Rooks were about, at one moment flashing white in the sun, then showing the blackness of their glossy feathers. Their nesting and rearing labours were over: they had deserted their usual haunts among trees, to disport themselves on the waste lands.
The roar of the river came up on the wind from below—now loud as the surf on reefs at sea, then soft and soothing as a murmur of marketers returning from fairing, heard from far away.
Something—Bessie knew not what—induced her to turn her head aside, when, with a start of alarm, she saw, standing on a platform of rock, not a stone's throw distance, the tall full form of Julian. Her face was turned towards her and Urith. She had been watching them. The sun was on her handsome, richly-coloured face, with its lustrous eyes and ripe pouting lips.
Bessie's first impulse was to hold up her hand in caution.She did not know what the effect produced on Urith might be of seeing suddenly before her the rival who had blighted her happiness; and the position occupied by Urith was dangerous, on the overhanging ledge.
Bessie rose from her place and walked towards Julian, stepping cautiously among the crags. Urith took no notice of her departure.
On reaching Julian Crymes, Bessie caught her by the arm and drew her back among the rocks, out of sight and hearing of Urith.
"For heaven's sake," she entreated, "do not let her see you! Do you see what has fallen on her? She is not herself."
"Well," retorted Julian, "what of that? She and I staked for the same prize, and she has lost."
"And you not won."
"I have won somewhat. He is no longer hers, if he be not mine."
"He is not, he never was, he never will be yours," said Bessie, vehemently. "Oh, Julian! how can you be so cruel, so wicked! Have you no pity? She is deranged. She thinks she has killed Anthony—dead; but you have seen—she cannot speak and think of anything now but of her sorrow and loss."
"We played together—it was a fair game. She wrested from me him who was mine by right, and she must take the consequences of her acts—we must all do that. I—yes—Bess, I am ready. I will take the consequences of what I have done. Let me pass, Bess, I will speak to her."
"I pray you!" Bess extended her arms.
"No—let me pass. She and I are accustomed to look each other in the face. I will see how she is. I will! Stand aside."
She had a long staff in her hand, and with it she brushed Bess away, and strode past her, between her and the precipice, with steady eye and firm step, and clambered to where was Urith.
She stood beside her for a minute, studying her, watching her, as she played with her hair, passing her fingers through it, and drawing it forth into the wind to turn and curl, and waft about.
Then, her patience exhausted, Julian put forth the end of her staff, touched Urith, and called her by name.
Urith looked round at her, but neither spake nor stirred. No flush of anger or surprise appeared in her cheek, no lightning glare in her eye.
"Urith," said Julian, "how stands the game?"
"He is dead," answered Urith, "I killed him."
Julian was startled, and slightly turned colour.
"It is not true," she said hastily, recovering herself, "he has gone off to serve with the Duke of Monmouth."
"I killed him," answered Urith composedly. "I would never, never let you have him, draw him from me. I am not sorry. I am glad. I killed him."
"What!" with a sudden exultation, "you know he would have been drawn by me away! I conquered."
"You did not get him away," said Urith, "you could not—for I killed him."
Julian put out her staff again, and touched Urith.
"Listen to me!" she said, and there was triumph in her tone. "He never loved you. No never. Me he loved; me he always had loved. But his father tried to force him, he quarrelled with him, and out of waywardness, to defy his father to show his independence, he married you; but he never, never loved you."
"That is false," answered Urith, and she slowly rose on the platform to her feet. "That is false. He did love me. Here on this stone he held me to his heart, here he held me aloft and made me promise to be his very own."
"It was naught!" exclaimed Julian. "A passing fancy. Come—I know not whether he be alive or dead. Some say one thing and some another, but this I do know, that if he be alive, the world will be too narrow for you and me together in it, and if he be dead—it is indifferent to both whether we live, for to you and me alike is Anthony the sun that rules us, in whose light we have our joy. Come! Let us have another hitch, as the wrestlers say, and see which gives the other the turn."
Urith, in her half-dreamy condition, in rising to her feet, had taken hold of the end of Julian's staff, and now stood looking down the abyss to the tossing, thundering water, still holding the end.
"Urith!" called Julian, imperiously and impatiently,"dost hear what I say? Let us have one more, and a final hitch. Thou holding the staff at one end, I at the other. See, we stand equal, on the same shelf, and each with a heel at the edge of the rock. One step back, and thou or I must go over and be broken on the stones, far below. Dost mark me?"
"I hear what you say," answered Urith.
"I will thrust, and do thou! and see which can drive the other to death. In faith! we have thrust and girded at each other long, and driven each other to desperation. Now let us finish the weary game with a final turn[6]and a fair back."[6]
Urith remained, holding the end of the staff, looking at Julian steadily, without passion. Her face was pale; the wild hair was tossing about it.
"Art ready!" called Julian. "When I say three, then the thrust begins, and one or other of us is driven out of one world into the other."
Urith let fall the end of the staff; "I have no more quarrel with you," she said, "Anthony is dead. I killed him."
Julian stamped angrily. "This is the second time thou hast refused my challenge; though thou didst refuse my glove, thou didst take it up. So now thou refusest, yet may be will still play. As thou wilt: at thine own time—but one or other."
She pointed down the chasm with her staff, and turned away.
FOOTNOTE:[6]Terms in wrestling. A "turn" is a fall; a "fair back" is one where the three points are touched—head, shoulders, and back.
[6]Terms in wrestling. A "turn" is a fall; a "fair back" is one where the three points are touched—head, shoulders, and back.
[6]Terms in wrestling. A "turn" is a fall; a "fair back" is one where the three points are touched—head, shoulders, and back.
At Hall, that same morning had broken on Squire Cleverdon in his office or sitting-room—it might bear either name—leaning back in his leather armchair, with his hands clasped on his breast, his face an ashen grey, and his hair several degrees whiter than on the preceding day.
When the maid came in at an early hour to clean and tidy the apartment, she started, and uttered a cry of alarm, when she saw the old man in his seat. She thought he was dead. But at her appearance he stood up, and with tottering steps left the room and went upstairs. He had not been to bed all night.
Breakfast was made ready, and he was called; but he did not come.
That night had been one of vain thinking and torturing of his mind to find a mode of escape from his troubles. He had reckoned on assistance from Fox or his father, and this had failed him. Fox, may be, for all his brag, could not help him. The Justice might, were he at home; but he had gone off to join the Duke of Monmouth, and, if he did return, it might be too late, and it was probable enough that he never would reappear. If anything happened to Mr. Crymes, then Fox would step into his place as trustee for Julian till Julian married; but could he raise money on her property to assist him and save his property? Anyhow it was not possible for matters to be so settled that he could do this within a fortnight.
The only chance that old Cleverdon saw was to borrow money for a short term till something was settled at Kilworthy—till the Rebellion was either successful or was extinguished—and he could appeal to Fox or his father to secure Hall.
But to have, ultimately, to come to Fox for deliverance, to have his own fate and that of his beloved Hall in the hands of this son-in-law, who had insulted, humiliated him, publicly and brutally, the preceding night, was to drink the cup of degradation to its bitter and final dregs.
It was about ten o'clock when the old Squire, now bent and broken, with every line in his face deepened to a furrow, reappeared, ready to go abroad. He had resolved to visit his attorney-at-law in Tavistock, and see if, through him, the requisite sum could be raised as a short loan.
The house was in confusion. None of the workmen were gone to their duties; the serving-maids and men talked or whispered in corners, and went about on tip-toe as though there were a corpse in the house.
His man told the Squire that Fox was gone, and had left a message, which the fellow would not deliver, so grosslyinsolent was it; the substance was that he would not return to the house. The Squire nodded and asked for his horse.
After some delay it was brought to the door; the groom was not to be found, and one of the maids had gone to the stable for the beast, and had saddled and bridled it.
The old man mounted and rode away. Then he heard a call behind him, but did not turn his head; another call, but he disregarded it, and rode further, urging on his horse to a quicker rate.
Next moment the brute stumbled, and nearly went down on its nose; the Squire whipped angrily, and the horse went on faster, then began to lag, and suddenly tripped once more and fell. Old Cleverdon was thrown on the turf and was uninjured. He got up and went to the beast, and then saw why it had twice stumbled. The serving girl, in bridling it, had forgotten to remove the halter, the rope of which hung down to the ground, so that, as the animal trotted, the end got under the hoofs. That was what the call had signified. Some one of the serving-men had noticed the bridle over the halter as the old Squire rode away, and had shouted after him to that effect.
Mr. Cleverdon removed the bridle, then took off the halter, and replaced the bridle. What was to be done with the halter? He tried to thrust it into one of his pockets, but they were too small. He looked round; he was near a saw-pit a bow-shot from the road. He remembered that he had ordered a couple of sawyers to be there that day to cut up into planks an oak-tree; he hitched up his horse and went towards the saw-pit, calling, but no one replied. The men had not come; they had heard of what had taken place at Hall, and had absented themselves, not expecting under the circumstances to be paid for their labour.
The old man wrapped the halter round his waist, and knotted it, then drew his cloak about him to conceal it, remounted, and rode on. Had the sawyers been at the pit he would have sent back the halter by one of them to the stable. As none was there, he was forced to take it about with him.
Five hours later he returned the same way. His eyes were glassy, and cold sweat beaded his brow. His breath came as a rattle from his lungs. All was over. He couldobtain assistance nowhere. The times were dangerous, because unsettled, and no one would risk money till the public confidence was restored. His attorney had passed him on to the agent for the Earl of Bedford, and the agent had shaken his head, and suggested that the miller at the Abbey Mill was considered a well-to-do man, and might be inclined to lend money.
The miller refused, and spoke of a Jew in Bannawell, who was said to lend money at high rates of interest. The Jew, however, would not think of the loan, till the Rebellion was at an end.
All was over. The Squire—the Squire!—he would be that no more—must leave the land and home of his fathers, his pride broken, his ambition frustrated, the object for which he had lived and schemed lost to him. There are in the world folk who are, in themselves, nothing, and who have nothing, and who nevertheless give themselves airs, and cannot be shaken out of their self-satisfaction. Mr. Cleverdon was not one of these, he had not their faculty of imagination. The basis of all his greatness was Hall; that was being plucked from under his feet; and he staggered to his fall. Once on the ground, he would be proper, lie there, an object of mockery to those who had hitherto envied him. Once there, he would never raise his head again. He who had stood so high, who had been so imperious in his pride of place, would be under the feet of all those over whom hitherto he had ridden roughshod.
This thought gnawed and bored in him, with ever fresh anguish, producing ever fresh aspects of humiliation. This was the black spot on which his eyes were fixed, which overspread and darkened the whole prospect. The brutality with which he had been treated by Fox was but a sample and foretaste of the brutality with which he would be treated by all such as hitherto he had held under, shown harshness and inconsideration towards. He had been selfish in his prosperity, he was selfish in his adversity. He did not think of Anthony. He gave not a thought to Bessie. His own disappointment, his own humiliation, was all that concerned him. He had valued the love of his children not a rush, and now that his material possessions slipped from his grasp, nothing was left him to which to cling.
He had ridden as far as the point where his horse had fallen, on his way back to Hall, when the rope twined about his waist loosened and fell down. The old man stooped towards his stirrup, picked it up, and cast it over his shoulder. The act startled his horse, and it bounded; with the leap the rope was again dislodged, and fell once more. He sought, still riding, to arrange the cord as it had been before about his waist, but found this impracticable.
He was forced to dismount, and then he hitched his horse to a tree, and proceeded to take the halter from his body, that he might fold and knot it together.
Whilst thus engaged, a thought entered his head that made him stand, with glazed eye, looking at the coil, motionless.
To what was he returning? To a home that was no more a home—to a few miserable days of saying farewell to scenes familiar to him from infancy; then to being cast forth on the world in his old age, he knew not whither to go, where to settle. To a new life of which he cared nothing, without interests, without ambitions—wholly purposeless. He would go forth alone; Bessie would not accompany him, for he had thrown her away on the most despicable of men, and to him she was bound—him she must follow. Anthony—he knew not whether he were alive or dead. If alive, he could not go to him whom he had driven from Hall, and to Willsworthy, of all places under the sun, he would not go. Luke he could not ask to receive him, who was but a curate, and whom he had refused to speak to since he had been the means of uniting his son to the daughter of his deadly rival and enemy. What sort of life could he live with no one to care for him—with nothing to occupy his mind and energies?
How could he appear in church, at market, now that it was known that he was a ruined man? Would not every one point at him, and sneer and laugh at his misfortunes? He had not made a friend, except Mr. Crymes; and not having a friend, he had no one to sympathise with, to pity him.
Then he thought of his sister Magdalen. Her little annuity he would have to pay out of his reduced income; he might live with her—with her whom he had treated sounceremoniously, so rudely—over whom he had held his chin so high, and tossed it so contemptuously.
What would Fox do? Would he not take every occasion to insult him, to make his life intolerable to him, use him as his butt for gibes, anger him to madness—the madness of baffled hate that cannot revenge a wrong?
Anything were better than this.
The old man walked towards the saw-pit. The tree was there, lying on the frame ready to be sawn into planks, and already it was in part cut through. The men had been there, begun their task; then had gone off, probably to the house to drink his cider and discuss his ruin.
Below his feet the pit gaped, some ten or eleven feet, with oak sawdust at the bottom, dry and fragrant. Round the edges of the pit the hart's-tongue fern and the pennywort had lodged between the stones and luxuriated, the latter throwing up at this time its white spires of flower.
A magnificent plume of fern occupied one end of the trough. Bashes and oak-coppice were around, and almost concealed the saw-pit from the road.
That saw-pit seemed to the old man to be a grave, and a grave that invited an occupant.
He knelt on the cross-piece on which the upper sawyer stands when engaged on his work, and round it fastened firmly the end of the rope; then fixed the halter with running knot about his own neck.
He stood up and bent his grey head, threw his hat on one side, and looked down into the trough.
He had come to the end. Everything was gone, or going, from him—even a sepulchre with his fathers, for, if he died by his own hand, then he would not be buried with them, but near that saw-pit, where a cross-way led to Black Down. It was well that so it should be; so he would retain, at all events, six foot of the paternal inheritance. That six foot would be his inalienably, and that would be better than banishment to the churchyard of Peter Tavy. But he would make sure that he carried with him something of the ancestral land. He crept along the beam, with the rope about his neck, fastened near the middle of the saw-pit, like a dog running to the extent of his chain, and scrabbled up some of the soil, with which he stuffed his ears and his mouth, and filled his hands.
Thus furnished, he stepped back, and again looked down. He did not pray. He had no thought about his soul—about heaven. His mind was fixed on the earth—the earth of Hall, with which he must part, with all but what he held, and with which he had choked his mouth.
"Earth to earth!"
No words of the burial office would be said over him; but what cared he? It would be the earth of Hall that went back to the earth of Hall when he perished and was buried there. His flesh had been nourished by the soil of Hall, his mind had lived on nothing else. He could not speak as his mouth was full. How sweet, how cool tasted that clod upon his tongue under his palate!
Though he could not speak he formed words in his mind, and he said to himself—
"Thrice will I say 'Earth to earth!' and then leap down."
Once the words were said, and now he said them again, in his mind—
"Earth to earth."
There was a large black spider on the oak-tree, running up and down the chopped section, and now, all at once, it dropped, but did not fall—it swung at the end of its silken fibre. Mr. Cleverdon watched it. As the spider dropped, so, in another minute, would he. Then the spider ran up its thread. The old man shook his head. When he fell he would remain there motionless. What then would the spider do? Would it swing and catch at him, and proceed to construct a cobweb between him and the side of the pit? He saw himself thus utilised as a sidestay for a great cobweb, and saw a brown butterfly, with silver underwings, now playing about the pit-mouth, come to the cobweb and be caught in it. He shook his head—he must not yield to these illusions.
"Earth to——"
A hand was laid on his shoulder, an arm put about his waist; he was drawn to the side of the pit, and the rope hastily disengaged from his throat.
With blank, startled eyes old Squire Cleverdon looked on the face of his preserver. It was that of Luke, his nephew.
"Uncle!—dear uncle!"
Luke took the halter, unloosed it from where it had been fastened to the beam, knotted it up, and flung it far away among the bushes.
The old man said nothing, but stood before his nephew with downcast eyes, slightly trembling.
Luke was silent also for some while, allowing the old man to recover himself. Then he took his arm in his own and led him back to the horse.
"Let me alone! Let me go!" said old Cleverdon.
"Uncle, we will go together. I was on my way to you. I had heard in what trouble you were, and I thought it possible I might be of some assistance to you."
"You!" the Squire shook his head. "I want over a thousand pounds at once."
"That I have not got. Can I not help you in any other way?"
"There is no other way."
"What has happened," said Luke, "is by the will of God, and you must accept it, and look to Him to bless your loss to you."
"Ah, you are a parson!" said the old man.
Luke did not urge him to remount his horse. He kept his arm, and helped him along, as though he were conducting a sick man on his walk, till he had conveyed him some distance from the saw-pit. As the Squire's step became firmer, he said,
"A hard trial is laid on you, dear uncle, but you must bear up under it as a man. Do not let folk think that it has broken you down. They will respect you when they see your courage and steadfastness. Put your trust in God, and He will give you in place of Hall something better than that—better a thousand times, which hitherto you have not esteemed."
"What is that?" asked the old man, loosening his arm, standing still, and looking Luke shyly in the face.
"What is that?" repeated Luke. "Wait! Trust in God and see."
On reaching Hall, the first person that came to meet them was Bessie. She had returned, anxious about her father, and to collect some of her clothes. On arriving, she had been told that he had not gone to bed all night, that he looked ill and aged; that he had ordered his horse and had ridden away without telling any one whither he was going, and that some hours had elapsed without his re-appearing. Bess was filled with uneasiness, and was about to send out the servants to inquire as to the direction he had taken, and by whom he had been last seen, when the old man returned on foot, leaning on Luke, who led the horse by the bridle.
"Has any accident happened?" she asked, with changing colour. The old man gave a shy glance at her, then let his eyes fall to the ground. He said nothing, and went into the house to his room. Bess's uneasiness was not diminished. Luke spared her the trouble of asking questions. He told her that he had met her father on the way, and that they had come to an understanding, so that the estrangement that had existed between them since Anthony's marriage was at an end.
Bessie's colour mounted to her temples, she was glad to hear this; and Luke saw her pleasure in her eyes. He took her hand.
Then she lowered her eyes and said:—"Oh, Luke! what am I to do? Can I withdraw the promise made yesterday? I cannot fulfil it. I did not know it then. Now it is impossible. I can never love Fox—never respect him. He has behaved to my father in a manner that even if forgiven is not to be forgotten. And, indeed, I must tell you. He said he had struck Anthony and half killed him. I do not know what to think. Urith——"
"I know what Urith says. I was present. I saw the blow dealt. Fox did that—Urith bade him do it."
Bessie's breath caught. Luke hastened to reassure her.
"Anthony was not seriously hurt. Something he wore—a token on his breast—turned the point of the knife; but I am to blame, I am greatly to blame, I should have come and seen your father before your marriage and told him what I knew, then you would not have been drawn into this——"
"Oh, Luke!" interrupted Bessie, "I do not think anything you said would have altered his determination. He was resolved, and when resolved, nothing will turn him from his purpose. As we were married at Tavistock and not in your church, you were not spoken to about it."
"No—but I ought to have seen your father. I shall ever reproach myself with my neglect, or rather my cowardice, and now I have news, and that sad, to tell you. It is vague, and yet, I believe, trustworthy. Gloine, who went from my parish to join the Duke of Monmouth, has come back. He rode the whole way on a horse that belonged to some gentleman who had been shot. There has been a battle somewhere in Somersetshire. Gloine could not tell me the exact spot, but it does not matter. The battle has been disastrous—our side—I mean the side to which nearly all England wished well, has been routed. There was mismanagement, quarrelling between the leaders: bad generalship, I have no doubt; it was but a beginning of a fight; and then a general rout. Our men—I mean the Duke's—were dispersed, surrendered in batches, were cut and shot down, and those who fled were pursued in all directions, and slain without mercy. What has happened to the Duke I do not know, Gloine could not tell me. But Mr. Crymes is dead. He passed the coach and saw the soldiers plundering it, and the poor old gentleman had been shot and dragged out of it, and thrown on the grass."
"But Anthony!"
"Of him, Gloine could not tell me much. He was greatly in favour with the Duke and with Lord Grey. There was a considerable contingent of men from Tavistock and the villages round, who had been collected by the activity of Mr. Crymes and one or two others, whose names we will now strive to keep in the background; and, as Mr. Crymes himself was incapacitated by age and infirmity from officering this band of recruits, Anthony was appointed captain, and I am proud to say that our little battalion showed more determination, made a better fight, and was less ready tothrow away arms and run, than was any other. That is what Gloine says."
"And he can say nothing of Anthony?"
"Nothing, Gloine says that when the rout was complete, he caught a horse that was running by masterless, and mounting, rode into Devon, and home as hard as he could, but of Anthony he saw nothing. Whether he fell, or whether he is alive, we shall not know till others come in; but, Bess, we must not disguise from ourselves the fact that, supposing he has escaped with his life, he will stand in extreme danger. He has been one of the few gentlemen who has openly joined the movement, he has commanded a little company drawn from his own neighbourhood, and has given the enemy more trouble than some others. A price will be set on his head, and if he be caught, he will be executed—almost certainly. He may return here if alive, he probably will do so; but he must be sent abroad or kept in hiding till pursuit is over."
"O, poor Anthony!" said Bessie. "Will you tell my father?"
"Not at present. He has his own troubles now. Besides, we know nothing for certain. I will not speak till further and fuller news reaches me. But, Bess, you must be with him—he is not in a state to be left alone. Now, may be, in his broken condition, he may feel your regard in a manner he has not heretofore."
"Heigh, there. Have you heard?"
The voice was that of Fox. He came up heated, excited.
"Heigh, there! Luke, and you, Bess, too? Have you heard the tidings? There's our man, Coaker, come back—came on one of the coach-horses. There has been a pretty upset at the end, as I thought. My father is dead—the soldiers shot him as he sat in the coach, and proceeded to turn everything out in search of spoil. What a merciful matter," he grinned, without an audible laugh, "that the five or six hundred pounds had been lifted on Black Down instead of falling into the hands of the Papist looters! Aye?"
Neither Luke nor Elizabeth answered him.
"You know that now I am owner of the little estate in Buckland," said he, "such as it is—a poor, mean scrap that remains of what we Crymes——"
"You are now a Cleverdon," said Luke, dryly.
"But not for long. I shall change my name back, if it cost me fifty pounds. There is something more that I am. I am trustee for Julian till she marries—I step into my father's place. How do you suppose she will like that? How will she find herself placed under my management?" He laughed.
"Your father dead," said Luke, "one might expect of you some decent lamentation."
"Oh! I am sorry, I assure thee! But Lord! what else could I expect? And I thank Heaven it is no worse. I expected him to be drawn to Tyburn, hung, and disembowelled as a traitor. I swear to thee, Luke, I was rejoiced to hear he died honourably of a shot, since die he must. And Anthony dead——"
"Anthony! Have you heard?"
"Nay—I cannot swear. But Coaker says it is undoubted. The troopers were in full pursuit of our Tavistock company of Jack-Fools, cutting them down and not sparing one. Anthony cannot escape. If he ran from the field, he will be caught elsewhere. If they spitted the common men, they will not spare the commanding officer."
"Poor Anthony!" sighed Bess.
"Ay! poor Anthony, indeed, with nothing left at all now—not even the chance of life! But never mind poor Anthony, Bess; please to consider me. I know not but what now I shall be able at my ease to pay that attorney from Exeter—if I choose; but that shall only be to make Hall my own, and no sooner has my money passed hands than out turns your father. He and I will never be able to pull together. He has his notions and I mine. No man can serve two masters, as Parson Luke will tell thee; and neither can a land be held by and serve two masters, one choosing this and t'other that. No sooner is Hall cleared with my money than out walks the old Squire. Then you and I Bess——"
"You and I will remain as separate as we are at present," answered Elizabeth. "I go with my father. Never will I be with you."
"As you will," said Fox, contemptuously. "Your beauty is not such as to make me wish to keep you."
"Then so let it be. We have been married, only to part us more than ever," said Bess. Then, turning to Luke,she said, "I cannot help myself. I swore with good intention of keeping my oath, but I cannot even attempt to observe it. He—" she pointed to Fox, "he has shown me how impossible it is."
Luke did not speak. The words of Fox had made him indignant; but he said nothing, as any words of his he felt would be thrown away, and could only lead to a breach between him and Fox, in which he must get the worst, as unable to retort with the insolence and offensiveness of the latter. He looked with wonder at Bessie, and admired her quiet dignity and strength. He could see that, with all his rudeness to her, Fox stood somewhat in awe of her.
"Yes," said Fox, "Anthony is dead; I do not affect to be sorry, after having received from him a blow that has half blinded me—a continuous reminder of him."
"His sister strove to make amends for that yesterday," said Luke, unable further to control his wrath. "You then demanded of her an atonement far more costly than any wrong done you."
Fox shrugged his shoulders. "A pretty atonement—when she flouts me, and refuses to follow me."
Bessie, shrinking from hearing her name used, entered the house, and went into her father's room.
She found the old man there, lying on a long leather couch against the wall, asleep.
She stood watching him for a moment in silence, and without stirring. His hair was certainly more grey than it had been, and his face was greatly changed, both in expression and in age. The old hardness had given way, and distress—pain, such as never before had marked his countenance, now impressed it, even in sleep. He had probably hardly closed his eyes for many nights, as he had been full of anxiety about the fate of Hall, and the success of his scheme for its preservation. The last night had been spent in complete and torturing wakefulness. Now Nature had asserted her rights; weary to death, he had cast himself on his couch, and had almost immediately lost consciousness.
After observing her father for some little while, Bessie stepped lightly back into the passage, closed the door, then sought Luke, who was standing before the house withhis finger to his lips, a frown on his brows, looking at the ground steadily. Fox was gone.
Bessie touched him, and beckoned that he should follow, then led him to her father's parlour, opened the door gently, and with a sign to step lightly and keep silence, showed him the sleeping Squire. A smile lighted her homely but pleasant face; and then she gave him a token to depart.
For herself, she had resolved to remain there, her proper post now was by her father. She knelt at his couch, without touching him, and never turned an eye from him. In her heart swelled up a hope, a belief, that at length the old man might come to recognise her love, and to value it.
An hour—then another passed, and neither the sleeper nor the watcher stirred; when suddenly the old man opened his eyes, in full wakefulness, and his eyes rested on her. He looked at her steadily, but with growing estrangement; then a little hectic colour kindled in his pale face, and he turned his head away.
Then Bessie put her arm under his neck, and drew his head to her bosom, pressed it there, and kissed him, saying,
"My father! my dear, dear father!"
He drew a long and laboured breath, disengaged himself from her arms, and putting down his feet, sat up on the couch. She was kneeling before him, looking into his face.
"Go—" said he, after a while, "I have been hard with thee, Bess! I have done thee wrong."
She would have clasped and kissed him again, but he gently yet firmly put her from him, and yet—in so doing kept his eyes intently, questioningly, fixed on her. Was it to be—even as Luke said, that in losing Hall he was to find something he had not prized hitherto?
As briefly as may be, we must give some account of the venture of Monmouth, which ended in such complete disaster.
Charles, natural son of Charles II. by Lucy Walters, born in 1649, created Duke of Monmouth in 1663 by his father, was, as Pepys writes, "a most pretty spark;" "very handsome, extremely well made, and had an air of greatness answerable to his birth," says the Countess D'Aulnay; was his father's favourite son, and for some time it was supposed that King Charles II. would proclaim his legitimacy and constitute him heir to the Throne. He was vastly popular with the nation, which looked up to him as the protector of the Protestant religion against the Duke of York, whose accession to the Throne was generally dreaded on account of his known attachment to the Roman Church. James therefore always regarded him with jealousy and suspicion—a jealousy and suspicion greatly heightened and intensified by a memorable progress he had made in 1680, in the West, when incredible numbers flocked to see him. He first visited Wiltshire, and honoured Squire Thynne, of Longleate House, with his company for some days. Thence he journeyed into Somersetshire, where he found the roads lined with enthusiastic peasants, who saluted him with loud acclamations as the champion of the Protestant religion. In some towns and villages the streets and highways were strewn with herbs and flowers. When the Duke came within a few miles of White Ladington, the seat of George Speke, Esq., near Ilminster, he was met by two thousand riders, whose numbers rapidly increased to twenty thousand. His personal beauty, the charm of his manners, won the hearts of every one, and thus the way was paved for the enthusiastic reception he was to receive later when he landed at Lyme, in Dorsetshire, as a defender of religion and a claimant for the Throne.
On June 14th, 1680, that landing took place. It hadbeen arranged between him and the Duke of Argyle that each should head an expedition with the same end, and that a landing should be effected simultaneously, one in Scotland, under Argyle, the other in England, under Monmouth. Money and nearly everything else was wanting, and Monmouth was dilatory and diffident of success. But finally, two handfuls of men were got together, some arms were purchased, and some ships freighted. Argyle sailed first, and landed before the Duke of Monmouth, loth to tear himself from the arms of a beautiful mistress in Brussels, could summon resolution to sail. Argyle was speedily defeated and lodged in Edinburgh Castle on June 20th. Six days before his capture, Monmouth landed in Dorsetshire. He had with him about eighty officers and a hundred and fifty followers of various kinds, Scotch and English. Lord Stair, who had fled from the tyranny of James when Duke of York and Commissioner in Scotland, did not join the expedition; but Lord Grey did, an infamous man, who was one main cause of its miscarriage. The ablest head among the party was that of Fletcher of Saltoun, who in vain endeavoured to dissuade the Duke from an enterprise which he saw was premature and desperate, but from which he was too brave and generous to withdraw.
On landing at Lyme, Monmouth set up his standard, and issued a proclamation that he had come to secure the Protestant religion, and to extirpate Popery, and deliver the people of England from "the usurpation and tyranny of James, Duke of York." This was dispersed throughout the country, was passed from hand to hand, and with extraordinary rapidity was carried to the very Land's End, raising the excitement of the people, who chafed at the despotism of King James II., and were full of suspicion as to his purposes. In the Declaration, promises were made of free exercise of their religion to all kinds of Protestants of whatever sect; that the Parliament should be annually chosen; that sheriffs should also be annually elected; that the grievous Militia Act should be repealed; and that to the Corporations of the towns should be restored their ancient liberties and charters.
Allured by these promises, the yeomanry and peasantry flocked to Monmouth's standard, and had the Dukeentrusted the volunteers to the direction of a man of talent and integrity, it is not impossible that he would have met with success.
But the infamous Lord Grey was made commander, and when, shortly after landing, the Earl of Feversham, a French favourite of King James, threw a detachment of regular troops into Bridport, some six miles from Lyme, and Monmouth detached three hundred men to storm the town, Lord Grey, who was entrusted with the command, deserted his men at the first brush, and galloping back into Lyme, carried the tidings of defeat, when actually the volunteers, with marvellous heroism, had accomplished their task, and had obtained a victory.
Monmouth inquired of Captain Matthews, what was to be done with Lord Grey.
Matthews answered as a soldier, "You are the only General in Europe who would ask such a question."
The Duke, however, dared not punish Lord Grey, and actually entrusted to him the command of the cavalry, the most important arm he had. Having thus given a position of trust to the worst man he could, he lost the ablest man in his party, Fletcher, who had quarrelled with a Somersetshire gentleman about his horse, which led to a duel, in which the Somersetshire man was shot, and Fletcher had to be dismissed.
On June 15th, four days after landing, the Duke marched from Lyme with a force that swelled to three thousand men. He passed through Axminster, and on the 16th was at Chard; thence he marched to Taunton, his numbers increasing as he advanced. At Taunton his reception was most flattering; he was welcomed as a deliverer sent from heaven; the poor rent the air with their joyful acclamations, the rich threw open their houses to him and his followers, his way was strewn with flowers, and twenty-six young girls of the best families in the town appeared before Monmouth, and presented him with a Bible. Monmouth kissed the sacred book, and swore to defend the truth it contained with his life's blood.
Here it was that he was met by the detachment from Tavistock and its neighbourhood. The men came in singly or in pairs, and somewhat later Mr. Crymes appeared in his coach. Anthony was immediately presented to theDuke, who, taken by his manly appearance, at once appointed him to be captain of the contingent from Tavistock.
On June 20th Monmouth claimed the title of King. It was a rash and fatal mistake, for it at once alarmed his followers, and deterred many from joining him. Many of those who followed him, or were secretly in his favour, still respected the hereditary rights of kingship; and others had a lingering affection for Republican institutions. These two opposite classes were dissatisfied by this assumption. Moreover, the partisans of the Prince of Orange, already pretty numerous, considered this claim as infringing the rights of James's eldest daughter, Mary, Princess of Orange, who, by birth and by religion, stood next in order of succession.
On June 22d Monmouth advanced to Bridgewater, where he was again proclaimed King; and here he divided his forces into six regiments, and formed two troops out of about a thousand horse that followed him.
We need not follow his extraordinary course after this, marked by timidity and irresolution.
Few of the gentlemen of the counties of the West joined him, and the influx of volunteers began to fail. Discouragement took possession of the Duke's spirits; and, when St. Swithin's rains set in before their proper time, not only was his ardour, but also that of his followers, considerably damped.
At length, on July 5th, it was resolved to attack the Royal army, encamped on Sedgmoor, near Bridgewater, where the negligent disposition made by Lord Feversham invited attack. Here the decisive battle was fought. The men following Monmouth's standard showed in the action an amount of native courage and adherence to the principles of duty which deserved better leaders. They threw the veteran forces into disorder, drove them from their ground, continued the fight till their ammunition failed them, and would at last have obtained a victory, had not the misconduct of Monmouth and the cowardice or treachery of Grey prevented it.
In the height of the action, when the fortune of the day was wavering, Lord Grey told Monmouth that all was lost—that it was more than time to think of shifting forhimself. Accordingly, he and Monmouth, and a few other officers, rode off the field, leaving the poor enthusiasts, without order or instructions, to be massacred by a pitiless army. The battle lasted about three hours, and ended in a rout. The rebels lost about fifteen hundred men in the battle and pursuit; but the Royal forces had suffered severely.
Urith sat in the parlour at Willsworthy. She had reverted to the stolid, dark mood that had become habitual with her. Her hands were in her lap. She was plucking at the ring affixed to the broken token, through which passed the suspending ribbon. But for this movement of the fingers of the right hand she might have been taken to be a figure cut out of stone, so still was her face, so motionless her figure; not a change of colour, not a movement of muscle, not a flicker of the eyelid betrayed that she was alive and sentient; no tears filling the eye, no sigh escaping her lips.
The heat of her brow showed that she was labouring under an oppressive sorrow.
She spoke and acted mechanically when roused into action and to speech, and then instantly fell back into her customary torpor. Only when so roused did the stunned spirit flutter to her eyes, and bring a slight suffusion of colour into her face. Next moment she was stone as before.
She had been given, by Mrs. Penwarne, some flowers to arrange for the table.
"For his grave?" asked Urith, "and for my baby."
She took them eagerly, began to weave them, then they fell from her fingers into her lap, and she remained unconscious, holding the stalks.
The old lady came to her again, and scolded her.
"There! there! this is too bad. Take your token, and give me the flowers. I must do everything."
She put the broken medal again into Urith's hand; and left her, carrying the flowers away.
Urith was at once back again under her overwhelming cloud—the ever-present conviction that Anthony was dead, and that she had killed him.
She saw him at every moment of the day, except whenroused from her dream, lying across the hearthstone with his heart pierced. She had seen a little start of blood from the wound, when it was dealt, and this she saw day and night welling up inexhaustibly in tiny wavelets, flowing over his side, and falling in a long trickle sometimes connected, sometimes a mere drip upon the hearthstone, and then running upon the pavement in a dark line.
This little rill never dried up, never became full; it pushed its way along slowly, always about the breadth of the little finger, and standing up like a surcharged vein, hemmed in by grains of dust and particles of flue. Urith was ever watching the progress of this rivulet of blood, as it stole forward, now turning a little to this side from some knot in the floor, then running into a crevice and staying its onward progress till it had filled the chink, and converted it into a puddle. She watched it rise to the edge of a slate slab, swell above it, tied back, as it were, by each jagged in the slate edge, then overleap it, and run further. The rill was ever advancing towards the main entrance to the hall, yet never reaching it, making its way steadily, yet making no actual progress.
On more than one occasion Urith stooped to remove a dead wasp that stood in the way of its advance, or to sop up with her kerchief some plash of water which would have diluted its richness.
Now, on the floor, lay a daisy head that had fallen from the flower bunch Mistress Penwarne had brought to her and then had taken away. Urith's eyes were on the daisy, and it seemed to her that the red rill was touching it. It was nothing to Urith that she was in the parlour, and that Anthony had fallen in the hall. Wherever she went, into whatsoever room, into the garden, out on the moor—it was ever the hall she was in, and the floor everywhere, whether of oak boards or of soft turf, or of granite spar, was in her eyes the pavement of the hall, and ever over that pavement travelled the little thread of blood, groping its way, like an earthworm, as endowed with a half consciousness that gave it direction without organs of sense.
And now on the floor lay the garden daisy-head, and towards it the purple-red streamlet was pushing on; was the daisy already touched, and the edges of the fringe of petals just tinctured? Or was its redness due to thereflection on the pure white of the advancing blood? The dye or glow was setting inward, whatever it was, and would soon stain the petals crimson, and then sop the golden heart and turn it black.
How long this process would require Urith did not ask, for time was nothing to her. But she looked and waited, she fancied that she saw the clotting together of the rays, and their gradual discoloration as the red liquid rose up through the yellow stamens.
And now the flower-head began to stir and slide over the floor, and the blood-streak to crawl after it.
Urith slowly rose to her feet, and, with bent head, observing the flower, step by step followed it. There was a draught blowing along the floor from a back-door that was open, and this stirred and carried forward the light blossom. Urith never inquired what moved the daisy; it was natural, it was reasonable, that it should recoil from the scent and touch of blood.
As the daisy-head slid forward—now with easy motion, now with a leap and a skip—so did, in Urith's diseased fancy, the rill of blood advance in pursuit, always just touching it, but never entirely enveloping it.
Urith stepped forward slowly towards the hall-door and opened it, to let the flower-head escape. Had she not done so, in a moment the daisy would have been caught, and have sopped up the blood like a sponge, lost all its whiteness, and become but a shapeless clot in the stream.
The draught, increased by the opening of the door, carried the little delicate blossom forward rapidly, into the hall and along its floor, and after it shot the head of the rivulet, pointed, like that of a snake darting on its prey. Then the daisy was arrested suddenly; it had struck against an obstruction—a man's foot.
Urith rose from her stooping position, and saw before her the man whose foot had stopped the daisy—it was Anthony, standing on the hearthstone. To her dazed sense it was nothing that the blood-stream should run in the course opposed to that it might have been supposed to run, from the parlour to the hall, from the door to the hearth. To her mind the ideal hall and the actual hall only coincided when they overlapped.
And now, standing on the actual hearthstone, with thefancied blood-stream running up to, and dancing about his foot, was Anthony.
"Urith!"
The voice was that of Anthony.
He had seen Luke, he knew in what condition he might expect to find her; and he had come to the house to see her, to let her light unsuspecting on him, in the hopes that the surprise might rouse her, and change the tenor of her thoughts.
He looked at her with love and pity in his heart, in his eyes, and with a choking in the throat.
Urith remained standing where she had risen from her bowed position, and for a long time kept her eyes steadily fixed on him; but there was neither surprise nor pleasure in them.
Presently she said slowly, with a wave of her hand, "No! I am not deceived. Anthony is dead. I killed him."
Then she averted her face, and at once fell into her usual trance-like condition.
Anthony sat in the house of his cousin Luke, his head in his hand. Bessie had come there to see him. She had been told of his return, and Luke had advised her to meet him at the parsonage.
"O Tony!—dear, dear Tony! I am so glad you are back. Now, please God, all things will go better."
"I do not see any turn yet—any possible," said Anthony.
His tone was depressed, his heart was weighed down with disappointment at his inability to rouse Urith.
"Do not say that, my brother," said Bessie, taking his hand between both of hers, "God has been very good in bringing you safe and sound back to Willsworthy."
"No exceeding comfort that!" Anthony responded, "when I find Urith in such a state. She does not know me again."
"You must not be discouraged," urged Bess. "Shehas this darkness on her now, but it will pass away as the clouds rise from off the moor. We must wait and trust and pray."
"Remember, Anthony," added Luke, "that she received a great shock which has, as it were, stunned her. She requires time to recover from it. Perhaps her reason will return gradually, just as you say she herself came groping along step by step to you. You must not be out of heart because at the first meeting she was strange. Perhaps some second shock is needed as startling as the first to restore her to the condition in which she was. I have heard of a woman thrown into a trance by a flash of lightning, unable to speak or stir, and a second thunderstorm, months after, another flash, and she was cured, and the interval between was gone from her recollection."
Anthony shook his head.
"You both say this because you desire to comfort me, but I have little expectation, Bess," said he, pressing his sister's hand. "God forgive me that I have never hitherto considered and valued your love to me, but have imposed on you, and been rough and thoughtless. One must suffer one's self to value love in others."
His sister threw her arms about his neck, and the tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. "Oh, Tony! this is too much! and father also! He loves me now."
"And you, Bess, you have been hardly used. But how stands it now betwixt you and Fox?"
Bessie looked down.
"My father forced you to take him; I know his way, and you had not the strength to resist. Good heavens! I ought to have been at your side to nerve you to opposition."
"No, Tony, my father employed no force; but he told me how matters stood with regard to Hall, and I was willing to take Fox, thinking thereby to save the estate."
"And Fox, what is he going to do?"
"I cannot tell. Nothing, I think. He says he has the money, but he will not pay the mortgage; and yet I cannot believe he will allow Hall to slip away. I think he is holding out to hurt my father, with whom he is very angry because the state of matters was not told him before the marriage."
"You suffered her to throw herself away?" asked Anthony, turning to Luke.
"I did wrong," he said. "I ought to have spoken to your father, but he had forbidden me the house, and—but no! I will make no excuse for myself. I did wrong. Indeed—indeed, Anthony, among us all there is only one who stands blameless and pure and beautiful in integrity—and that is our dear Bessie. I did wrong, you acted wrongly, your father, Fox, all—all are blameworthy, but she—nay! Bess, suffer me to speak; what I say I feel, and so must all who know the circumstances. The Squire must have eyes blinder than those of the mole not to see your unselfishness, and a heart harder than a stone not to esteem your worth."
"I pray you," pleaded Bessie, with crimson brow, "I pray you, not another word about me."
"Very well, we will speak no more thereof now," said Luke, "but I must say something to Anthony. You, cousin, should now make an attempt to obtain your father's forgiveness."
"What has he to forgive?" asked Anthony, impatiently. "Are not his own hard-heartedness and his hatred of Richard Malvine, the cause of all this misery?"
"His hard-heartedness and hatred have done much," said Luke, "but neither of these is the cause of Urith's condition. That is your own doing."
"Mine?" Though he asked the question, yet he answered it to himself, for his head sank, and he did not look his cousin in the face.
"Yes—yours," replied Luke. "It was your unfaithfulness to Urith that drove her——"
"I was not unfaithful," interrupted Anthony.
"You hovered on the edge of it—sufficiently near infidelity to make her believe you had turned your heart away from her for another. There was the appearance, if not the reality, of treason. On that Fox worked, and wrought her into a condition of frenzy in which she was not responsible for what she said and did. From that she has not recovered."
"Curse Fox!" swore Anthony, clenching his hands.
"No, rebuke and condemn yourself," said Luke. "Fox could have fired nothing had not you supplied the fuel."
Anthony remained with his head bowed on the table. He put up his hands to it, and did not speak for some time. At last he lowered his hands, laid the palms on the table, and said, frankly, "Cousin! sister! I am to blame. I confess my fault freely, and I would give the whole world to undo the past."
"Then begin a new life, Tony," said Luke, "by going to your father and being reconciled to him."
"I cannot. I cannot. How can I forget what he has done to Bess?"
"And how can your Heavenly Father forgive you your trespass if you remain at enmity with your earthly father?" said Luke, sternly. "No, Tony, begin aright. Do what is clearly your first duty, and then walk forward, trusting in God."
A struggle ensued in Anthony's breast. Then Bess took his hand again between her own, and said, "You have been brave, Tony, fighting on the battle-field; now show your true courage in fighting against your own pride. Come!" She held his hand still, and drew him after her. She had risen.
"Very well!" said Anthony, standing up. "In God's name."
"He has heard that you are returned," added Bessie. "It will be a pleasure to him to see you again."
On reaching Hall, Elizabeth found her father in his room. He was seated at his table, engaged on his accounts, turning over the list of sums due to him, reckoning his chances of recovering these debts, considering what money he could scrape together by cutting down timber, and by the sale of stock. He thought that he might raise five or six hundred pounds at once, and perhaps more, but the time was most unpropitious for a sale. It was the wrong season in which to throw oak, and to sell the crops in the ground would at that time be ruinous at the prices they would fetch.
When the door opened and Bessie entered with Anthony, the old man looked up, and said nothing. His sleep had restored his strength, and with it something of his natural hardness. His lips closed.
"Well, father!" said Anthony, "here am I, returned, without a shot through me."
"So I see," said his father, dryly.
Anthony, disappointed with his reception, was inclined to withdraw, but mastered his disappointment, and going up to the table, extended his hand, and said,
"Come, father, forgive me, if I have vexed you."
Old Cleverdon made no counter-movement. The request had been made somewhat coolly.
"Father! what did you promise me?" asked Bessie, her heart fluttering between hope and discouragement. "Here is Anthony, whose life has been in jeopardy, come back, asking your forgiveness, and that is what you required."
Then the old man coldly placed his hand in that of his son; but he said no word, nor did he respond to the pressure with which Anthony grasped him. His hand lay cold and impassive in that of his son. Then Anthony's cheeks flamed, and a sparkle of wrath burnt in his eye. Bessie looked up to him entreatingly, and then turned pleadingly to her father, and implored him to speak. Anthony did not await the word, but drew his hand away.
"So," said the old man, "you are back. Take care of yourself; you are not yet out of danger." And he took up again the papers he had been examining.
"I am interrupting you," said Anthony; "anything is of more interest to you than your own son."
He would have left the room, but Bessie held him back. Then she went up to her father and drew the papers away from him. In her fear lest this meeting should prove resultless she became bold. The old man frowned at her audacity, but he said nothing.
"Father," said Anthony, "I came here as a duty to you, to tell you that I ask nothing of you but your forgiveness for having been hot-headed in marrying without and against your will."
"I have nothing else to give," answered Mr. Cleverdon. "I no longer call this place mine. The place where I was born, and for which I have toiled, which I have dreamed about, loved—I have nothing more, nothing at all." He was filled with bitter pity for himself. "I, in my destitution, must thank you that it has seemed worth while to you to come and see me."
"Father!" gasped Bessie.
The old man proceeded: "I cannot forget that all thiscomes to pass because you disregarded my wishes. Had you married Julian, had you even proposed to marry her, this could not have happened. It is this," his voice rang hard and metallic, and the light in his eye was the glisten of a flint; "it is this that is the cause of all. It brings my grey head into the dust. It deprives the Cleverdons of a place in the county, it blots them out with a foul smear." The pen he had been holding had fallen on a parchment, and, with his finger, the old man wiped the blotch and streaked it over the surface.
"I could not marry Julian," said Anthony, with difficulty controlling himself. "A man is not to be driven to the altar as is a poor girl." He turned to his sister. "I am sorry for your sake that Hall goes—not for mine; I do not care for it. It has been the curse that has rested on and blasted your heart, father, turning it against your own children, marring the happiness of my mother's life, taken all kindness and pity out of yours. It is like a swamp that sends up pestilential vapours, poisoning all who have aught to do with it."
The old man raised himself in his seat, and stared at him with wide-open eyes. This was not what he had deemed possible, that a child of his, a Cleverdon, should scoff at the land on which he was born, and which had nourished him.
"What has been cast into thankless soil?" asked Anthony. "All good feelings you ever had for my mother, all, everything, has been sacrificed for it. But for Hall, she would have never taken you, but have been happy with the man of her heart. But for Hall, I would have been better reared, in self-restraint, in modesty, and kept to steady work. But for Hall, Bess's most precious heart would not have been thrown before that—that Fox! Very well, father. I am glad Hall goes. When it is gone clean away, I will see you again, and then maybe you will be more inclined for reconciliation."
The old man's blood was roused.
"It is easy to despise what can never be yours. The grapes are sour."
"The grapes were never other than sour," retorted Anthony, "and have set on edge all teeth that have bitten into them. Sister—come!"
He went out of the door.