go round, etc."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"There's room I wot for you."She waved her hand, the coach did stand,The Squire within she drew.The wheels go round, etc."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?"She took the gaffer in by her,His crutches in the boot.The wheels go round, etc.I'd rather walk a hundred miles,And run by night and day,Than have that carriage halt for me,And hear my Lady say:"Now, pray step in, and make no din,I prithee come and ride.There's room, I trow, by me for you,And all the world beside."[3]
My Lady hath a sable coachAnd horses, two and four,My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhoundThat runneth on before.My Lady's coach has nodding plumes,The coachman has no head.My Lady's face is ashen white,As one that long is dead."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, pray step in and ride!""I thank thee, I had rather walk,Than gather to thy side."The wheels go round without a soundOf tramp or turn of wheels,As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight,Onward the carriage steals."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, prithee, come to me."She takes the baby from the crib,She sets it on her knee.The wheels go round, etc."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, pray step in, and ride,"Then deadly pale, in wedding veil,She takes to her the bride.The wheels go round, etc."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"There's room I wot for you."She waved her hand, the coach did stand,The Squire within she drew.The wheels go round, etc."Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?"She took the gaffer in by her,His crutches in the boot.The wheels go round, etc.I'd rather walk a hundred miles,And run by night and day,Than have that carriage halt for me,And hear my Lady say:"Now, pray step in, and make no din,I prithee come and ride.There's room, I trow, by me for you,And all the world beside."[3]
My Lady hath a sable coachAnd horses, two and four,My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhoundThat runneth on before.My Lady's coach has nodding plumes,The coachman has no head.My Lady's face is ashen white,As one that long is dead.
My Lady hath a sable coach
And horses, two and four,
My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhound
That runneth on before.
My Lady's coach has nodding plumes,
The coachman has no head.
My Lady's face is ashen white,
As one that long is dead.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, pray step in and ride!""I thank thee, I had rather walk,Than gather to thy side."The wheels go round without a soundOf tramp or turn of wheels,As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight,Onward the carriage steals.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in and ride!"
"I thank thee, I had rather walk,
Than gather to thy side."
The wheels go round without a sound
Of tramp or turn of wheels,
As a cloud at night, in the pale moonlight,
Onward the carriage steals.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, prithee, come to me."She takes the baby from the crib,She sets it on her knee.The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, prithee, come to me."
She takes the baby from the crib,
She sets it on her knee.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Now, pray step in, and ride,"Then deadly pale, in wedding veil,She takes to her the bride.The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Now, pray step in, and ride,"
Then deadly pale, in wedding veil,
She takes to her the bride.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"There's room I wot for you."She waved her hand, the coach did stand,The Squire within she drew.The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"There's room I wot for you."
She waved her hand, the coach did stand,
The Squire within she drew.
The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,"Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?"She took the gaffer in by her,His crutches in the boot.The wheels go round, etc.
"Now, pray step in," my Lady saith,
"Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?"
She took the gaffer in by her,
His crutches in the boot.
The wheels go round, etc.
I'd rather walk a hundred miles,And run by night and day,Than have that carriage halt for me,And hear my Lady say:"Now, pray step in, and make no din,I prithee come and ride.There's room, I trow, by me for you,And all the world beside."[3]
I'd rather walk a hundred miles,
And run by night and day,
Than have that carriage halt for me,
And hear my Lady say:
"Now, pray step in, and make no din,
I prithee come and ride.
There's room, I trow, by me for you,
And all the world beside."[3]
FOOTNOTES:[1]Such a granite-oven was discovered in the author's own house in an old and long-abandoned chimney-back, in 1866. It was impossible to preserve it.[2]Two such stone frying-pans are to be seen in the Museum at Launceston. The one was given by a gentleman from his kitchen, where it had been long in use, the other was found among the ruins of Trecarrel—probably coeval with the buildings, the middle of the sixteenth century.[3]Published with the traditional melody in "Songs of the West, Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England," by S. Baring-Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard (Methuen, Bury Street, London, 1889).
[1]Such a granite-oven was discovered in the author's own house in an old and long-abandoned chimney-back, in 1866. It was impossible to preserve it.
[1]Such a granite-oven was discovered in the author's own house in an old and long-abandoned chimney-back, in 1866. It was impossible to preserve it.
[2]Two such stone frying-pans are to be seen in the Museum at Launceston. The one was given by a gentleman from his kitchen, where it had been long in use, the other was found among the ruins of Trecarrel—probably coeval with the buildings, the middle of the sixteenth century.
[2]Two such stone frying-pans are to be seen in the Museum at Launceston. The one was given by a gentleman from his kitchen, where it had been long in use, the other was found among the ruins of Trecarrel—probably coeval with the buildings, the middle of the sixteenth century.
[3]Published with the traditional melody in "Songs of the West, Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England," by S. Baring-Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard (Methuen, Bury Street, London, 1889).
[3]Published with the traditional melody in "Songs of the West, Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England," by S. Baring-Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard (Methuen, Bury Street, London, 1889).
The ballad of the "Lady's Coach," sung to a weird air in an ancient mode, such as was becoming no more usual for composers to write in, and already beginning to sound strange and incomplete to the ear, at once changed the tenor of the thoughts of those in the tavern, and diverted their conversation away from politics into a new channel. The wind had risen, and was raging round the house, driving the rain in slashes against the casement; and puffing the smoke down the chimney into the room.
"You came back from the moor along the Lyke-Way, did you?" asked the farmer of Anthony.
"Yes; it is many miles the shortest, and there was plenty of light."
"I wouldn't travel it at night for many crowns," said the yeoman.
"Why not!" asked one of the miners. "What is there to fear on the moor? If there be spirits, they hurt no one."
"I should like others to risk it before me," said the yeoman.
"Anthony took good care not to ride it alone," muttered Fox, with a side glance at young Cleverdon.
"You forced yourself on me," answered Anthony, sharply.
"Of course you wanted to be quite alone—I understand," sneered Fox.
"You can comprehend, I hope, that your company is no advantage to be greatly desired on the Lyke-Way or elsewhere," retorted Anthony, angrily. "It is possible enough that it was distasteful to others beside myself."
"And your society was infinitely preferable. I make no question as to that," scoffed Fox.
"Now, no quarrels here. We have banished politics. Must we banish every other topic that arises?" asked Solomon Gibbs. "What is this that makes you bicker now?"
"Oh, nothing!" said Crymes. "Anthony Cleverdon and I were discussing the Lyke-Way, and whether either of uscared to go along it at night. I shrink from it, just as does Farmer Cudlip. Nor does Cleverdon seem more disposed to walk it."
"I am not disposed to travel over it in rain and wind, in the midst of a thunder-storm. I would go along it any other night when moon and stars show, to allow of a man finding his road."
"I'll tell you what," said the yeoman; "there's worst places than the Lyke-Way on such a night as this."
"Where is that?"
"Do you know what night it be?"
"A very foul one."
"Ay, no doubt about that! after a fair day. But this is St. Mark's Eve, and I'll tell you what befel my grandfather on this night some years agone. 'Twas in Peter Tavy, too—it came about he'd been to the buryin' of his uncle's mother's sister's aunt, and, as he said hisself, never enjoyed hisself more at a buryin'. There was plenty o' saffron cake and cyder, and some bottles of real old Jamaica rum, mellow—Lor' bless you—soft and mellow as a cat's paw. He lived, did my grandfather, at Horndon, and it were a night much such as this. My grandfer had rather a deal stayed wi' the corpse, but he was a mighty strict and scrupulous old man, and he knowed that his wife—my grandmother as was—would expect him home about—well, I can't say for sartain, but, anyhow, some hours afore daybreak. Us poor fellers in this world o' misery and trial, can't a'ways have what we desires, so my grandfer had to sacrifice hisself on the alter of dooty, and not to bide with the corpse and the Jamaica rum, not to mention the saffron cake. 'Tes surprising, gentlemen," said Farmer Cudlip, looking round at Cleverdon, Crymes, and Solomon Gibbs, "'tes surprising now, when you come to reckon up, how soon one comes to the end o' eating cake, and yet, in Jamaica rum, and punch—I thanky' kindly, Mr. Gibbs, to fill me the glass. Thanky', sir!—As I was saying, in drink one's capacity is, I should say, boundless as the rolling ocean. Ain't it, now, Mr. Gibbs?"
"Ah! Solomon the Wise never said a truer word," answered Solomon the Foolish.
"'Tes curious, when you come to consider, now," said the farmer; "for meat and drink both goes the same way andinto the same receptacle; yet how soon one is grounded on cake, but can float, and float—I thank you Mr. Gibbs, my glass is empty—float forever in liquor."
"We should like to hear what your grandfather did," said Cleverdon, laughing.
"What he did? Why, he sot down," said Cudlip. "After leaving the house of tears and bereavement, he was going home, and was very tired, his legs began to give way under him. And as he came along by the wall o' Peter Tavy Church, sez he to hisself, 'Why, dash me if it bain't St. Mark's Eve, and many a time have I heard tell that they as wait on that eve in the church porch is sure to see go by in at the door all they that is sure to die in the rest o' the year.' Well, gentlemen, my grandfer, he knewed he was a bit late, and thought his wife—my grandmother—wouldn't take it over kindly, so he thinks if he could bring her a bit of rare news, she'd mebbe forgive him. And, gentlemen, what more rare news could he bring than a tale of who was doomed to die within the year? So he went in at the churchyard-gate, and straight—that is to say, as straight as his legs, which weren't quite equal, could take him—to the porch, and there, on the side away from the wind, he sot hisself down."
"I wouldn't have done it," said one of the miners, nudging his fellow; "would thou, Tummas?"
"Not I," responded his comrade. "If it had been the Lyke-Way, that's different. I'd walk that any night. But to go under a roof, in the churchyard—it were tempting o' Providence."
"Go on with your story," said Solomon Gibbs. "Those that interrupt lose a turn of filling from the bowl."
"Well, then," continued Cudlip, "my grandfather was seated for some time in the porch, and uncommon dark it was, for there are a plenty of trees in the churchyard, and the night was dirty, and the sky covered with clouds. How long he sat there I cannot tell, but long enough to get uneasy; not that he was afraid, bless your souls, of what he might see, but uneasy at being there so long and seeing nothing, so that he must go home to my grandmother without a word o' explanation or information that might pacify her, should she be inclined to be troublesome. Just as he was about to get up, in a mighty bad temper, and to go home,cursing the fools who had got up the tale of St. Mark's Eve, why, looking along the avenue in the yard, what should he see but some curious long, white things, like monstrous worms, crawling and tumbling, and making for the church porch. You will understand, gentlemen, that my grandfather thought he would do better to wait where he was, partly, because he did not wish to pass these worm-like creatures, but, chiefly, that he might have something to report to his missus, to make her placable and agreeable."
"But what where they?" asked Anthony Cleverdon.
"I'll tell you, Master Anthony. They was human arms, from the shoulder, walking of themselves; first they laid along from shoulder to elbow, then the hand from elbow forward lifted itself and looked about, and then came down flat on the palm, and lifted all the hinder part from the elbow-joint till it stood upright, and then turned a somersault, and so on again, two steps, as it were, and then a somersault; a coorious sort of proceeding, I take it."
"Very," said Crymes, with a sneer.
"There was about nine of 'em coming along, some fast as if racing each other, some slow, but creeping on, and overtaking the others that was going too fast, and fell over on the elbow-joint, when up went hand and shoulder kicking in the air like a beetle on his back. My grandfather felt that now sartainly he'd have news to tell his old woman. Presently a lot of the arms was about the step to the church porch, shy-like, not knowing whether to come in or no—some standing up on the shoulder and poking the hands in, some curlin' of themselves up on the step, as a-going to sleep, and some staggering about anyways. At last one of the boldest of them made a jump, and came down on my grandfather's knee, and sat there, with the shoulder part on his knee, like as a limpet fastens on a rock, or the end of a barnacle on a log of wood, and there it sat and curled itself about, and turned the hand just as it saw out of the nails—which was very white, and served as eyes. It was curious, my grandfather said, to see the fingers curling one over the other, just as a fly preens its wings. My granfer' couldn't make it out at first, till at last he saw it was pulling and picking at a gold ring on the last finger but one. It was a very broad ring—anddirectly my granfer' knowed it, and said, 'Why, blazes!' said he, 'that's Mistress Cake's wedding ring!' And no sooner had he said that, than the arm jumped off his knee and went on to the church door, and he saw it no more. Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, that Mistress Cake, of Wringworthy, died a month later of the falling sickness. But he had not a moment for consideration, as in came another arm, that stood at his foot bowing to him with the hand, and then patting him on the shin. This arm didn't like to seem to make so bold as to come up and sit on his knee, so my granfer stooped and looked at it. It stood up on the shoulder, and it had very strong muscles; but rather stiff, they seemed, wi' age, for they cracked like when the arm bent itself about, which it did in a slow and clumsy fashion. 'Twas a brown arm, too, and not white, like Madam Cake's; and the hand was big, and broad, and hairy, and it turned itself over and showed the palm, and then it held up one finger after another, which was all covered with warts. Then my granfer said, 'Lor' bless and deliver! but this be the hand of Ploughman Gale!' And, sure enough, I reckon it was. It seemed quite satisfied, and folded itself up, and made a spring like a cricket—went out of sight to the church door."
"I should like to know how your grandfather saw all this," said Anthony Cleverdon, "if it was, as you say, a dark night, and it was in the church porch?"
"No interfering!" exclaimed Mr. Gibbs. "You've forfeited. Here's your glass, Master Cudlip. Go on."
"There's not much more to be said," continued the yeoman. "One or two more arms came on, and granfer said there was a sight o' difference in their ways: some was pushing like, and forward; and others rayther hung back, and seemed to consider small bones of themselves. Now it was a fact that all those he saw and named belonged to folks as died within the year, and in the very order in which they came on and presented themselves before him. What puzzled him most to name was two baby-arms—purty little things they was—and he had to count over all the young children in the parish before he could tell which they was. At last, up came a long, lean, old, dry arm, tossing its hand in a short, quick, touchy fashion, and went up on grandfer's knee without so much as a 'By yourleave.' And there it sat, and poked its hand about, wi'all the fingers joined together like a pointed serpent's head. It moved in a queer, irritable, jerky manner, that was familiar, somehow, to my grandfather. After a bit he put his head down to look at the elbow, where he fancied he saw a mole, when—crack! the hand hit him on his cheek such a blow that he tumbled over, and lay sprawling on the pavement; and he knew, by the feel of the hand as it caught him, that it was—my grandmother's. When he had picked himself up, he saw nothing more, so he went home. You may be very sure of those two things, gentlemen—[Thank you, Mr. Gibbs. I'll trouble you to fill my glass. Talking has made me terrible dry]—he never told his missus that Madam Cake's arm had sat on his knee, nor that he had seen and recognized herownarm and hand."
"I wouldn't go on this night to the church porch, not for a king's crown," said one of the miners. "Did not your grandfather suffer for his visit?"
"Well," answered the yeoman, "I reckon he did ever after feel a sort o' cramp in his knees—particularly in wet weather, where the arms had sat—but what was that to the relief? My grandmother died that same year."
"I wouldn't go there for any relief you might name," said the miner again, who was greatly impressed by the story. "I've heard the pixies hammering down in the mines, but I think naught of them. As for the Lyke-Way, what goes over that is but shadows."
"Some folks are afraid of shadows," said Fox, "and don't think themselves safe unless they have at least a woman with them for protection."
"You are again levelling at me!" exclaimed Anthony Cleverdon. "I have no fear either of shadows or substances. If you choose to come out and try with me, you will see that I am not afraid of your arm, and that I can chastise your tongue."
"Oh! my arm!" laughed Crymes. "I never supposed for a moment you dreaded that. But it is the arms without bodies, moving like worms in the churchyard at Peter Tavy, on this St. Mark's Eve, you are more likely to dread."
"I am not afraid of them," retorted Cleverdon.
"So you say; but I do not think you seem inclined to show you are not."
"Do you dare me to it?"
"I don't care whether you go or not. If you do, who is to stand surety for you that you go where I say—to the churchyard of Peter Tavy?"
"One of you can come and see."
"There!" laughed Fox, "crying off already! Afraid to go alone, and appealing for company."
"By heaven, this is too bad!" cried Anthony, and started to his feet.
"Don't go," shouted Mr. Solomon Gibbs. "It's folly, and break up of good company."
"There's good company with Fox Crymes girding at me at every minute. But, by heaven, I will not be jeered at as a coward. Fox has dared me to go to Peter Tavy churchyard, and go I will—alone, moreover."
"No such thing," said the host; "it is too bad a night. Stay here and help finish this brew; we'll have another bowl, if Mr. Solomon approves—and Mr. Cudlip."
"I will go," said Anthony, thoroughly roused, and rendered doubly excitable by the punch he had been drinking.
"You have done wrong to spur him," said Gibbs, addressing Crymes.
"Faith! I am a sceptic," said Fox. "I disbelieve altogether in the walking arms, and I shall be glad to learn from a credible witness whether the same be a mere fiction and fancy, or have any truth in it. Master Cudlip's grandfather lived a long time ago."
"I do not believe in it either," said Cleverdon; "but although I did I would not now be deterred. Fox casts his gibes at me, and I will show him that I have metal enough to make such a trifling venture as this."
He threw on his coat, grasped his long walking-stick, and went out into the storm. A furious gale was sweeping about the little hamlet of Cudlip town, where stood the tavern. It was not possible to determine from which quarter the wind came, it so eddied about the inn and the open space before it. Anthony stood against the wall outside for a moment or two till his eyes accustomed themselves somewhat to the dark. Every few moments the glare of lightning in the sky illumined the rocky ridges of White Tor and Smeardun, under which Cudlip town lay, and the twisted thorns and oaks among blocks of granitethat strewed the slopes before the three or four old farmhouses that were clustered about the inn.
Then Anthony, having satisfied himself as to his direction, set down his head against the wind, and strode forward, with his staff feeling the way. On his right, below in this valley, roared the Tavy, but the song of the water was mixed up with that of the wind so inextricably that Anthony, had he tried it, could not have distinguished the roar of one from that of the other. The lane was between stone walls and hedges of half stone and half earth, in summer adorned with magnificent foxgloves. For a while the rain slackened, and where the walls were high Anthony had some shelter against the wind. Peter Tavy Church lay outside the village, and he would reach it without passing another house.
The principal fury of the storm seemed to be concentrated over White Tor, a lofty peak of trap rock fortified in prehistoric times, and with beacons and cairns of angular fragments piled up within the enclosure. In one place a huge fang of black rock stood upright, and was split by lightning, with a block of basalt fallen into the cleft, where it swung among the rocks. Over the cairns and embankments the thunder-cloud flamed white, and threw out dazzling fire-bolts. Anthony stood one moment, looking up at the Tor; it was as though the spirits of the air were playing at tossball there with thunderbolts. Then he again pushed forward. The wind, the cold—after the warmth of the tavern and the spirits he had drank—confused his brain, and though he was not intoxicated, yet he was not judge of his actions. At the next explosion of the electric fluid he saw before him the granite tower of the church, and the trees in the churchyard bare of leaves.
Those in the tavern became grave and silent for a moment after Anthony left.
"It is a folly," said one of the miners; "it is tempting heaven."
"I don't care whether he sees aught or not," said Cudlip; "my grandfather's story is true. It don't follow because Anthony Cleverdon comes back having seen nothing that my grandfather told an untruth. Who can tell? perhaps nobody in the parish will die this year. If there is to be no burials, then no arms will be walking."
"I hope he's not gone the wrong road and tumbled into the river," said Solomon Gibbs.
"I'll tell you what he will do," said Fox. "He will let us sit expecting his return all night, and he will quietly take himself off to Hall, and laugh at us for our folly to-morrow."
"Not he," said the innkeeper; "that's not the way with Master Cleverdon.Youmight have done that, and we should not ha' been surprised."
"I would have done it, most assuredly. If Tony does not, then he is more of a fool than I took him. He loves a bit of brag as much as another, and with brag he went forth."
"There is no brag in him," said Taverner, the ballad-singer. "Every one knows what Anthony Cleverdon is; if he says he will do a thing, he will do it. If we wait long enough, he will return from the churchyard."
"Or say he has been there."
"If he says it, we will believe him—all but you, Mr. Crymes, who believe in nobody and nothing."
"Now, we have had threats of quarrel already more than once; I must stop this," said Solomon Gibbs. "Storm outside is sufficient. Let us have calm within over the sea of punch."
"Oh!" said Fox, contemptuously, "I don't quarrel with old Taverner; no man draws save against his equal."
"Punch! more punch!" shouted Gibbs. "Landlord, we are come to the gravel. And, Taverner! give us a song, but not one so dismal as 'My Lady's Coach.' That set us about speaking of St. Mark's Eve, and sent Cleverdon on this crazy adventure."
"What shall I sing?" asked the songman, but he did not wait for an answer. He stood up and began:—
Oh! the trees they are so high,And the trees they are so green!The day is past and gone, sweet love,That you and I have seen.It is cold winter's night,You and I must bide alone,Whilst my pretty lad is young,And is growing.
Oh! the trees they are so high,And the trees they are so green!The day is past and gone, sweet love,That you and I have seen.It is cold winter's night,You and I must bide alone,Whilst my pretty lad is young,And is growing.
Oh! the trees they are so high,And the trees they are so green!The day is past and gone, sweet love,That you and I have seen.It is cold winter's night,You and I must bide alone,Whilst my pretty lad is young,And is growing.
Oh! the trees they are so high,
And the trees they are so green!
The day is past and gone, sweet love,
That you and I have seen.
It is cold winter's night,
You and I must bide alone,
Whilst my pretty lad is young,
And is growing.
The door was burst open, and Anthony entered, with the water pouring off him. He was blinded with the rain that had beat in his face, as he came toward Cudlip's town. In his arms he bore something like a log.
"There!" said he, and cast this object on the table, where it struck and shattered the porcelain punchbowl, sending its last contents over the table and the floor.
"There!" shouted Anthony, "will you now believe I have been in the churchyard?"
"By the Lord!" shouted Solomon Gibbs, "this is past a joke. This is a mortal insult."
That which Anthony had cast on the table was one of the oak posts which marked the head of a grave, square, with a sort of nick and knob on the top. Such a post as was put up by those who could not afford granite tombstones.
"It is an insult! It is an outrage!" roared Gibbs, "look there!" He pointed to the inscription on the post—it ran thus:—
Richard Malvine,of Willsworthy, Gent.
The night of storm was succeeded by a fresh and sparkling morning. The rain hung on every bush, twinkling in prismatic colours. There still rose smoke from the moor, but the wind had shifted, and it now carried the combined steam and smoke away to the east. The surface of Dartmoor was black, as though bruised all over its skin of fine turf. Hardly any gorse bushes were left, and the fire had for more than one year robbed the moor of the glory of golden blossom that crowned it in May, and of the mantle of crimson heath wherewith it was enfolded in July.
Luke Cleverdon, Curate of Mary Tavy, walked slowly up the hill from the bridge over the brawling River Tavy towards Willsworthy. He was a tall, spare young man, withlarge soft brown eyes, and a pale face. His life had not been particularly happy. His parents had died when he was young, and old Cleverdon, of Hall, had taken charge of the boy in a grumblingly, ungracious fashion, resenting the conduct of his brother in dying, and encumbering him with the care of a delicate child. Luke was older than young Anthony, and possibly for a while old Anthony may have thought that, in the event of his wife giving him no son, Hall and his accumulations would devolve on this frail, white-faced, and timid lad. The boy proved to be fond of books, and wholly unsuited for farm life. Consequently he was sent to school, and then to College, and had been ordained by the Bishop of Exeter to the Curacy of Tavy St. Peter, or Petery-Tavy, as it was usually called. His uncle had never shown him affection, his young cousin, Anthony, had been in everything and every way preferred before him, and had been suffered to put him aside and tyrannise over him at his will. Only in Bessie had he found a friend, though hardly an associate, for Bessie's interests were other than those of the studious, thoughtful boy. She was a true Martha, caring for all that pertained to the good conduct of the house, and Luke had the dreamy idealism of Mary. The boy had suffered from contraction of the chest, but had grown out of his extreme delicacy in the fresh air of the country, and living on the abundant and wholesome food provided in a farm. His great passion was for the past. He had so little to charm him in the present, and no pursuit unfolding before him in the future, that he had been thrown as a lad to live in the past, to make the episodes of history his hunting fields. Fortunately for him, Dartmoor was strewn with prehistoric antiquities; upright stones ranged in avenues, in some instances extending for miles, with mysterious circles of unhewn blocks, and with cairns and kistvaens, or stone coffins, constructed of rude slabs of granite. Among these he wandered, imagining strange things, peopling the solitude, and dreaming of the Druids who, he supposed, had solemnised their ritual in these rude temples.
Old Cleverdon was angered with the pursuits of his nephew. He utterly despised any pursuit which did not lead to money, and archæology was one which might, and often did, prove expensive, but was not remunerative froma pecuniary point of view. As soon as ever Luke was ordained and established in a curacy, the old man considered that his obligation towards him had ceased, and he left the poor young man to sustain himself on the miserable salary that was paid him by his non-resident Rector. But Luke's requirements were small, and his only grief at the smallness of his stipend was that it obliged him to forego the purchase of books.
He was on his way to Willsworthy, four miles from the parish church, at the extreme end of the parish, to pay a pastoral visit to Mistress Malvine, who was an invalid. Before reaching the house he came to a ruined chapel, that had not been used since the Reformation, and there he suddenly lighted upon Urith.
His pale face flushed slightly. She was seated on a mass of fallen wall, with her hands in her lap, occupied with her thoughts. To her surprise, on her return late on the preceding night, before the breaking of the storm, her mother had not followed her accustomed practice of covering her with reproaches; and this had somewhat disconcerted Urith. Mrs. Malvine was a woman of not much intelligence, very self-centred, and occupied with her ailments. She had a knack of finding fault with every one, of seeing the demerits of all with whom she had to do; and she was not slow in expressing what she thought. Nor had she the tact to say what she thought and felt, and have done with it, she went on nagging, aggravating, exaggerating, and raking up petty wrongs or errors of judgment into mountains of misdemeanour, so that when at one moment she reproved such as had acted wrongly, she invariably in the next reversed positions, for she rebuked with such extravagance, and enlarged on the fault with such exaggeration as to move the innate sense of proportion and equity in the soul of the condemned, and to rouse the consciousness of injustice in the accused.
Such a scene had taken place the previous day, when her mother, aided by the blundering Uncle Solomon, had driven Urith into one of her fits of passion, in which she had run away. When Mistress Malvine discovered what she had done—that she had actually pressed her child beyond endurance, and that the girl had run to the wilderness, where she could no more be traced, when the dayand evening passed without her return, the sick woman became seriously alarmed, and faintly conscious that she had transgressed due bounds in the reprimand administered to Urith for rejecting the suit of Anthony Crymes. Consequently, when finally the girl did reappear, her mother controlled herself, and contented herself with inquiring where she had been.
Luke Cleverdon knew Urith better than did his cousins; in his rambles on the moor, as a boy, he had often come this way, and had frequently had Urith as his companion. The friendship begun in childhood continued between them now that he was curate in charge of souls, and she was growing into full bloom of girlhood.
He now halted, leaning both his hands on his stick, and spoke to her, and asked after her mother.
Urith rose to accompany him to the house. "She is worse; I fear I have caused her trouble and distress of mind. I ran away from home yesterday, and might have been lost on the moor, had not"—she hesitated, her cheek assumed a darker tinge, and she said—"had not I fortunately been guided aright to reach home."
"That is well," said Luke. "We are all liable thus to stray, and well for us when we find a sure guide, and follow him."
For a young man he was gaunt. He was dressed in scrupulously correct clerical costume, a cassock and knee-breeches, white bands, and a three-cornered hat.
Urith spoke about the fire on the moor, the bewilderment caused by the smoke, and then of the storm during the night. He stood listening to her and looking at her; it seemed to him that he had not before properly appreciated her beauty. He had wondered at her strange temper—now frank, then sullen and reserved; he did not know the reason why this was now for the first time revealed to him—it was because in the night a change had taken place in the girl, for the first time she had felt the breath of that spirit of love which like magic wakes up the sleeping charms of soul and face, gives them expression and significance. Not, however, now for the first time did the thought cross his mind that, of all women in the world, she was the only one he could and did love. He had long loved her, loved her deeply, but hopelessly, and hadfought many a hard battle with himself to conquer a passion which his judgment told him must be subdued. He knew the girl—wild, sullen, undisciplined—the last to mould into the proper mate for a village pastor. Moreover, what was he but a poor curate, without interest with patrons, without means of his own, likely, as far as he could judge, to live and die, a curate. He knew not only that Urith was not calculated to make a pastor's wife, but he knew also that hers was not a character that could consort with his. He was studious, meek, yet firm in his principles; she was hardly tame, of ungovernable temper, and a creature of impulse. No, they could not be happy together even were circumstances to allow of his marrying. He had said all this to himself a thousand times, yet he could not conquer his passion. He held it in control, and Urith, least of all, had a notion of its existence. She exercised on him that magic that is exercised on one character by another the reverse at every point. The calm, self-ruled, in-wrapped nature of Luke looked out at the turbulence or the moroseness of the wild girl with admiration mingled with fear. It exercised over him an inexplicable but overpowering spell. He knew she was not for him, and yet that she should ever belong to another was a thought that he could not bear to entertain. He walked at her side to the house listening to her, but hardly knowing what she said. The glamour of her presence was on him, and he walked as in a cloud of light, that dazzled his eyes and confused his mind.
Willsworthy was a very small and quaint old manor house—so small that a modern farmer would despise it. It consisted of a hall and a couple of sitting-rooms and kitchen on the ground floor, with a projecting porch, with pavise over it. The windows looked into the little court that was entered through old granite gates, capped with balls, and was backed by a cluster of bold sycamores and beech, in which was a large rookery.
Mrs. Malvine was in the hall. She had been brought down. She was unable to walk, and she sat in her armchair by the hearth. The narrow mullioned lights did not afford much prospect, and what they did reveal was only the courtyard and stables that fronted the entrance to the house. To the back of the house was, indeed, a walledgarden; but it was void of flowers and suffered from the neglect which allowed everything about Willsworthy to sink into disrepair and barrenness. It grew a few pot-herbs, half-choked by weeds. There was no gardener kept; but a labourer, when he could be spared off the farm, did something in a desultory fashion to the garden—always too late to be of use to it.
"Peace be to this house!" said Luke, and passed in at the door.
He found that, for all his good wish, nothing at the moment was farther removed from Willsworthy, than peace, Solomon Gibbs had slept long and heavily after his carouse, and had but just come down the stairs, and had just acted the inconsiderate part of telling his sister of the outrage committed by Anthony Cleverdon on her husband's grave. The poor widow was in an hysterical condition of effervescent wrath and lamentation.
The story was repeated, when Luke and Urith appeared, in a broken, incoherent fashion—the widow telling what she knew, with additions of her own, Solomon throwing in corrections.
Urith turned chill in all her veins. Her heart stood still, and she stood looking at her uncle with stony eyes. Anthony Cleverdon, who had behaved to her with such kindness—Anthony, who had held her in his arms, had carried her through the fire, who had looked into her face with such warmth in his eyes—he thus insult her father's name and her family! It was impossible, incredible.
Luke paced the little hall with his arms folded behind his back. He had heard nothing of this at Peter Tavy when he left it. He hoped there was some mistake—some exaggeration. What could have been Anthony's object? Mr. Solomon Gibbs's account was certainly sufficiently involved and obscure to allow of the suspicion that there was exaggeration, for Mr. Solomon's recollection of the events was clouded by the punch imbibed overnight. But the fact that the headpiece of the grave had been brought to the tavern by his cousin could not be got over. Luke's heart was filled with commiseration for the distress of the widow, and pain for Urith, and with bitterness against Anthony. He had nothing but platitudes to say—nothing that couldpacify the excited woman, who went from one convulsion into another.
Suddenly the door was thrust open and in, without a knock, without permission, came Anthony himself—the first time he had crossed that threshold.
Urith's arms fell to her side, and her fists became clenched. How dare he appear before them, after having committed such an offence? Mistress Malvine held up her hands before her face to hide the sight of him from her eyes.
"I have come," said Anthony, "I have come because of that bit of tomfoolery last night."
Luke saw that his cousin was approaching the widow, and he stepped between them. "For shame of you, 'Tony!" he said, in quivering voice. "You ought never to show your face after what has been done—at all events here."
"Get aside," answered Anthony roughly, and thrust him out of the way.
"Madame Malvine," said he, planting himself before the hysterical widow, "listen to me. I am very sorry and ashamed for what I did. It was in utter ignorance. I was dared to go to the churchyard last night when the ghosts walk, and Fox said no one would believe me that I had been there unless I brought back some token. We had all been drinking. The night was pitch-dark. I got up the avenue under the trees, and pulled up the stake nearest to the church porch I could feel. Whose it was, as Heaven is my witness, I did not know. I was wrong in doing it; but I was dared to do something of the kind."
"You must have known that my brother-in-law lay on the right-hand side of the porch," said Solomon Gibbs.
"How should I know?" retorted Anthony. "I am not sexton, to tell where every one lies. And on such a pitch-black night too, I could find my way only by feeling."
"Your offence," said Luke, sternly, "is not against this family only, but against God. You have been guilty of sacrilege."
"I will ask you not to interfere," answered Anthony. "With God I will settle the matter in my own conscience. I am come here to beg forgiveness of Mistress Malvine and of Urith."
He turned sharply round to the latter, and spoke with adeep flush in his cheek, and with outstretched arm. "Urith! you will believe me! You will forgive me! With my best heart's blood I would wipe out the offence. I never, never dreamed of injuring and paining you. It was a misadventure, and my cursed folly in sitting drinking at the Hare and Hounds, and of allowing myself to be taunted to a mad act by Fox Crymes, who is my evil genius."
"It was Fox Crymes who urged you to do it?" asked Urith, her rigidity ceasing, and the colour returning to her cheeks and lips.
"He goaded me to the act, but he had nothing to do with my bringing your father's headpiece to the tavern—that was the devil's own witchcraft."
"Mother," said Urith, "do you hear; it was Fox Crymes's doing. On him the blame falls."
"You believe me, Urith—I know you must! You know I would not injure you, offend you, grieve you in any way. You must know that, Urith—you do in your heart know it; assure your mother of that. Here, give me your hand in pledge that you believe—that you forgive me."
She gave it him at once.
"Now see, Mistress Malvine, Urith is my testimony—Good God! what is the matter?"
Mrs. Malvine had fallen back in her chair, and was speechless.
Luke Cleverdon left the house. He could no longer endure to remain in it. He saw the flash in Urith's eye as she put her hand in that of Anthony in answer to his appeal. He had seen sufficient to shake and wring his heart with inexpressible pain. He walked hastily down the hill, but stopped at the ruined chapel, and entered there. The old broken altar lay there, one of its supports fallen. Luke seated himself on a block of granite, and rested his arm against the altar-slab, and laid his head on his arm. That he had long loved Urith he knew but too well for his peace of mind, but never before had his passion for her so flamedup as at that moment when she took his cousin's hand. What had occurred on the previous day on the moor was repeated again; a smouldering fire had suddenly caught a great tuft or bush, almost a tree, of gorse, and had mounted in a pillar of flame.
Was Anthony in all things to be preferred to him? In the house at Hall, Luke had submitted without demur to be set aside on all occasions, for Anthony was the son, and Luke but the nephew, of the old man; Hall would one day be the inheritance of Anthony, and in Hall the son of old Anthony's brother had no portion. But now that he had left his uncle's house, now that he was independent, was Anthony still to stand in his way, to lay his hand on and claim the one flower that Luke loved, but which he dared not put forth his hand to pluck?
Timid and humble-minded as Luke was, he had never considered that he could win the affections of any girl, leastways of one such as Urith. But it was a delight to him to see her, to watch the unfolding of her mind, and character, and beauty, to know that she was a wild moor-flower, regarded by no one else but himself, sought by none, or, if sought, rejecting such seekers with disdain. He was so simple and single in his aims, that it would have well contented him to merely admire and humbly love Urith, never revealing the state of his heart, asking of her nothing but friendship and regard. But—when, all at once, he saw another stand beside her, take her hand, and seize on her heart with bold temerity, and by his boldness win it—that was too much for Luke to endure without infinite pain, and a battle with himself. If he had formed any ideal picture of the future, it was the harmless one of himself as the friend, the gentle, unassuming, unasserting friend of Urith, suffered by her, after some little resistance, to divert her headlong character, brighten the gloomy depths of her strange mind. He knew how greatly she needed an adviser and guide, and his highest ambition was so to help her that she might become a noble and generous woman. That he had not formed this hope out of pure pastoral zeal he knew, for he who taught others to search their own consciences, not lightly, and after the manner of dissemblers with God, had explored his own heart, and measured all its forces; but till this moment he had never realized thatthere was a selfishness and jealousy in his love, a selfishness which would have kept back Urith from knowing and loving anyone, and a jealousy intense and bitter against the man who obtained that place in Urith's heart to which he himself laid no claim, but which he hoped would be forever empty.
He tried to pray, but was unable to do more than move his lips and form words. Prayers did not appease the ardor, lessen the anguish within. As he looked up at the moor he saw now that it was still smoking. The storm of rain in the night had not quenched the fires, nor could the dews of Divine consolation put out that which blazed within his breast.
He had never envied Anthony till now. When he had been at school, he had been but scantily furnished with pocket-money. There had been many little things he would have liked to buy, but could not, having so small a sum at his disposal; on the other hand, Anthony could at all times command his father's purse, had spent money as he liked, had wasted it wantonly, but Luke had accepted the difference with which they had been treated without resentment; yet, now that Anthony had stepped in between him and Urith, something very much like hatred formed like gall in his heart.
He tried to think that he was angry with his cousin for having given Mistress Malvine pain, with having been guilty of sacrilege, but he was too truthful in his dealings with himself to admit that these were the springs of the bitterness within.
Suddenly he looked up with a start, and saw Bessie before him, observing him with sympathetic distress. His pale forehead was covered with sweat-drops, and his long, thin hands were trembling. They had been clasped, the one on the other, on the altar-stone, and Luke's brow had rested on them, his face downward; thus he had not seen Bessie when she approached.
"What is it, Luke?" she said, in kindly tones, full of commiseration. "Are you ill, dear cousin?"
He looked at her somewhat vacantly for a moment, gathering his senses together. As in bodily pain, after a paroxysm, the mind remains distraught for a moment, and is unable to throw itself outward, so it is with mental painto an even greater degree. As Bessie spoke, Luke seemed to be brought, or to bring himself, by an effort, out of a far-off world into that in which Bessie stood surrounded by the old chapel walls, hung with hartstongue leaves, still green, untouched by winter frost.
"What are you suffering from?" she asked, and seated herself at his side.
"It is nothing, cousin," he answered, and shook his head to shake away the thoughts that had held him.
"It is indeed something," she said, gently; "I know it is; I see it in your white and streaming face." She took his hand in hers. "I know it from your cold hand. Luke, you have had no one but me to talk to of your troubles in boyhood, and I had none but you to tell of my little girlish vexations. Shall we be the same now, and confide in each other?"
O, false Bessie! knowing she was false, as she said this. The keen eye of her Aunt Magdalen had seen what Bessie supposed was hidden from every one, that she loved her cousin Luke. But to Luke would that secret assuredly never be entrusted. It was to be a one-sided confidence.
"Are you ill? Are you in bodily pain?" she asked.
He shook his head—not now to shake away thought, but in negative. He passed his disengaged hand and sleeve over his brow, and was at once composed. "I am sorry you saw me like this, Bessie. I thought no one would come in here."
"I have come to see Urith, after last night. I promised her I would come some time, and I thought that I would ask if she were quite well, for the day was to her long and trying."
"Do not go on there now," said Luke gently, releasing his hand. "There has something happened. You have not heard, but it will be noised everywhere shortly, and the shock has been too much for Mistress Malvine; she has fallen into a fit."
"Then I had better go on, cousin; I may be of help to Urith."
"You have not heard——" Then he told her of what Anthony had done the preceding night. Bessie was greatly disturbed; the act was so profane, and so inconsiderate. The inconsiderateness might, indeed, partially excuse theact, but hardly redeem it from sacrilege, and was certain to arouse general and deep indignation; the inconsiderateness showed an unbalanced mind, wanting in ordinary regard for the feelings of others.
"And yet," said Elizabeth, "this is not what has made you so unhappy. You have not told me all."
Luke remained silent, looking before him. "Bessie," said he, "has it never been observed by you that Anthony had an affection for Urith?"
"Never," answered Elizabeth; "I do not see how there could have sprung up such a liking. They hardly ever can have spoken to each other before yesterday, though they may have met; as, for instance, seen each other in church. I never heard Anthony name her."
"He does not tell you what he has in his heart."
"I did not believe that he had any particular regard for any one. He has not been a person to seek the company of young maidens; he has affected to utterly scorn them, and has held himself aloof from their company."
"I think—I am sure that he likes her," said Luke slowly.
Then Bessie turned her face and looked at him steadily.
"Oh, Luke! Luke!" she exclaimed, and there was pain in her tone. "I have read your heart. Now I know all." And now that she had discovered his secret, Luke was glad to be able to pour out his heart into her sympathetic ear, to tell her how that he did love Urith, but also how that he had never dreamed of making her his wife.
"My wife!" said he, with a sad smile; "that is not a name I shall ever be able to give to any woman. It is not one that any woman would care for me to call her by."
Bessie listened as he talked, without a sign in her face of other emotion than pity for him. Not in the slightest did she raise a fold of the veil that concealed her heart, the rather did she wrap it round her the more closely.
After a while Luke rose relieved. He took Bessie's hand in his, and said, "Now, dear cousin, you must make me a promise. When you have any trouble at heart, you will come and tell me." She pressed his hand and raised her eyes timidly to his, but made no other answer.
They walked together down the hill, and then, at the bridge, parted. When they parted, Bessie's eyes filled with tears.
But the heart of Luke was relieved, and he walked homewards encouraged to fight out the battle with himself, and overcome the jealousy with which he began to regard his cousin Anthony.
Anthony remained at Willsworthy. He had behaved exceedingly badly, had wounded the good lady of the house where most susceptible to pain, and so acutely that she had fallen into unconsciousness; yet he remained on. He was accustomed to consult his own wishes, not those of others, and to put on one side all considerations of expediency and good feeling, where his own caprice was concerned.
Urith and the servant wench had carried Madame Malvine to her room, and Solomon Gibbs had dashed off to the stables to get his horse, so as to summon the surgeon from Tavistock.
Anthony was alone in the little hall, and he leaned his elbows on the window-sill and looked out. There was nothing for him to see; nothing to interest him in the barn wall opposite, which was all that was commanded by the window; so he turned his eyes on a peacock butterfly that had hybernated in the hall, and now, with return of spring, shook off sleep and fluttered against the leaded panes, bruising its wings in its efforts to escape into the outer air. There were no flowers in the window; nothing at all save some dead flies and a pair of lady's riding-gloves folded together.
Anthony looked round the hall. It was low, not above seven feet high, unceiled, with black oak unmoulded rafters. There was a large granite fireplace, no sculptured oak mantelpiece over it; nothing save a plain shelf; and above it some arms, a couple of pistols, a sword, a pike or two, and a crossbow. The walls were not panelled save only by the window, where was the table, and where the family dined. The walls elsewhere were plainlywhite-washed, and had not even that decoration that was affected at the tavern—ballads with quaint woodcuts pasted against them. There was no deer park attached to the house; there never had been even a paddock for deer, consequently there were no antlers in the hall.
Near the window was a recess in the wall over a granite pan or bowl partly built into the wall. At first sight it might be taken as a basin in which to wash the hands; but it had no pipe from it to convey the fouled water away. Such pans are found in many old western farmhouses and manor halls, and their purport is almost forgotten. They were formerly employed for the scalding of the milk and the making of clouted cream. Red-hot charcoal was placed in these basins, and the pans of milk planted on the cinders. The pans remained there, the coals being fanned by the kitchen maid, till the cream was formed on the surface, and in this cream-coat the ring of the bottom of the pan indicated itself on the surface. This was the token that the milk had yielded up all its quotient of fatty matter. Thereupon the pan was removed to the cool dairy. The presence of the granite cream-producer showed that the hall served a double purpose: it was not only a sitting- and dining-room, but one in which some of the dairy processes were carried on. Moreover, near the entrance-door was what was called the "well-room," entered from the hall. This was a small lean-to apartment on one side of the porch, paved with cobble-stones, in which was a stone trough always brimming with crystal moorland water, conducted into it from outside, and, running off, was carried away outside again. As this was the sole source whence all the water-supply required for the house was obtained—for dairy, for kitchen, and for table—it may be imagined that the hall was a passage-room, traversed all day long by the servant-wenches with pails, and pans, and jugs.
Such an arrangement was suitable enough in the time before the Wars of the Roses, when Willsworthy was built; but its inconvenience became apparent with the improved social conditions of the Tudor reigns, and in the time of Elizabeth an addition had been made to the house, so that it now possessed two small parlours looking into the garden at the back; but these Anthony had not seen. In thesesome attempt was made at ornament. A manor house before the Tudor epoch rarely consisted of more than a hall, a lady's bower, kitchen, and cellars, on the ground-floor; Willsworthy had been enlarged by the addition of a second parlour, with the object of abandoning the Hall, to become a sort of second kitchen.
But the family had been poor, and continued in its ancestral mode of life. The second parlour had its shutters shut, and was never used, and Madame Malvine sat, as had her husband, and the owners of Willsworthy before them, in the Hall, and endured the traffic through it, and the slops on the stone floor from the overflowing pails.
The paving of the Hall was of granite blocks, rudely fitted together, and was strewn with dry brown bracken. We marvel at the discomfort of ancient chairs, because the seats are so high from the ground. We forget that the footstool was an attendant inseparable from the chair, when ladies sat in these stone-floored halls. They were necessary adjuncts, holding their feet out of the draught, and off the stone.
Small and mean as the manor house would appear in one's eyes now, yet it was of sufficient consequence in early days to have its chapel, a privilege only accorded to the greater houses, and wealthiest gentry. The chapel was now in ruins. It had not been used since the Reformation.
Anthony became impatient of waiting. He would not leave, and he was vexed, because he was kept loitering at the window without some one to speak to.
He was tired of looking at the butterfly battering its wings to pieces, so he took up the gloves and unrolled them—a pretty pair of fine leather ladies' gloves, reaching to the elbow, and laced with silk ribbon and silver tags. Elegant gloves; more handsome, Anthony thought, than suited the usual style of Urith's dress. He had nothing else to do but turn them inside out, unfold, and refold them.
As he was thus engaged, he thought over an interview he had had that morning with his father. With all his faults, and they were many, the young man was open and direct, and he had told his father what he had done the night before.
To his surprise, directly old Cleverdon heard that he hadpulled up Richard Malvine's head-post, and thrown it on the tavern table before the topers, he burst into an exultant laugh, and rubbed his hands together gleefully.
When, moreover, Anthony expressed his intention of going to Willsworthy to offer an apology, the old man had vehemently and boisterously dissuaded him from so doing.
"What are the Malvines?" he had said; "a raggle-taggle, beggarly crew. I won't have it said that a son of mine veiled his bonnet to them. That was a fair estate once, but first one portion and then another portion has been sold away, and now there is but enough to starve on left. Pshaw! let them endure and pocket the affront. If they try to resent it, and prosecute you in court of law, I will throw in my money-bag against their moleskin purse, and see which cause then has most weight in the scales of justice."
The intemperance of his father's conduct and words had on young Anthony precisely the opposite effect to that intended. It opened the young man's eyes to the gravity of his conduct. Without answering his father he went to Willsworthy, leaving the old man satisfied that he had overborne his son's resolution to make amend for his offence. Whether this would have happened had not Urith produced so strong an impression on his heart the previous day, and enlisted him on her side, may well be questioned; for the visit of apology involved an acknowledgment of wrong-doing which was not readily made by Anthony. He was thinking over, and wondering at, his father's conduct, when Urith entered the hall, and expressed surprise at seeing him.
"I tarried," said he, "to know how it fared with your mother."
Urith replied, somewhat stiffly, "The shock of hearing what you have done has given her a fit."
"She has had them before."
"Oh, yes. She cannot endure violent emotion, and your behaviour——"
"I have said I am sorry; what can I do more? Tell me, and I will do it. The stake was rotten, and broke off. If you will, I will have a stone slab placed on the grave at my own cost."
Urith flushed dark.
"That I refuse in my mother's name and in mine. We will not be beholden to you—to any stranger—in such a matter; and after what has been done, certainly not to you."
Anthony stamped with impatience.
"I have told you I am sorry. I never made an apology to any one in my life before. I supposed that an apology offered was at once frankly accepted. I have told you it was all a mistake. I intended no ill. It was a pitch-black night—I could not see what I laid hold of. My act was, if you will, an act of folly—but have you never committed acts of folly? You ran away from home yesterday. Did not that trouble your mother, and occasion greater perturbation of feeling?"
Urith looked down. "Yes," she said, "one foolery followed another. First came mine, then yours. The two combined were too much for my mother to endure."
"We are a couple of fools; be it so," said Anthony. "Now that is settled. Young folks' brains are not ripened, but are like the pith in early hazel nuts. It is not their fault if they act foolishly. That is settled. You believed my account. I never lie, though I be a fool."
"Yes, I have accepted your account, and I, in part, forgive you."
"In part! By Heaven, that is a motley forgiveness—a fool's forgiveness. I must have a complete one. Come here. Come to this window. Why should I shout across the hall to you, and you stand with your back turned to me, as though we were on opposite sides of the Cleave?" He spoke with as much imperiousness as if he were in his own house, commanded her as though he expected of her as ready submission as was accorded him by his sister.
"What do you want with me? I do not care to go near a man subject to such outbreaks of folly."