BERKeilt 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA J 
 
UEITH 
 
 A TALE OF DAETMOOE 
 
 BY 
 
 S. BAPJNG GOULD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MEHALAH," " AKMINELL," "OLD COUNTBY LIFE," ETC. 
 
 HETHUEN AND CO. 
 
 18, BURY STEEET, W.C. 
 1891 
 

 URITII: 
 
 A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DE^TL TOR. . 
 
 In the very heart of Dartmoor, far from human habitation, 
 near two thousand feet above the level of the sea, but with 
 no prospecc in the clearest weather on any side upon cul- 
 tivated land, stands at present, as stood two hundred years 
 ago, and doubtless two thousand before that, a rude granite 
 monolith, or upright stone, about fourteen feet high, having 
 on it not a trace of sculpture, not the mark of any tool, even 
 to ihe rectification of its rugged angles and rude shapeless- 
 ness. 
 
 In every direction, far as the eye can range, extends brown, 
 desolate moorland, broken here and there with lumps of 
 protruding rock, weathered by storm into the semblance 
 of stratification. 
 
 A bow-shot from this upright stone rises such a hump 
 that goes by the name of Devil Tor ; and the stone in 
 question apparently formed originally the topmost slab of 
 this granite pile. But when removed, by whom, and with 
 what object, remains a mystery. The beauty of a vast up- 
 land region lies not in its core, but in its circumference, 
 where the rivers have sawn for themselves valleys and gor- 
 ges through which they travel to the lowlands in a series 
 of falls, more or less broken. About the fringe, the moun- 
 tain heights, if not so lofty as in the interior, show their 
 elevation to advantage, towering out of the cultivated plains 
 or undulating woodland at their bases. 
 
 M865373 
 
4 VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOU. 
 
 In tlie centre there is less of beautv, because there is no 
 contrast, and it is by comparison that \Ye form our estimates. 
 
 In the heart of the upland all is equally barren, and the 
 variations of elevation are small. This is especially the 
 case with the interior of that vast elevated region of Dart- 
 moor, which constitutes bog from which flow the rivers 
 that pour into the Bristol Channel on one side, and into the 
 English Channel on the other. 
 
 The monolith, blackened bv lichen, standing in such utter 
 solitude, was no doubt thought to bear some resemblance 
 to the Great Enem}^ of Man, and the adjoining Tor was re- 
 garded as his throne, on which he seated himself but once 
 in twelve months, on Midsummer Eve, when the Bale-fires 
 flamed on every hill in his honour. On all other occasions 
 he was erect in this eyrie region, peering east and west, 
 north and south, to see what evil was brewing in the lower 
 world of men. 
 
 Devil Tor is reached by very few, only now and then does 
 a shepherd pass that way, as the bogs provide no pasturage. 
 The peat there has grown from hoar antiquity undisturbed 
 by the turf-cutter on account of the remoteness of the spot 
 and the difficulty of transport. The fisherman never reaches 
 it, for it lies above the sources of all streams. 
 
 The surface of the moor is chapped and transformed by 
 the chaps into a labyiinth, of peaty hummocks and black 
 and oozy clefts, the latter from six to twelve feet deep, run- 
 ning in every direction, and radiating out of each other at 
 all angles. "Why the peat is so cleft is hard to say, there is 
 no running water in the gashes, which in many cases go 
 down to the white granite like the fissures in the body of 
 a leper that in places disclose the bone. It would almost 
 seem as though the bitter cold of this region had chapped 
 its surface, and that no soft warm weather ever came to 
 mollify, and to heal its gaping wounds. 
 
 Evening had closed in, but not attended by darkness, for 
 the whole sky was glowing. The moor was on fire. 
 
 The season was that early spring in which what is locally 
 termed " swaling " takes place, that is to say, the heather is 
 set fire to after the dry winds of March, so as to expose and 
 to sweeten the herbage. 
 
 The recent season had been exceptionally dry, even for 
 so rainless a season, and the fires that had been kindled 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 6 
 
 near tlie circumference of the moor had run inwards, gained 
 the master}^ and rioted over the whole expanse bej^ond 
 control. They leaped from bush to brake, tbey crossed 
 streams, throwing over tufts of flaming bracken, pelting the 
 further shore, till that also was ignited. 
 
 They circumvented bogs, they scrambled up moraines of 
 granite, locally termed clatters, they ran up the hills on one 
 side, enveloped their rocky crests in lambent flame, and de- 
 scended the further side in a succession of bounds, and 
 now they raged unchecked in the vast untrodden interior, 
 where the wiry heather grew to shrubs, and the coarse 
 grass and rushes were dust dry. There it ate its way along, 
 a red advancing tide, working to windward, with a low roar 
 and crackle, snapping at every bush, mumbling the tufts 
 of rush, tossing up sparks, flame, and smoke, so that in the 
 general glow and haze every landmark was disguised or 
 effaced. 
 
 To no distance could the eye reach, because the whole 
 atmosphere was impregnated with smoke, the smoke red 
 and throbbing with the reflection of the fires over which it 
 rolled. Indeed, the entire firmament was aglow, at one 
 time flashing, at another darkening, then blazing out again 
 as a solar photosphere, responsive to the progress and force 
 of the conflagration. 
 
 Crouched at the foot of the great upright stone, that 
 rose over her as the Devil triumphing over his pray, was a 
 girl, with sullen, bewildered eyes, watching the fires as they 
 folded about her, like flame fingers interlacing to close in 
 and squeeze, and press the life out of her. 
 
 Her hands were bandaged. She rested her chin on them. 
 She was a handsome girl, but with the features irregular. 
 She had large dark eyes— possibly at this moment appear- 
 ing unduly large, as they stared with a vacant unconcern at 
 the mingled darkness and flame. Her complexion was by 
 nature a transparent sallow, but now it glowed — almost 
 vermilion in the light of the burning moor. Her brow 
 was broad, but low and heavy. The face was strange. 
 When the long dark eyelashes fell, then there was in the 
 countenance, in repose, a certain pathos, a look of sadness, 
 of desolation ; but the moment the eyes opened, this was 
 gone, and the eyes proclaimed a sullen spirit within, under- 
 ground, a smoulder of fierce passion that when stirred 
 
6 URITII: A TALE OF DAUrMOOR. 
 
 tvoulcl burst forth into uncontrolled fury — akin to madness. 
 When the lids fell, then the face might be pronounced 
 beautiful, but when the}^ rose, only the sullen, threatening 
 eyes could be seen, the face was forgotten in the rnystery 
 of the eyes. 
 
 As the girl sat beneath the great black monolith her 
 brooding eyes w^ere turned as a brake exploded into brilliant 
 flame. She watched it burn out, till it left behind only a 
 glow of scarlet ash ; then she slowly turned her head to- 
 wards Devil Tor, and watched the fantastic shapes the rocks 
 assumed in the flicker, and the shadows that ran and leaped 
 about them, as imps doing homage to their monarch's chair. 
 
 Then she unwound the bandages about her hands, and 
 looked at her knuckles. They were torn, and had bled, 
 torn as by some wild beast. The blood was dry, and when 
 she wrenched the linen from a wound to which it adhered, 
 the blood began again to ooze. Her wounds were inflamed 
 through the heat of the fires and the fever in her blood. 
 She blew on them, but her breath was hot. There was no 
 water within the engirdling ring of fire in which she could 
 dip her hands. Then she waved them before her face, to 
 fan them in the wind, but the wdnd was scorching, and 
 charged with hot ash. 
 
 Sitting thus, crouched, waving her bloodstained hands, 
 with the bandage held between her teeth, under the black 
 upright stone of uncouth shape, she might have been taken for 
 a witch provoking the fires to mischief by her incantations. 
 
 Suddenly she heard a voice, dropped the kerchief from 
 her mouth, and sprang to her feet, as a shock of fear — not 
 of hope of escape — went through her pulses to her heart. 
 Whom was she likely to encounter in such a spot, save him 
 after whom the Tor was named, and which was traditionally 
 held to be his throne ? 
 
 On the further side of the encompassing fires stood a 
 young man, between her and Devil Tor ; but through the 
 intervening smoke and fire she could not discern who he 
 was, or distinguish whether the figure was familiar or 
 strange. 
 
 She drew back against the stone. A moment ago she 
 was like a witch conjuring the conflagration, now she 
 might have been taken for one at the stake, sufi:ering the 
 penalty of her evil deeds. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 7 
 
 *' Who are you ? Do you desire to be burnt?" shouted 
 the young man. 
 
 Then, as he received no reply, he called again, "You 
 must not remain where you are."' 
 
 With a long staff he smote to right and left among the 
 burning bushes, sending up volumes of flying fiery sparks, 
 and then he came to her, leaping over the fire, and avoid- 
 ing the tongues of flame that shot after him maliciously as 
 he passed. 
 
 "What ! " he exclaimed, as he stood before the girl and 
 observed her. xVgainst the ink-black, lichened rock, her 
 face, stronglv illumined, could be clearly seen. "What! 
 Trith Malviue ? " 
 
 She looked steadily at him out of her dark, gloomy 
 eyes, and said, " Yes,' I am Urith. What brings you here, 
 Anthony Cleverdon ? " 
 
 "On my faith, I might return the question," said he, 
 laughing shortly. " But this is not the place, nor is this 
 the'^time, for tossing questions like shuttlecocks on Shrove 
 Tuesday. However, to satisfy you, I will tell you that I 
 came out in search of some ponies of my father's — scared 
 by the fires and lost. But come, Urith, you cannot escape 
 unaided through this hoop of flame, and now that you are 
 contented with knowing why I am here, you will let me 
 helx3 you away." 
 
 " I did not ask you to help me." 
 "No, but I am come, unasked." 
 He stooped and caught her up. 
 
 " Put your arms around my neck," said he. " Tlie fire 
 will not injure me, as I am in my riding boots, but your 
 skirts invite the flame." Then he wrapped together her 
 gown about her feet, and holding her on his left arm, with 
 the right brandishing his staft; he fought his way back. 
 The scorching breath rushed about them, ten thousands 
 of starry sparks, and whirled round and over them. He 
 took a leap, and bounded over and through a sheet of 
 flame and landed in safety. He at once strode with his 
 burden to the pile of rocks where were no bushes to lead 
 on the fire— only short swath, and a few green rushes full 
 of sap. 
 
 " Look, Urith," said he, after he had recovered breath, 
 *' between us and the next Tor — whose name, by the Lord, 
 
8 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 I don't know, but which I take to be the arm-chair of 
 LiUth, the Devil's grandam — do you see ? — the very earth 
 is a-fire." 
 
 " How, the earth ? " 
 
 " The peat is so dry that it has ignited, and will smoul-^ 
 der down into its depths for weeks, for months, mayhap, 
 till a Swithurn month of rains has extinguished it. I have 
 known a moor burn like this all through the summer, and 
 he that put an unwary foot thereon was swallow^ed like the 
 company of Korah in underground fire." 
 
 The girl made no reply. She had not thanked the young 
 man for having delivered her from the precarious position 
 in which she had been. 
 
 *' Where am I ? " she asked, turning her head about. 
 
 " On Devil Tor." 
 
 *' How far from home ? " 
 
 " What— from Willsworthy ? " 
 
 *' Yes, from Willsworthy, of course. That is my home." 
 
 *' You want to find your way back ? How did you come 
 
 here ? " 
 
 *' You ask me two questions. Naturally, I want to get 
 to my home. As for how I came here — on my feet. I 
 went forth alone on the moor." 
 
 *' And lost your way ? " 
 
 " Certainly, or I would not be here. I lost my waj'." 
 
 *' You cannot by any possibility return direct over the 
 bog and through the fire to Willsworthy. I could not 
 guide you there myself. No man, not the best moor-shep- 
 herd could do this^ at such a time. But w^iat ails your 
 hands ? You have hurt yourself." 
 
 " Yes, I have hurt myself." 
 
 " And, again, what induced you to come forth on the 
 moor at such a season as this ? " 
 
 The girl made no answer, but suddenly looked down, as 
 in confusion. 
 
 She was seated on the rock of the Tor. Anthony Clev- 
 erdon stood somewhat below, on the turf, with one hand 
 on the stone, looking up into her face, that was in full il- 
 lumination, and he thought how handsome she was, and 
 what a fortunate chance had befallen him to bring him 
 that way to rescue her — not from death, but from a posi- 
 tion of distress and considerable danger. Even had she 
 
URITE: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 9 
 
 escaped the fire, she would have wandered further into the 
 recesses of the waste, becoming more and more entangled 
 in its intricacies, without food, and might have sunk ex- 
 hausted on the charred ground far from human help. 
 
 As Anthony looked into her face and saw the sparks 
 travel in her eyes as the reflections changed, he thought of 
 what he had said concerning the hidden fire in a moor, and 
 it seemed to him that some such fire might burn in the 
 girl's heart, of which the scintillations in her eyes were the 
 onl}' indication. 
 
 But the young man was not given to much thought and 
 consideration, and the notion that started to his mind dis- 
 appeared from it as suddenly as it flashed out. 
 
 "You cannot remain here, Urith," he said. "I must 
 take you with me to Two Bridges, where I have stabled my 
 horse," 
 
 " I should prefer to find my way home alone." 
 
 "You are a fool — that is not iDossible." 
 
 She said nothing to his blunt and rude remark, but re- 
 volved in mind what was to be done. 
 
 The situation was not a pleasant one. She was well 
 aware that it would be in vain for her to attempt to dis- 
 cover the way for herself. On the other hand, she was re- 
 luctant to commit herself to the guidance of this youth, 
 who was no relation, not even a friend, only a distant ac- 
 quaintance. The way, moreover, by which he would take 
 her home must treble the distance to Willsworthy. That 
 way would be, except for a short portion of it, over high 
 road, and to be seen travelling at night with a young man 
 far from her home would be certain to provoke comment, 
 as she could not expect to traverse the roads unobserved 
 by passengers. Although the journey would be made by 
 night, the packmen often travelled at night, and they were 
 purveyors, not only of goods, but of news and scandal. 
 She could not calculate on reaching home till past^ mid- 
 night ; it would be sufficient to render her liable to invid- 
 ious remark were she to make this journey with such a 
 companion alone by day, but to do this at such a time of 
 night was certain to involve her in a flood of ill-natured 
 and ugly gossip. This thought decided her. 
 
 " No," she said, "I will stay here till daylight." 
 
 « That you shall not." 
 
10 UrdTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 -But if I mil?" 
 
 ''You ^vill tind another T\'ill stronger tlian your c^-n." 
 
 She laughed. "That can hardly be/' 
 
 " AYhy do you refuse my guidance ? " 
 
 " I do not want to go with you ; I prefer to remain here." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 She looked down. She could not answer this question. 
 He ought not to have asked it. He should have had the 
 tact to° understand the difficulty. But he was blunt of 
 feeling, and he did not. "Without more ado, he caught her 
 in his arms and lifted her off the rock. 
 
 " If I carry you every step of the way," he said, roughly, 
 "I will make you come with me." 
 
 She twisted' herself in his grip ; she set her hands against 
 his shoulders and endeavoured to thrust him from her. 
 
 He threw aside his staff, with an oath, and set his teeth. 
 Her hands were unbandaged. She had not been able to 
 tie them up again, but shelield the kerchiefs that had been 
 wrapped round them in her fingers, and now they fell, and 
 in her struggles her hands began to bleed, and the ker- 
 chiefs became entangled about his feet, and nigh on tripped 
 
 him up. 
 
 " You will try your strength against me — wild cat ? " he 
 
 said. 
 
 She writhed, and caught at his hands, and endeavoured 
 to unchnch them. She was angry and alarmed. In her 
 alarm and anger she was strong. Moreover, she was a 
 well-knit girl, of splendid constitution, and she battled 
 lustily for her liberty. Anthony Cleverdon found that he 
 had to use his whole strength to hold her. 
 
 "You are a coward?" she cried, in her ^Dassion. "To 
 wrestle with a girl! You are a mean coward! Do you 
 mark me?" she repeated. 
 
 "On my soul, you are strong! " said he, gasping. 
 
 "I hate you! "she said, exhausted, and desisting from 
 further effort, which was vain. 
 
 "Well!" said he, as he set her down, "which is the 
 strongest — your will or mine ? " 
 
 "Our wills have not been tested," she answered, "only 
 our strength ; your male muscles and nerves are more 
 powerful than those of a woman. God made them so, 
 alack ! That which I knew before, I know now, that a man 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 11 
 
 is stouter than a woman. Boast of that, if you will — but 
 as for our wills ! " she shrugged her shoulders, then stooped 
 and recovered her kerchiefs, and began impatiently, to 
 cover her confusion, to re-adjust them about her hands, 
 and to twist them with her teeth. 
 
 "And you will remain unbent, unbroken — to continue 
 here in the wilderness ? " 
 
 " My will is not to go with you." 
 
 " Tlien I use the advantage of my superior strength of 
 nerve and muscle, and make 3'ou come along with me.'' 
 
 She took a step forward, still biting at the knots, but 
 suddenly desisted, turned her head over her shoulder, and 
 said, sullenly, "Drive — I am your captive." The step she 
 had taken was acknowledgment of defeat. 
 
 " Come, Urith," said he, picking up his fallen staff, " it 
 was in vain for you to resist me. No one opposes me 
 without having in the end to yield. Tell me the truth — 
 captive — captive if you will, tell me what brought you out 
 on the moor? Was it to see the fires?" 
 
 "No, I ran away." 
 
 " Why did yo\x run away?" 
 
 She was silent and strode forward, still pulling and biting 
 at the knots. 
 
 " Come, answer me, why did you. run away ? " 
 
 " I was in a passion, slave-driver ! Why do you say to 
 me, *Come, Urith ? ' I do not come, I go — driven forward 
 by you." 
 
 " In a passion ! What about ? " 
 
 "My mother and Uncle Solomon worried me." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "That I will not tell you, though you beat me with your 
 long stick." 
 
 "You know well enough, little owl, that I will not strike 
 you." 
 
 " I know nothing, save that you are a bulh^" 
 
 " What ! because I will not leave you on the moor to 
 perish? Be reasonable, Urith. I am doing for you the 
 best I can. I could not suffer you to remain uncared for 
 on this waste. That would indeed be inhuman. Why, at 
 sea it is infamy for a sailor to leave a wrecked vessel 
 uncared for if he sights it." 
 
 There was reason in what he said. That she admitted 
 
12 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 in her heart. In her heart, also, she was constrained to 
 allow that the difficult situation into which she had fallen 
 was due to her own conduct. Anthony Cleverdon was 
 behaving towards her m the only way in which a generous 
 lad could behave towards one found astray in the wilder- 
 ness. But she was angry with him because he was too dull 
 to see that there were difficulties in the way in v\^hich he 
 projDOsed to restore her to her home, difficulties which she 
 could not, in delicacy, express. 
 
 Anthony did not press her to speak further. He led the 
 way now, and she followed; whereas, at first, she had pre- 
 ceded, in her angry humour, and to maintain the notion 
 that she was being driven against her will Occasionally 
 he turned to see that she had not run away. She was 
 chary of speech, out of humour, partly with him — chiefly 
 with herself. 
 
 The way led from one granite tor to another, through all 
 the intricacies of fissured bog, till at length the two travel- 
 lers reached a sensible depression or slope of the land, and 
 now the water, instead of lying stagnant in the clefts, be- 
 gan to run, and presently in a thousand rills filtered down 
 a basin of turf towards a bottom, where they united in a 
 river-head. 
 
 The aspect of the country at once changed. It was as 
 when a fever-patient passes from incoherent and inarticu- 
 late mutterings into connected syllables, and then to clearly 
 distinct sentences. The wandering veins and seams iu the 
 bog had found direction and drift for their contents, ac- 
 quired a cant down which the water ran, and valley, stream, 
 and river were the definite result. 
 
 " Now," said Anthouj^ " our course is clear ; we have 
 but to follow the water.'* 
 
 " How far ? " 
 
 " About four miles." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 *' Then I will get my horse, and we shall have a direct 
 course before us." 
 
 " What, the high road to Tavistock?" 
 
 **No. You shall not go that way." 
 
 *' By what way then will vou take me ? " 
 By the Lyke-Way." 
 
 « 
 
UEITli: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 1 
 
 Q 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 THE LYKE-WAY. 
 
 The whole of Dartmoor Proper is included within the 
 bounds of a single parish, the parish of Lydford. The 
 moor belongs to the Duchy of Cornwall, and at Lydford 
 stood the Ducal Castle. For two hundred years this castle 
 has been in ruins, but stands a monument of possession, 
 and just as the estate has been eaten into and pillaged 
 through a long course of years, so has the castle of the 
 Duke been broken into and robbed, to furnish cottages 
 with stone, and cowstalls with timber. 
 
 Parishes when first constituted followed the boundaries 
 of manors, consequently, as the Duke of Cornwall claimed 
 the entire Forest of Dartmoor, that whole forest was in- 
 cluded within the parish Hmits. It is the largest parish as 
 to acreage in England, and that with the scantiest popula- 
 tion in proportion to its area. 
 
 In former times the moor attracted miners, it does so still, 
 but to a very limited extent ; extensive operations were an- 
 ciently carried on in every stream bed in quest of tin. 
 
 The vast masses of upturned refuse testify to the vast- 
 ness of the mining works that once made the moors teem 
 with people. The workers in the mines lived in huts 
 merely constructed of uncemented granite blocks, thatched 
 with turf ; the ruins of which may still be inspected. But 
 even these ruins are comparatively recent, though dating 
 from the Middle Ages, for there were earlier toilers on the 
 same ground, and for the same ends, who also lived on the 
 moor, and have also left there their traces ; they dwelt in 
 circular beehive huts, like those of the Esquimaux, warmed 
 by a central fire, and covered in by a conical roof that had 
 a smoke-vent in the midst. Tens of thousands of these 
 remain, some scattered, most congregated within circular 
 ■enclosures, and hundreds of thousands have been, and are 
 being, annually destroyed. In connection with these are 
 the megahthic circles and lines of upright stones, cairns 
 that contain tombs made of rude stone blocks set on end, 
 .and covered with slabs equally rude. 
 
14 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Who were the people that made of Dartmoor at a remote 
 period a scene of so much activity ? Probably a race that 
 occupied Britain before the British, and which was sub- 
 jugated by the inflowing, conquering Celts. 
 
 Throughout the Middle Ages, down to the Civil Wars, 
 the tin was much worked, and men living on the moor also 
 died there ; and dying there had to bo buried somewhere, 
 and that somewhere was properly in the parish church- 
 yard. 
 
 Now, as there is but a single road across the moor from 
 Tavistock to Two Bridges, where it forks, one road going 
 to Moreton, the other to Ashburton, and as the main road 
 was of no great assistance to such as desired to reach Lyd- 
 ford for the sake of their burying their dead, a way was 
 made, rudely paved, and indicated where not paved by 
 standing stones, for the sole purpose of conveying corpses 
 to their final resting place. 
 
 This way, of which at present but faint traces exist, was 
 called the Lyke-Way. Since the establishment of the 
 prison at Prince's Town, first for French captives in the 
 European War, then for Irish and English convicts, a 
 church has been erected, and a gravej'ard enclosed and 
 consecrated, for the convenience and accommodation of 
 those who live and those who die on Dartmoor. The 
 Lyke-Way has accordingly been abandoned for three-quar- 
 ters of a century; nevertheless it is still pointed out by the 
 moor-men, and is still occasionally taken advantage of by 
 them. 
 
 In former days, when for weeks the moor was covered 
 with snow, and its road and tracks deep in drifts, corpses 
 were deliberately exposed to the frost, or were salted into 
 chests, to preserve them till the Lyke-Way was once more 
 passable. 
 
 Where the Lyke-Way touches a stream, there double 
 stepping-stones were planted in the bed, for the use of the 
 bearers, occasionally a rude bridge was constructed, by 
 piling up a pier in midwater, and throwing slabs of gran- 
 ite across, to meet in the midst on this pier ; but these 
 were always wide enough to permit of the bearers to cross 
 the bridge with the bier between them. 
 
 It is not to be marvelled at that superstition attaches to 
 this road, and that at night, esx^ecially when the moon is 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 15 
 
 shining, and the clouds are flying before the wind, the 
 moor-men aver that there pass trains of phantom mourners 
 along this way, bearing abler, gliding rather than running, 
 shadows onl}^ not substantial men of flesh. And as, in 
 the old days, the funeral train sang hymns as they went 
 along with tlieir load, up hill and down dale, so do the 
 moor-men protest at the present time that when the x^han- 
 tom train sweeps along the Lyke-Way, a solemn dirge is 
 wafted on the wind of such overwhelming sadness, that he 
 who hears it is forced to cover his face, and burst into 
 
 tears. 
 
 It is said that if one be daring enough to hide behind a rock 
 on the side of the corpse-track when the x^hantom proces- 
 sion is on the move, so as to suffer it to pass near him, he 
 will see his own face upturned to the moon on the bier 
 that goes by. Then must he make the best of his time, for 
 within a year he will be dead. 
 
 Along the Lyke-Way, as the nearest way to her home, 
 and also to his own, in defiance of the superstition that 
 clung to it, did Anthony Cleverdon jmrpose to conduct 
 Urith. 
 
 AYhen she heard him suggest this way she shivered, for 
 she was, though a strong-minded girl, imbued with the 
 belief of the age. But the power to resist was taken from 
 her. Moreover, along that way there was less chance than 
 on any other of encountering travellers, and Urith shrank 
 from being seen. 
 
 On reaching the point where she and her companion 
 touched the Lyke-Way, a point recognisable only by An- 
 thon}^, who wa's familiar with it — for here it was but a 
 track over smooth turf, then Cleverdon bade his comi)anion 
 seat herself on a stone and a^vait him. He would, he said, 
 go to the tavern and fetch his horse. 
 
 Her oiDposition to his determination had ceased, not be- 
 cause her will was conquered, but because she was without 
 an alternative course to cling to, without a purpose to op- 
 pose to his. She was weary and hungry. She had rambled 
 for many hours before Cleverdon had discovered her, and 
 had eaten nothing. Fatigued and faint, she was glad ta 
 rest on the stone, and to be left alone, that she might urn 
 observed give way to the tears of annoyance and anger 
 that welled up in her heart. 
 
16 VRITH: a tale OF DAHTMOOR. 
 
 In an access of inconsiderate wrath — wrath is ever incon- 
 siderate — she had run away from home — run from a sick 
 mother — and she was now reaping the vexations that fol- 
 lowed on what she had done. Her annoyance was aggra- 
 vated, not temiDered, by the thought that no one was to 
 blame for the unpleasant predicament in which she was 
 placed but her own self. 
 
 As Urith sat, awaiting the return of Anthony, gazing 
 around her, it appeared to her that the scene could hardly 
 be more awful at the consummation of all things. The 
 whole of the world, as far as she could see, was on fire ; it 
 looked as if a black crust were formed over an inner glow- 
 ing core, like the coal-dust clotted in a blacksmith's forge 
 above the burning interior. There were wandering sparks 
 ranging over it, and here and there a quiver of lurid flame. 
 All that was needed to excite to universal conflagration was 
 a thrust with an iron rod, a blast of concentrated wind, 
 and then the crust would break up, and through its rents 
 would flare out rays of fire too dazzling to look upon, that 
 would swallow up all darkness and dissolve mountain and 
 granite into liquid incandescent lava, and dry up every 
 river with a breath. There was water near the rock where 
 Urith sat, and she again unwound her hands and dipped 
 the bandages in the cool stream. 
 
 She was thus engaged, when softly over the velvet turf 
 came Anthony, leading his horse. 
 
 "Let me look," said he, bluntly ; "let me tie up your 
 rags. How did you injure your knuckles? " 
 
 She obediently held out her hands. 
 
 "I did it myself." 
 
 *' How ? Against the rocks ? " 
 
 *' No — with my teeth." 
 
 ** What ! You bit your hands ? " 
 
 "Yes. I bit my hands. I w\as in a rage." 
 
 "We men," said Anthony, "when we are angry, hurt 
 each other, but you women, I suppose, hurt your own 
 
 selves?" 
 
 "Yes. We have not the strength or the means to hurt 
 others. Not that we lack the will— so we hurt ourselves. 
 I would rather have bitten some one else, but I could not, 
 so I tore my own hands — with my teeth." 
 
 "You are strange beings, you women," said Anthony. 
 
URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 17 
 
 Then he threw the bridle ou the gronml, and set his foot 
 on it, so as to disengage his own hands. 
 
 He took hold of IJrith's wrist, and the kerchiefs, one 
 after the other, and arranged the bandages, and fastened 
 them firmly. Whilst thus engaged, he suddenly looked up, 
 and caught her sombre eyes fixed intentl^^ on him. 
 
 *' Would you hurt me — bite and mangle me ? '' he asked, 
 with a lau<2'h. 
 
 " Yes — if YOU gave me occasion." 
 
 " Aud if I gave 3'ou oi)portuiiity ? " 
 
 *' Assuredly, if I had the occasion and the ojDportunity." 
 
 " Which latter I would not be such a fool as to allow 
 
 " Opportunities come — are not made and given." 
 
 " You are a strange girl,'"' he said ; holding her hands 
 by the bandaged knots at the wrists, and looking into her 
 gloomy eyes ; " I should be sorry to rouse the wild best in 
 you — there is one curled up in your heart — that I can see. 
 Your eyes are the entrance to its lair." 
 
 " Yes," answered Urith, without shrinking, " it is true 
 there is a wild beast in me." 
 
 " And you obey the wild beast. It stretched itself and 
 sniffed the nioor air — than awav von ran out into the wil- 
 derness." 
 
 He continued to study her face ; that exercised a strange 
 fascination upon him. 
 
 " Yes ; I was in one of my fits. I was angry, and when 
 I am angry I have no reason — no thought — no feelings, 
 nothino: save ancfer. Just as the moor now is — all fire ; 
 and the fire consumes everything. I could not hurt my 
 mother — I did not want to hurt my Uncle Solomon. That 
 other He was beyond my reach, and so I bit myself." 
 
 Anthony made an attempt to shake himself free from the 
 sensation that stole over his senses, a sensation of giddi- 
 ness. The effort was ineffectual, it lacked resoluteness, 
 and again the spell settled over him ; he was falling into a 
 dream, with his hands on her wrists, and her pulses throb- 
 bing against his fingers, a dream woven about him, en- 
 lacing, entangling mind and heart and consciousness ; a 
 dream in which he was losing all power of seeing anytinng 
 save her eyes, of hearing anything save her breathing, of 
 feeling anything save the dull throb of her pulse — a dream 
 3 
 
18 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 in which he was being caught and bound, and thrown 
 powerless at her feet — a dream of mingled rapture and 
 pain and undefined terror. She had called herself his cap- 
 tive a little wdiile ago, and now she, without a word or a 
 movement, was subjecting him absolutely. 
 
 How long he stood thus fascinated he could not conject- 
 ure, he was startled out of it by his horse jerking his 
 bridle from under his foot, and then at once, as one start- 
 ing out of a trance, he passed into a world of other sensa- 
 tions, he heard the rush of water and the wail of wind, he 
 saw the fires about him, and Urith's eyes no longer filled 
 the entire horizon. 
 
 *'Come," said he, roughly, as he caught the bridle, 
 " get on the horse ; we must waste no more time talking 
 folly." He put his hands under her foot, and with a leap 
 she was in the saddle. 
 
 " You can ride of course," said he, churlishly ; he detested 
 the spell that had been thrown over him ; the conviction 
 that he had been very nearly falling w^holly into her power. 
 
 *'0f course I can ride — I am a moor-maid." 
 
 Vrith his hand at the bit he urged the horse on, and 
 strode forward, looking down at the turf, without speak- 
 in Gf. The sudden drunkenness of brain that had come over 
 him left its vapours that were not withdrawn w^holly and at 
 once. But Anthony was not a man to brood over any sen- 
 sation or experience, and when Urith asked, ''Did you find 
 your father's colts ? " he recovered his good humour and 
 gaiety, and answered in his wonted tone, " No, the fire 
 must have driven them farther north, maybe they are lost 
 in Cranmeer." Then, with a laugh, he added, "I have been 
 like Saul seeking my father's beasts, and like Saul, have 
 found something better." He looked up at her with a 
 flashing e^'e. 
 
 She turned her head away. 
 
 "You came to the moors alone ? " she asked. 
 
 He did not reply, but pointed to the west. " The wind 
 is shifting, I hold. The direction of the smoke and flames 
 is changed." 
 
 She did not observe that he evaded giving her a reply to 
 her question. 
 
 The way now dipped into a broad valley, where the fire 
 had already burnt, and had exhausted itself. 
 
URITn: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 19 
 
 It lay before tliem n, dark troiigb, and yet scintillatiDg in 
 points where ashes glowed after the flames had exhausted 
 themselves. An auroral light pervaded the sky overhead, 
 especially bright above the hills to the east, and against it 
 the granite piles of rock on the mountain tops, stood forth 
 as ruined castles crunil)ling away in the conflagration, and 
 above one huge block, like an altar, smoke rose in columns 
 intermingled with flame, as though on it a gigantic sacri- 
 ficial oblation were being made. 
 
 "I suppose you were angry with me when 1 snatched 
 you off Devil Tor, and j'ou strove to free yourself ? " said 
 Anthony. 
 
 "Not angry, but reluctant," she replied; "for I knew 
 that you wished me well, and that your violence was kind- 
 ly meant." 
 
 He drew the reins sharply and arrested the horse, then 
 turned, put his arm over the neck, and looked up at Uiith. 
 
 " Verily," said he, "I have the fancy that I should like 
 to put you into one of your fits — as you term them." 
 
 *' Indeed," she answered; "it is a cruel fancy, for my 
 fits end in some hurt. When the devil entered into the 
 child it cast him into the fire or into the water, and tore 
 him before it came out. You see what one fit has cost me " 
 — she extended her banda^'ed hands. "But vou do not 
 feel how they sting and burn. It may have been rare sport 
 for such as looked on to see this child half scorched by the 
 fire, half smothered by the water, and prostrate, mangled 
 by the devil — but I question if any one would have had the 
 heart to invoke the devil to possess the child ; yet that is 
 what you would do." 
 
 " Nay," said Anthony-, a little confounded by her vehe- 
 mence and the charge against him; "nay, I would not 
 have you a^-ain hurt." 
 
 " Then would you stand to be torn yourself ? " 
 
 " What — would you tear and bite me ? " 
 
 *' I cannot say. When I have one of my fits on me I do 
 not know what I am about." 
 
 "Are you repentant for your action afterwards ? " 
 
 " Assuredly I am repentant when I have gnawed my 
 hands, for they are full of pain." 
 
 He turned away. The girl disturbed him. The young 
 man was not accustomed to meet with damsels who were 
 
20 UllITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 not honey and cream, smiles and allurements— the framk 
 avowal of savagery in Urith, mingled with the conscious- 
 ness that she exerted over him a certain fascination against 
 which he had no counter-spell, caused him uneasiness. 
 He turned abruptly round and went forward with lowered 
 head, and the vapours recently lifted from his brain began 
 to settle over them again. 
 
 Presently he came to the side of a foaming tumbling 
 river. He halted, and, without looking into Urith's face, 
 
 said — 
 
 " Now we have come to the Walla, and my cob has been 
 restive at crossing water to-day, shall I help you to dis- 
 mount ? You can go over by the stepping-stones. I must 
 ride him across." 
 
 He put forth his hand, but she slipped to her feet unas- 
 sisted, and handed to him the crop or long-lashed whip 
 that had hung at the saddle-bow, but which she had taken 
 in hand. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I shall require the crop." Then he 
 leaped into the saddle and spurred the horse down into the 
 water. 
 
 Urith tripped along the stones till she reached a broad 
 block in the midst of the river. She found no difficulty in 
 crossing, as the light overhead mirrored itself in the water, 
 making^ of the Walla a very Phlegethon. But for the same 
 reason Anthony's cob objected to enter. He reared and 
 plunged, and when whipped and spurred, wheeled about. 
 
 Urith watched the futile efforts of her companion. 
 
 Presently she called to Anthony, " The cob will go into 
 the water if you pat him. You further frighten him_ by 
 your violence when he is already frightened. The river 
 seems to roll down fire and blood." 
 
 "What ! " laughed Anthony ; "will you teach me how to 
 manage a horse ? " 
 
 "I have had to do with horses every whit as much as 
 yourself," she repHed. "Remember, I am the Wild Maid 
 of the Moors." 
 
 He made no reply, but again essayed to force the cob to 
 enter the water. Suddenly Urith, still stationed in mid- 
 stream, uttered an exclamation of surprise, not unmiiigled 
 with alarm. 
 
 She saw black figures emerge on the hill shoulder, vis- 
 
IIRITH: A TALP. OF DARTMOOR. ^1 
 
 ible against the lurid sky, and then descend along the 
 Lyke-Way, coming along the same track, in the same di- 
 rection. 
 
 At once there rushed upon her the stories she had heard 
 of ghostly trains of mourners, sweeping at night along this 
 road, and of the ill-luck that attended such as cast eyes on 
 them. 
 
 " Look ! — look ! " she exclaimed, now in real terror, 
 "Who are they? — what are they? They are following us, 
 Anthony Cleverdon ! Do not let us see them more. Do 
 not let them overtake us." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CAUGHT UP ON THE WAY. 
 
 Anthony looked l3ack. Strange was the appearance of 
 the moor side, half-lighted by the skies reddened with the 
 reflection of fires beyond the hills, but with its surface 
 travelled ever by sparks. An imaginative mind might have 
 thought that mountain gnomes were alert, and were ram- 
 bling torch in hand over the moor. Now one red spark 
 wandered along in solitude, then out flashed a second, and 
 ran to meet it ; as if they were the lights of comrades hail- 
 ing each other. Suddenly a score sparkled and danced in 
 a ring, and were as suddenlj^ extinguished. Or it might 
 be supposed that the spirits of the primeval tin-workers 
 had returned to earth once more, and were revisiting their 
 ancient circles and avenues of stone, to perform in them 
 the rites of a forgotten religion. 
 
 To the south-east rose Mistor, one of the loftiest summits 
 on the moor, on whose reeky crest, scooped out by wind 
 and water, is a huge circular bowl, called by the natives 
 the Devil's Fryingpan, in which he prepares the storms 
 that lash and explode on the moor. And now it really 
 seemed as though the Spirit of the Tempest were at work, 
 brewing in his bowl. 
 
 In the strange after-glow that partially lighted the hill-side 
 could be seen dark figures descending the Lyke-Way, and 
 approaching the ford where Anthony was vainly endeavour- 
 
22 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 ing to iovoQ liis cob to cross. Anthony uttered an oath, 
 and then redoubled his attempts to drive the brute into 
 the water. But it came to the edge, snuffed, and recoiled. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Urith, still watching the pursuing 
 shadows. 
 
 Urith ran back over the stones. 
 
 " Only some folks coming after us. By heaven ! I wish 
 I could get this cursed beast over." 
 
 " If you take the bridle on one side, I on the other, 
 and coax the horse, we can cross by the double stones, and 
 he can go in the middle." 
 
 " As the bearers with the dead," said Anthony. 
 
 Trith patted the frightened beast, talked to him, praised 
 him, and taking the bridle, quietly led him down to the 
 stream. Ever and anon, she turned to look back, and saw 
 the shadowy figures rapidly nearing. "Who could they bo ? 
 Would they recognise her ? Were they such as would be 
 likely to recognise her ? What, if they knew her, would 
 thev^hink of her being at such a time, and in such a place, 
 alone with Anthony Cleverdon ? 
 
 Would it be advisable to step aside, and let these travel- 
 lers pass without seeing her ? But she was too ashamed 
 to make such a proi:)Osal to her companion. So, as she was 
 caressing the horse, and urging him into the water, these 
 pursuers, whoever they were, drew nearer. She could 
 distinguish that they were mounted. 
 
 Anthony stood on the stepping-stones on one side, Urith 
 on those upon the other. The frightened horse cautiously 
 put his hoofs in, snuffed at the water, began to drink, re- 
 covered confidence, and allowed himself to be led along 
 through the stream. 
 
 They were past the middle of the river when the pur- 
 suers came to the side of the stream, and a loud male voice 
 exclaimed 
 
 " There is the runaway, and by God — not alone ! " 
 
 Urith shuddered, her hand twitched at the bridle, and 
 made the horse start. She knew the voice well. _ It was 
 not a pleasant one, harsh, and with mockery and insult in 
 its tones. As her hand contracted, so did her heai-t, and 
 sent a rush of blood tingling to her temples. 
 
 " That is Fox Crymes ! " she said to her companion, 
 " the last, the very k\s^t man I would have had see me here." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 23 
 
 " Why the last ? " asked Anthony, stepping on the bank, 
 and leadmg the horse up on the land. *' Why the last that 
 you would have see you, Urith ? " 
 
 "Because it was on his account I ran away." 
 
 "What," laughed Anthony, "Then it is Fox whom yon 
 would have bitten, had he allowed you to fasten your teeth 
 on him ? " 
 
 Urith 's colour deepened ; if Anthony had had pity, he 
 would not have said this. If he had looked in her face, he 
 would have seen how dark it was with shame and vexation. 
 
 *' You wring all out. You are cruel— yes, Fox Crymes," 
 she muttered. 
 
 " And I am not surprised. I would like to thrash him," 
 said Anthony. " For one thing, for coming up with us 
 now." 
 
 The pursuing party consisted of but three, Fox— his real 
 Christian name was Anthony —and two others, Bessie, the 
 sister of Anthony Cleverdon, and Juhan, Fox Crimes' half- 
 sister. Both Crymes and Cleverdon had the same Chris- 
 tian name. Old Cleverdon, the father, had been sponsor 
 to Crymes, and in compliment to him had received at the 
 font his godfather's name. 
 
 Fox was the only son of Fernando Crymes. Since child- 
 hood he had borne the nickname, partly because of his red 
 hair, partly because of his pointed features, also, in a meas- 
 ure, because it was thought that somewhat of the craft 
 and subtlety of Keynard was intwined in his nature. ^ Ho 
 did not object to the designation ; it had attached^ itself 
 to him at an early age, when it conveyed no meaning to 
 his mind, and in mature years he accepted it without de- 
 mur, and was perhaps a little proud that ho should be 
 credited with superior shrewdness. 
 
 After the death of Fox's mother, old Fernando Crymes 
 had married an heiress — a Glanville — and by her had a 
 single daughter, Julian, at whose birth this second wife 
 had died. Fernando Crymes, though belonging to a very 
 ancient and estated family, had frittered away such remains 
 of the property as had come to him, and would have been 
 reduced to threadbare circumstances had not his second 
 marriage rehabilitated him. He was trustee for his 
 daughter, and lived on her estate. His son, Anthony, was 
 but too well aware that the portion of goods that would 
 
24 URITH: A TALE OF DABTMOOR. 
 
 fall to liiroself must be small, whereas liis half-sister would 
 be wealthy. The consciousness of this disparity in their 
 prospects affected their relations to each other. Julian 
 was disposed to imperiousness, and Fox let no opj)ortunity 
 pass of saying or doing something to annoy her. 
 
 "You have played us a scurvy trick, Anthony-, " said 
 Fox, as he splashed through the river, and came up with 
 the two on the further bank ; then pushing close to Urith, 
 whom Anthony liad remounted on his saddle, he peered 
 rudel}^ into her face. He uttered an exclamation of rage 
 as he recognised her, and turned away towards Cleverdon, 
 and said, in a rasping tone, " "We awaited you at the tav- 
 ern an endless age, ever expecting you to come and let us 
 know whether you had found the colts or not. I assured 
 your sister and mine that you were after game of some 
 sort, and the colt-seeking was a mask, but they would not 
 believe me. Finally, I went to the stable, and found that 
 you had slipped away without a word." 
 
 "Was I bou]id to let you know I was going home?" 
 asked Anthony Cleverdon, without an effort to disguise his 
 ill-humour. 
 
 "Bound, certainly, by all the ties of breeding and good- 
 fellowship," answered Fox. "But, in good faith, when a 
 woman is concerned, all other considerations are thrown 
 to the winds." 
 
 Then he fell back, and addressing his sister Julian and 
 Bessie Cleverdon loud enough to be overheard by those 
 in front, he said, " I never doubted but that Anthony came 
 after something other than colts, and to make a mock of 
 us. I told you as much when we were at the Saracen's 
 Head, and you scouted my words. You said the Fox was 
 ever suspicious, but the Fox has his eye and his nose, and 
 ear keen, and I saw, and smelt, and heard what was hidden 
 to duller senses." 
 
 Cleverdon turned round. He was angry, but he said 
 nothing. 
 
 Fox Crymes went on, tauntingly. " There is game of 
 all sorts on the Moor ; but, good Lord ! it is sometimes 
 hard to say which is the game and which the sportsman, 
 and which lias been in pursuit of the other." 
 
 " Silence that malicious tongue of yours, or I will silence 
 it for you," said Anthony, angrily. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 25 
 
 '•' O ! I nm always to be threatened whenever I draw 
 my bow, but you — are to be scatheless, whatever your con- 
 duct be." 
 
 " You fight unfairly, with poisoned weapons." 
 
 "And you retaliate, like a wild man, with a bludgeon," 
 answered Crymes. *' Are we to hold our hands when 
 treated by you as it has pleased you ? You invited us to 
 attend you to the Moor and spend with you a merry day, 
 and thou you desert us. Are we not free'to question why 
 we are thus treated ? " 
 
 Then Bessie rode forwards beside Urith, and asked, 
 " Tell me, how came you here ? " 
 
 " She lost her way in the smoke, and no marvel," said 
 Anthony Cleverdon. " I discovered her strayed among 
 the bogs, and engirded with flames ; and had I not done 
 so, she would have stayed all night." 
 
 *' But what brouo-ht her on to the moors ? " 
 
 " The same occasion that brought you, Bess — she came 
 to see the fires. She became distraught with the smoke, 
 wandered, and lost all knowledge of her direction." 
 
 "It is well, brother, that j^ou found her," said Elizabeth ; 
 and then, in a lower tone, "Brother, brother, speak to 
 Julian. You have been short of coin-tesy to-day, and she 
 resents it." 
 
 Anthony shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I will ride alongside of Urith," said Elizabeth Clever- 
 don. "You must not allow it to be observed that you 
 lack manners, brother Anthony. You persuaded Julian 
 and me to come with you and see the moor on fire, and 
 you have left us to ourselves, and now disregard her mark- 
 edly." 
 
 "Whilst the brother and sister w^ere in conversation near 
 the horse on which Urith was mounted, Julian Crymes 
 passed them with averted head, and took the lead along 
 the Lyke-Way. Anthony, admonished by Bessie, strode 
 forward after her, but with a frown and curl of the lips. 
 
 Julian Crymes was a handsome dark-haired girl, with a 
 rich, warm complexion, and full lips and rounded chin. 
 Her eyes were large, with that drooj) in the lids that gives 
 an impression of sensuous languor. 
 
 She heard Anthony tread at her side, but did not deign 
 to cast on him a look, neither did she throw a word at him. 
 
26 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Indeed, slie was angry and offended, her bosom was heav- 
 ing, her blood was simmering, and her Hps she bit to pre- 
 vent their quiver. Anthony w^as out of humour at having 
 been caught up by the joarty, and was conscious that he 
 had not behaved with civihty, but was too proud in him- 
 self, too indifferent to the feelings of others, to acknowl- 
 edge himself to be in the wrong, and to make amends for 
 his lack of courtesy to others. 
 
 Accordingly they pursued their way, side by side, she 
 riding with averted head, he pacing with knitted brows 
 and downcast eyes, in silence, and for some considerable 
 distance. 
 
 The situation was irksome. Each, instead of speaking, 
 was endeavouring to catch what was said in the rear, each 
 with suspicion that Fox was saying something behind their 
 backs which would cause the left ear to tingle. 
 
 Julian was the first to find the situation intolerable, and to 
 break from it. She turned her head over her shoulders 
 and said, 
 
 " Bessie could hardly be persuaded to leave the Saracen's 
 Head, even when she heard that you had taken your horse 
 and had ridden away. She has a marvellous faith in you, 
 not shaken by a thousand evidences that you are wanting 
 in those qualities on which faith can be reared. After this 
 day's experience, even if I at any time shared in her esti- 
 mation of your qualities of cavalier, I shall cease to do so 
 for the future. The first obligation of a cavalier is to be 
 mannerly towards ladies." 
 
 " You had Fox with vou. I found Urith lost in the 
 morasses, and was forced to help a damsel who was in jeop- 
 ardy — that, I take it, is the first duty of a cavalier. You 
 were in no straits and she was. You had help, she none." 
 
 •* You might have called us to aid you hi extracting her 
 from the morass, or in assisting her to reach her home 
 afterwards." 
 
 Anthony made no reply to this. No reply was possible. 
 
 " Come ! " said Julian, the pent-up anger in her heart 
 flashing forth. " Have you no ap)ology to offer for your 
 misconduct ? " 
 
 " What would you have me say ? " 
 
 " Nay ! It is not for me to put the words into your 
 mouth." 
 
URITIT: A TALE OF JJ ART MO OR. 27 
 
 *'I have told you my reason." 
 
 *' A poor and pitiful reason, ungarnislied with excuse to 
 hide its sorry nature. If the reason be bad, so much the 
 more should it be trimmed with excuses." 
 
 " If I have offended you, I am sorry. I cannot help it." 
 
 Julian tossed her head. She was hi^-hlv incensed. Ho 
 made no attempt to mollify her. 
 
 Fox came alongside. 
 
 "I hope, Julian," he said, "that you have soundly rated 
 Anthony for his ill-conduct." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "We might have had a merry canter home over the 
 turf," continued Fox, "had not Anthony spoiled our fun 
 by setting all our tempers on the edge. But it may be that 
 it better comports with the character of the Lyke-Way that 
 we should travel over it rather as mourners than as merry- 
 makers, and that, forsooth, we are, bearing dead fellow- 
 ship between us." 
 
 " There is no occasion for that," said Anthon}'. 
 
 " In truth there is, though you who have slain it may 
 not be aware." 
 
 "I have no desire to spoil your mirth," said Cleverdon. 
 " Ride on yourself. Fox, with your sister, and leave me be- 
 hind." 
 
 " Julian and I are the worst of company together. Wo 
 snarl and snap at each other when a third, not of the fami- 
 ly, is not by to control us. We will certainly not leave 
 you. I can see that Julian is already in no agreeable 
 mood, and I dare not venture myself in her company un- 
 protected." 
 
 " I — ! " said Julian Crymes, tossing her head, " I — you 
 mistake, Tony, I am merry." 
 
 Fox Crymes laughed mockingly, and spurred on his 
 horse, leaving his sister with Anthony. Bessie brought up 
 the rear with Urith. The train was, as he said, more in 
 character with the way than if it had been composed of 
 merrymakers. Urith and Bessie spoke together in a low 
 tone ; now that Fox had ridden forward, silence again fell 
 on Anthony and Julian. He could not have seen the face 
 of Julian had he essayed to do so, for he walked on the 
 off-side, and she kept her head averted, and he his eyes 
 depressed. She was glad that her face was hidden from 
 
28 VRITH: A TALE 01^ DARTMOOR. 
 
 observation, so agitated was it with disappointment, 
 wounded pride, and jealous}'. 
 
 Then Fox, ahead, began to sing to himself in strident 
 tones a snatch of an old ballad, and every word in it fell 
 on Julian's heart as a drop of burning phosphorous that 
 no water will extinguish, but that burns down where it 
 has fallen, burying itself, till it has exhausted its fire. 
 
 If I of marriage spake one word, 
 
 I wot it was not true. 
 Man lovetli none so easy won, 
 
 So over fond as you. 
 All in your garden grows a herb, 
 
 I think they call it rue ; 
 There willows weep o'er waters deep — 
 
 That is the place for you. 
 
 The tears of mortification rushed into Julian's eyes. 
 Her bosom heaved, and sharply she wheeled her horse 
 about, rode back to those that followed, and said to Bes- 
 sie, in a voice quivering with emotion, " Go on to the two 
 Anthonys. I want a word with Urith." 
 
 "Without demur Elizabeth left her place and passed 
 Julian, wlio drew up across the road to force Urith to rein 
 in. Urith looked at her with some sur2:>rise. She did not 
 know Julian excejDt by sight ; she had never spoken to her 
 in her life. And now this latter stayed her course as 
 though she were a highwayman demanding her purse. 
 
 Julian at first was unable to speak, choked by her pas- 
 sion. She panted for breath and laboured for words, and 
 both failed her. With nervous hands she plucked at her 
 gloves, and dragged rather than drew them off. 
 
 " Will vou allow me to ^o forward ? " asked Urith coldly. 
 
 Then all at once Julian broke forth into a stream of 
 words, disconnected, fiery with the fury that raged within. 
 
 *' You would snatch him away ! You ! And you do not 
 know, or you do not care, that he and I are destined for 
 each other — have been ever since our cradles. Who are 
 you to come between us? "What are you, Urith Malvine, 
 but a half-savage moor-girl ? I have heard of you. Folks 
 have tongues, and tell tales. Why did you come forth ou 
 the moor, but because you were aware that he was here ? 
 You came to j^lay the forlorn damsel — to attract the pity 
 
TJRITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 29 
 
 and ensure the attention of this kuigiit-ernint. Are j'ou 
 crafty? I am not. I am straightforward, and do not 
 deign to wear a false face, and put the domino on my 
 heart. I have heard of you ; but I never supposed you 
 were craft}'." Siie half-started up her stirrups: "Would 
 we might fight out our quarrel here, on this sj^ot." 
 
 She had reared her arm with her Vv^hip, the horse started, 
 and she sank back on her seat ; she had exhausted her 
 words for the moment. Her blood tumbled, roared, 
 flowed in her arteries like the river on the moor behind 
 them. 
 
 *' You are mistaken," said Urith with composure. " You 
 flare forth unprovoked ; or is it that you are angry with me 
 because I have refused to have anything to say to your 
 brother ? " 
 
 "To Fox!" Julian laughed contemptuously. "I re- 
 spect 3'ou for that. I never supposed that you or any 
 sane girl would care for him. But the wherefore of his re- 
 jection I did not know till this day. I little sus2)ected that 
 Fox was cast aside because you were questing him who is 
 mine — is mine, do 3'ou hear ? Do 3'ou understand that he 
 is not, and never shall be, yours ? He is mine, and neither 
 you nor any other shall j)luck him from me. I would we 
 might fight this out together with these weapons ! " She 
 reverted to the thought that had occupied her when the 
 horse started and interrupted the thread of her ideas. 
 "You, I see, have Anthony's crop that I gave him on his 
 birthday ; and I have but this lady's switch. I do not con- 
 sider the difference. Just as we are — as we sit on our 
 horses, here, on the turf and heather, with our whips — 
 would to God we mij^ht fip^ht it out! " 
 
 Again she paused for breath, and panted, and put both 
 her hands to her boundinijc heart — the hand that held the 
 whip and that in which was the bridle and her gloves. 
 
 Then she began to cut with her whip, and the horse she 
 rode to curvet. 
 
 " Even with this little lash I would fight you, and slash 
 you up and down across your treacherous face ; and if you 
 struck me I should not feel the blows — but there, it would 
 not be seeml}". Alack the day in which we are fallen — 
 when we are covered with a net of such delicacy that we 
 may not lift hand or foot to right ourselves ! " 
 
30 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 She drew a long breath and laid both her hands on the 
 ■whip and bridle over the mane of the horse, and, loaning 
 forward, said — 
 
 "But who — what could interfere if we went a race 
 down the hillside among the bogs and rocks, so that one 
 or other would be flung at a stumble of our steeds, and 
 dash out the brains from our heads on the boulders? 
 Would that please you? Would that approve itself to 
 you? I should draw rein and laugh were that to chance to 
 you." Then in an explosion of jealousy and rage, she 
 dashed her gloves in the face of Urith. " I dare you ! 
 Yes, I dare you to ^Yrest him from me ! " 
 
 Urith sat on the horse unmoved. She was surprised, 
 she was not angry. This was the foaming over of boiling 
 passion, but not a frenzied paroxysm such as came upon 
 herself. The charges brought against her were monstrous, 
 untrue— so monstrous and so untrue that they bore no 
 sting that could pain her. 
 
 Sho replied in her rich deep tones, and with composure. 
 "You mistake. I will not take up your challenge. AVhafc 
 is Anthony to me ? What am I to him ? You are beauti- 
 ful, clever, and rich — and I," she laughed, "I am but an 
 ungroomed, undisciplined moor colt, who never gave a 
 thought to her looks, whether fair or foul. I am without 
 wit, without scholarship, living with my mother on our 
 poor manor, so poor in means as to be hardly accounted 
 gentle, yet, by birth, too gentle to be esteemed boors. No, 
 I will not contest with you. We are furnishetl unequally 
 for a contest, you have the long whip and I but the 
 switch." 
 
 At that moment the wind, blowing strongly, carried a 
 tuft of ignited gorse overhead, and as it bore the tuft, 
 fanned into fragrance, and the glare momentarily kindled 
 the faces of the two girls planted in opposition. 
 
 Each saw the other clearer than in daylight, for the light 
 fell on their faces and the background was sable, unil- 
 lumined. As Urith looked, she saw how handsome w^as 
 her opponent, with lluttcring locks, her colour heightened 
 by wrath, her full lips trembling, her eyes flashing. She 
 thought that if she were to match herself against such an 
 one she would come away with ignominious defeat ; and 
 Julian, by the same light, and at the same moment, formed 
 
XJRITR: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 31 
 
 her opinion of the rival facing her, recognised her strength, 
 her charm, and felt that she was a girl who would jeopard- 
 ise her hold over Anthony, and imperil her happiness. 
 
 Both were strong women, one threatening, the other re- 
 luctant to fight. Would they come into real conflict? 
 Would the reluctance of the one be overborne ? Would 
 the threat of the first lead to action ? And, if they fought, 
 which would win ? 
 
 **No," said Urith, "I do not covet the prize. So much 
 for one thing. For the other, as I said, the odds are un- 
 equal." 
 
 "Then," said Julian, "return me my gloves." 
 
 " I suppose they have fallen. Would you have me dis- 
 mount to search the grass for them ? Get off your horse 
 yourself, or call Fox to your aid. I will not stoop to look 
 for them for you." 
 
 "You have my gloves. They are not on the ground. 
 Return them to me, or I " 
 
 Then Urith impatiently whipped her horse and thrust 
 Julian aside. " This is arrant folly," she said ; "I want to 
 be at home. I will be stayed by you no longer." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SUSPENSE. 
 
 The ill-assorted, discordant party pushed on as fast as 
 possible along a road that, as it neared inhabited country, 
 became rough and uncertain, and under a sky of diminished 
 light, for the heather on this portion of the moor had been 
 burnt early in the day, and hardly any of the embers re- 
 mained aglow. 
 
 No combination was possible that would content all, for 
 every one except the good-humoured Bessie had some 
 private grudge against another, and Bessie herself was de- 
 pressed b}' the general dissatisfaction. 
 
 Anthony Cleverdon was vexed that he had not been left 
 to convey Urith to her home undisturbed, though he ad- 
 mitted to himself that for her sake the present accidental 
 arrano^emeiit was the best. Julian Crvmes, still incandes- 
 
32 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 
 
 cent ill her anger find jealousy, was unwilling to speak to 
 Anthony, and unwilling to allow him to leave her side to 
 address a word to, and show attention to, Urith. When 
 she did speak to him, it was in a taunting tone, and his 
 answers were curt, almost to rudeness. 
 
 The temper of Fox Crymes, never smooth, was now 
 fretted to considerable asperity ; for he was smarting under 
 the sense of rejection. He had asked for the hand of 
 Urith, and had been refused, and he saw, or suspected 
 that he saw, a reason for his rejection — an attachment for 
 Anthony Cleverdon. Fox was vain and conceited, and en- 
 vious of his namesake, who had superior physical powers, 
 a finer person, and a better fortune than himself. He was 
 not sorry that his half-sister was disappointed, for whatever 
 might distress her, gave pleasure to him. However, the 
 occasion of her distress on this occasion was something 
 that wounded him as well as her. 
 
 Fox loved Urith, as far as he was capable of loving, but 
 the jealousy he now felt was no measure of his love ; like 
 the famous Serpent's Egg, it was bred of a score of parents. 
 It was the produce of mortified vanity, of envy of Anthony 
 Cleverdon's superior gifts of nature and fortune, of disap- 
 pointed avarice, quite as miich as of rejected love. 
 
 Fox Crymes' suit for Urith was not instigated wholly by 
 his admiration for her charms ; it sprang quite as much 
 out of his desire to obtain the small patrimony which would 
 fall to her on her mother's decease. 
 
 Willsworthy was an ancient manor, never of great im- 
 portance, and without fertility', yet not despicable in the 
 eyes of a poor gentleman. It lay on the extreme limits of 
 cultivated land, or rather it may be said to have occupied 
 the debateable ground between the waste and culture. It 
 occupied a hill that ran as a spur out of the moorland, be- 
 tween torrents, and seemed to be what, no doubt, it was, 
 a portion of wilderness snatched from savagery, and 
 hedged in. It possessed no good soil, it lay too high for 
 wheat to ripen on it, it was destitute of these pasture 
 meadows by the waterside, where the grass grows knee- 
 deep, and is gold-sprinkled in spring with buttercups ; it 
 was dominated by rugged tors, and stood near the entrance 
 of the gorge of the Tavy, where it roared and leaped, and 
 shot as it came down into the lowlands, and with it came 
 
tTRITH: A TALE OP DAnTMOOR. ^Z 
 
 down the cold blasts that also roared and whirled, and beat 
 about the lone Manor of Willsworthy. 
 
 Mrs. Malvine talked disparagingly of her farm, her bro- 
 ther Solomon Gil3bs averred it was an estate on which to 
 starve, and not to live. Urith accepted their verdict as 
 final, she knew the need for money that ever prevailed in 
 her house ; and yet Fox Crymes cast greedy e3^es upon the 
 estate. He saw that it possessed capabilities that w^ere disre- 
 garded by the w^idow and her brother. The manor owned 
 considerable rights. It had the freedom of the moor, to 
 send out upon it an unlimited number of sheep and cattle 
 and colts ; at a time when English w^ool was fetching a liigh 
 price, and was exported to the Mediterranean, to Cadiz, 
 to Leghorn, to Palermo, to Marseilles ; this was important — 
 it afforded exceptional opportunities of making money. 
 There needed but the initial outlay on the stock, their 
 keej^ was free. Not onl}' so, but sheep in lowlands were, 
 in wet seasons, afHicted with disease which slew them in 
 great numbers, which sometimes exterminated entire flocks. 
 But sheep on the moor were never known thus to sutfer ; 
 they enjoyed perfect immunity from the many maladies 
 "which attend keeping tliem on cultivated land. 
 
 The climate in the West of England is so mild that it 
 "was possible to let the sheep run on the moor through the 
 major portion of the year, only for a few months in the 
 depth of the winter, possibly only when suoav lay on the 
 moor, was it needful to provide them with food ; and the 
 meadows of Willsworthy, though they did not 2:)roduce 
 rank grass, yet produced hay that was extraordinary sweet 
 and nutritious, and in sufficient abundance to support a 
 large number of sheep and cattle for the short time during 
 "which they were debarred from foraging for themselves. 
 Anthony Crymes saw plainly enough, that if he had the 
 management of ilie estate of Willsworthy he would make 
 it a mine of gold ; and that the reason why it did not now 
 flourish was the lack of capital in the acres, and misman- 
 agement. Anthony Crymes knew that some money would 
 come to him from his father, not indeed much, but just 
 sufficient for his purpose, should he acquire this j)roperty 
 — and he was very ambitious of obtaining it. 
 
 At present, Mrs. Malvine entrusted the conduct of the 
 farm to her brother Bolomon who belied his name ; he 
 
;i4 UJRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 was a man without any knowledge of farming, and with 
 no interest save in his vioUo, and who took dehght only in 
 good company. The farm was allowed to take its course, 
 which was naturally a retrograde one — a relapse from for- 
 mer culture into pristine wilderness. 
 
 At the period of this tale, some two hundred years ago, 
 every squire farmed, if not his entire estate, at all events 
 a portion of it. Men of ancient pedigree, proud of their 
 ancestral properties and mansions, of their arms and their 
 alliances, did not disdain to ride to market and cheapen 
 cattle. 
 
 The Civil Y/ar ruined most of the squires who had taken 
 up arms for the King, litigation ruined others ; then came 
 in the great merchants and bought the old owners out, and 
 established themselves in their room. They understood 
 nothing of farming, and esteemed it despicable and ww- 
 worthy of their new-fangled gentihty to pursue it. 
 
 Witii the gall of envy bitter in his heart did Fox see the 
 other Anthony walk alongside of Urith, and assume to- 
 wards her an intimacy to which he himself had never at- 
 tained. The girl had ever avoided him, had treated him 
 with coldness tinged with ill-disguised disdain. She had 
 not made that effort to veil her dislike which will gloss 
 over a repulse. Fox saw another man better favoured than 
 himself, reach at a bound a j^osition he had laboriously 
 tried to mount, and had failed. 
 
 Hall, or as the country-folk called it " Yall," was the 
 house of the Cleverdons. It had belonged to the Glanville 
 estates — had been bought by old Judge Glanville, in the 
 reign of Elizabeth, wdio had founded the family. The 
 Glanvilles had flourished for awhile, and had spread over 
 the country-side, taking up estate after estate, and had 
 collapsed as suddenly as they had risen. The Cleverdons 
 had been farmers, renting Hall, and when that estate was 
 sold old Cleverdon by some means got together sufficient 
 money to purchase it, and since the purchase had laid out 
 considerable sums to transform what had been a modest 
 farmhouse into a pretentious squire's mansion. 
 
 Old Anthony was in that transitional state in which, pas- 
 sinir from one rank of life to another, he was comfortable 
 in neither. He was sensitive and ambitious — sensitive to 
 shghts, and ambitious to push himself and his son into a 
 
URITII: A TALJ^ OF DARTMOOR. 35 
 
 better social position tlian that which had been occupied 
 by his ancestors ; and, indeed, by himself in early life. 
 The Crynies family had been connected with the Glan- 
 villes by marriage, and now old Anthony schemed on the 
 acquisition of another portion of the Glanville property, 
 through the marriage of his son and heir with Julian 
 Crymes. The old man's success had fostered his ambition. 
 He indulged in a dream of the Cleverdons, by skilful man- 
 agement, assuming eventually the position once maintained 
 by the Glanvilles. 
 
 The Civil Wars had produced vast displacement in the 
 social strata. The old gentry were faihng, and those who 
 had taken part with neither side, but had waited on their 
 own interests in selfish or indifferent neutrality, were re- 
 warded by emerging, where others were falling into ruin, 
 into ripe prosperity. After that Anthony Cleverdou, the 
 elder, had acquired the freehold of Hall, he had become a 
 widower, and showed no disposition to take to himself 
 another wife. His marriage had not been a happy experi- 
 ence, and none liad felt the disagreement in it more than 
 Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, who, after her mother's 
 death, had been called to manage the household. If the 
 opinion of Magdalen Cleverdon were to be taken — the un- 
 married sister of Anthony, senior — who lived in a small 
 house in Tavistock, the blame of the unhappiness of her 
 brother's married life lay with his wife ; but then the 
 judgment of Magdalen was warped and partial. "When 
 Anthony brought home his 3'oung wife, she — Magdalen — 
 had endeavoured to remain at the head of the house, to 
 interfere where she could not direct, Mrs. Cleverdon had 
 taken a very decided line, and I'efused all intermeddlcment, 
 and Magdalen, after a sharp struggle for supremacy, had 
 left the house routed. Disappointment had embittered 
 her estimate of her sister-in-law. 
 
 But there were other and more substantial grounds for 
 her charging her sister-in-law watli having rendered the 
 marriage an unhappy one. ]\Irs. Anthony had been a 
 portionless girl, the daughter of a poor parson ; Margaret 
 Penwarne might have been regarded as a suitable match 
 socially, but pecuniarily, she was most unsuitable, especially 
 to an ambitious and mone^^-grasping man. 
 
 What her brother could see to admire in Margaret Pen- 
 
3G VBITII: A TALE OF DAliTMOOn. 
 
 wariie, Miss Cleverdon protested slie never could see — slie 
 entirely forgot that Margaret had been endowed with sur- 
 passing beauty. 
 
 Others beside INIagdalen Cleverdon had marvelled at the 
 choice of Anthony, knowing the character of the man. 
 What could induce a man, whose main features were am- 
 bition and greed, to select as his partner one who had not 
 a penny, nor was connected with any of the gentle families 
 of the neio'hbourhood ? Maq-dalen had not reckoned on the 
 girl's beauty ; the others wlio wondered had not counted 
 on Anthony's ambition, which would exert itself in other 
 directions than they considered. His ambition was deeply 
 tinctured with, if it did not originate in, personal vanit}-. 
 Vanity is but ambition in a fool's cap, and that of Cleverdon 
 was w^ell hung with bells. Because he considered himself 
 the richest man in the neighbourhood of his class, he es- 
 teemed himself also irresistible as a w^ooer. He had been 
 treated with considerable severity by his father in his early 
 years, for the old man had been a strait Puritan, though 
 not such an one as to risk any money for his cause, or com- 
 promise his safety for it in any \i^y. He allow^ed his son 
 no freedom, consulted his wishes in no particular, and al- 
 lowed him no pocket-money. AVhen the old man died, 
 Anthony was left with a good deal of hoarded money, and 
 freedom to act as he listed. His fancy w^as taken by Mar- 
 garet Pcnwarne, and his vanity and ambition stimulated 
 by the knowledge that she was already the object of the 
 attentions of Richard IMalvine, the son of a neighbouring par- 
 son, without profession and without inheritance. Richard 
 Malvine w'as a handsome man, and Margaret Penwarne cer- 
 tainly was attached to him, but the marriage could not be 
 thought of till liichard had a competence on which to sup- 
 port himself and a wife. Anthony Cleverdon entered the 
 list against the handsomest young man in the district, but 
 he had money and a good farm to set against good looks. 
 He and Richard had been together at the Grammar School, 
 and had been rivals there, Richard ever taking the lead, 
 and on one occasion had thrashed Anthony severely. It 
 was with eagerness that Cleverdon seized the ojoportunity 
 of gratifying his malice by snatching from Malvine the gu'l 
 of his heart, and it flattered his vanity to have it said of 
 him that he had won the most beautiful girl of the district 
 
URITII: A TALE OF nARTJWOn. 37 
 
 over the head of the handsomest man. Margaret struggled 
 for some time between her affection and her ambition ; the 
 urgency of her father and mother prevailed, she cast off 
 Malvine and accepted Cleverdon. 
 
 Anthony Cleverdon's pride was satisfied. He had gained 
 a triumph, and was wrapped up in the sense of victory for 
 a while, then the gloss of novelty wore off, and he began to 
 regret his precipitancy in taking to him a wife who brought 
 nothing into the family save good looks. The thriftiness 
 of the father now came out in the son. He did not o-ruda-e 
 and withhold money where he could make displa}^, but he 
 cut down expenses where no show was made, to the lowest 
 stage of meanness. Margaret's father died. She thought 
 to take her mother to live with her at Hall, but to this her 
 husband would not consent, nor could she wring a silver coin 
 from him wherewith to assist her mother, reduced to great 
 poverty. This occasioned the first outbreak of domestic 
 hostilities. Margaret was a woman of temper, and would 
 not submit tamely to the domination of her husband. His 
 sister Magdalen took sides against her, and fanned the em- 
 bers of strife when they gave token of expiring. If Mar- 
 garet had been of a meek and yielding temj^erament, the 
 marriage might not have been so full of broils ; her husband 
 would have crushed her, and then ignored her. But her 
 spirit rose against him, and stirred the discord that was 
 only temporarily allayed. She could not shut her eyes to 
 his infirmities, she would not condescend to flatter him. In 
 her heart she contrasted him with the man she had loved 
 and had betrayed ; her heart never warmed to her husband; 
 on the contrary, indifference changed into hatred. She 
 made no scruple about showing him the state of her mind, 
 she pitilessly unmasked his meannesses, and held them up 
 to mockery ; she scoffed at his efforts to thrust himself into 
 a position for which he was not born ; he found no more 
 IDenetrating, remorseless critic of all he did, than his own 
 wife. 
 
 Anthony Cleverdon believed, and was justified in believ- 
 ing, that his old rival, Richard Malvine, stood between him 
 and domestic peace, as a shadow that blighted and engalled 
 his relations to his wife ; that, though he had triumphed 
 formally over his rival, that rival had gained the lasting and 
 substantial success, Anthony Cleverdon might prize him- 
 
38 VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 self fis liigli fis he pleased, but he could no longer blind 
 himself to the fact, that his money bags which had won his 
 wife for him, Avere unavailing to buy her affections, and 
 secure to him the fruits of his triumph. 
 
 This consciousness stimulated his hatred of Malvine to 
 fresh acridity, and in his meanness, he found a base satis- 
 faction in humiliating his wife by every means in his power, 
 and on every available opportunity. 
 
 The birth of Bessie did not serve to unite the pair, for 
 Anthony Cleverdon had set his heart on having a son, and 
 when, after the lapse of a considerable interval of time, the 
 desired son arrived, it was too late to serve as a link of rec- 
 onciliation. Mrs. Cleverdon died shortly after his birth, her 
 only regret being that she had to leave her daughter, whom 
 she loved with double passion, partly because her desolate 
 heart naturally clung to some object, and had none other to 
 which to attach itself, partly also because little Bessie was 
 totally disregarded by her father, 
 
 Richard Malvine consoled himself for his disappointment 
 b}' marrying Marianne Gibbs, of Willsworthy ; he took her 
 for the sake of Willsworthy, as Margaret Penwarne had 
 taken Anthony Cleverdon for the sake of Hall. He was a 
 feckless man, who had lived at home in the parsonage with 
 his father, had hunted, had shot, and had never earned a 
 penny for himself. He died, thrown from his horse, in 
 hunting, a few years after his marriage, leaving an only 
 child, Urith. 
 
 The death of the mother produced no alteration in the 
 conduct of Anthony Cleverdon towards her daughter. 
 What love he had in his heart was bestowed on his sou — 
 the heir to his name and estate. 
 
 In nature all forces are correlated. Indeed it is said that 
 force is a pure and unique factor, and that light, heat, sound, 
 etc., are but various manifestations or aspects of the one 
 primal force. It would be hard to say whether old An- 
 thony's love for his boy might not be considered as another 
 phase of his ambition. He had never himself been a firm- 
 built, handsome man ; undersized and of mean appearance, 
 he had felt the slight that this physical defect had entailed 
 on him. But the young Tony was robust of constitution, 
 burly of frame, and had inherited his mother's beauty. At 
 Hall, from the hour of his birth, young Anthony had be- 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 39 
 
 come a sovereign, and every one was i^laced beneath liis 
 footstool. Every inmate of the house laboured to spoil 
 him, either because he was himself provocative of love, or 
 out of a desire to curry favour with tlie father. He tyran- 
 nised over his sister, he was despotic with his father, he 
 was wayward and exacting with the servants. Nothing 
 that he did was wrong in his father's eyes ; he grew up into 
 manhood demanding of the outer world, as a right, that 
 which was accorded to him in his home as a favour. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE GLOVE TAKEN UP. 
 
 Every member of the little party felt sen^ble of relief 
 when they came out on the high road and left the moor 
 behind. For some time all haJ been silent ; the efforts to 
 start and maintain conversation had signally failed, and a 
 funeral party would have been livelier. 
 
 As soon as the hoofs of the horses rang on the roadway', 
 the fetters that had bound the tongues were thrown aside, 
 and words a few were interchanged. 
 
 After ten minutes or a quarter of an hour a little tavern 
 by the wayside was reached, named the Hare and Hounds ; 
 and then Anthony Cleverdon laid his hand on the bit of 
 the horse Urith rode. 
 
 "My cob must bait here," he said — "at least, have a 
 mouthful ; so must you. I will go in and see what can be 
 provided, and bid the landlady lay the table." 
 
 "I thank you," said Urith ; " but I desire to go home at 
 once. The distance is in no way considerable. I know 
 where I am. But surely I hear my uncle's voice." 
 
 That individual appeared at the open door. He was a 
 stout man, with a very red face and a watery eye. His wig 
 was awry. He stood with a j^ipe in one hand and a tank- 
 ard in the other. 
 
 " Aha ! " shouted Solomon Gibbs. " I said the truth ! I 
 knew that it was in vain for me to go in quest of you on 
 the moors, niece. Told your mother so ; but she wouldn't 
 believe me. Come on— come, and let's be jolly — drive 
 
40 UniTH: A TALE OF DAUTMOOR. 
 
 away dull melancholy ! I knew that you must come on to 
 the road somewhere ; and, if on to the road, then to the 
 inn. For what is the inn, my boys, but the very focus and 
 acme to which all gather, and from which all radiate ? 
 Come in — come in." 
 
 "I wish to push on," said Urith. 
 
 "How can j^ou without my cob?" asked Anthony rough- 
 ly. ''Ihave said- — she baits here. You, also — j^ou must 
 be perishing for food. We all are ; have been mum all the 
 way home — no fun, no talking. So, come in." 
 
 "That is right — urge her, young man, to follow the 
 advice of age and experience," shouted Mr. Gibbs. 
 
 Then he began to sing : 
 
 Come ray lads, let ns be jollj, 
 Drive away dull melancsiioly, 
 For to grieve it is a i'olly 
 
 When we're met together. 
 
 So, my friends, let ns agree, 
 Always keep good company, 
 Why should we not merry, merry be 
 
 AVhen we're met tt>gether ? 
 
 He brandished his tobacco-pipe over his head, in so 
 doing striking his wig with the stem, and at once breaking 
 the latter, and thrusting the wig over his ear, and then 
 dived into the alehouse again. He was half tij^sy. 
 
 " You are right," said Elizabeth to Urith. " You must 
 go on. Your mother is anxious, probably in a state of 
 serious alarm." 
 
 "My uncle's horse is in the stable, I doubt not," an- 
 swered Urith, " and as he will not be disposed to leave till 
 he be unfit to accompany me, I will borrow the horse, and 
 send it back by a servant." 
 
 " I will accompany you," said Elizabeth, " and the serv- 
 ing man that brings back the horse can accompany me. 
 The distance is inconsiderable, yet you must not at night 
 travel it alone. Fox and Julian have, I see, turned their 
 horses' heads homewards without bidding us a farewell. I 
 cannot stay outside whilst Anthony is within, and I do not 
 care to enter when men are drinking." 
 
 "Your brother will hardly leave you alone outside," 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DART3I00R. 41 
 
 " My brother will probably forget all about nic when he 
 gets with Mr. Gibbs and others who can sing a good song 
 and tell a merry tale." 
 
 She said this without an}^ reproach in her tone. She 
 was so accustomed to be neglected, forgotten, to tind her- 
 self thrust aside by her brother, that she no longer felt 
 unhappy about it ; she accepted it as her due. 
 
 Urith sent a stable-boy for Mr. Gibbs' horse, and having 
 mounted it, gratefully accepted Bessie Cleverdon's company 
 for the ride of three miles to Willsworthy. 
 
 Urith knew Bessie very little. Old Mr. Cleverdon did 
 not care that his children should associate with the 3Ial- 
 vines. His bitterness against the father, Kichard, over- 
 flowed all his belon^^'inos — wife and child and estate ; but 
 he published no reasons for his dislike to association with 
 the owners of Willsworthy, who, moreover, on account of 
 their poverty, kept to themselves. The Cleverdons mixed 
 with those who were in prosperous circumstances, and kept 
 themselves, or were kept, aloof from those on whom For- 
 tune turned her back. Mrs. Malvine had for some time 
 been a woman in failing health, and, having no neighbours, 
 Urith had grown up accustomed to be solitary, and not to 
 know the value of the friendship, or at least the com- 
 panionship, of girls of her own ago and rank. Slie was 
 too proud to associate, like her Uncle Solomon, with 
 those of a lower grade, and she had not the opportunity 
 of forming acquaintanceship of those fitted to be her com- 
 rades. 
 
 As Urith rode beside Bessie, her heart stirred with a 
 sensation of pleasure strange to her. There was a kind- 
 ness, a sympathy in the manner of Elizabeth Cleverdon 
 that found a way at once to Urith's heart, and she warmed 
 to her and shook off reserve. And Elizabeth on her side 
 was touched by the simplicity, the loneliness of the girl's 
 mind, and when they reached the entrance gates to Wills- 
 worthy she held out her hand to Urith, and said : 
 
 "This must be the beginning of our friendship. I do 
 not know how it is that we have not met before, or rather, 
 have not met to make acquaintance. Promise me that you 
 will not let this be the beginning and the ending of a 
 friendship." 
 
 "That lies with vou," said Urith, with timidity. It was 
 
42 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 to her too surprising a glimpse into happiness for her to 
 trust its reality. 
 
 "If it lies with me," said Elizabeth, "then you may be 
 assured it will be warm and fast ; expect to see me again 
 soon. I will come over and visit you. But here — let us 
 not part thus. Give nic a kiss and take mine." 
 
 The girls drew their horses alongside each other and 
 kissed. The tears came into Urith's eyes at this offered 
 and given pledge of kindness. It was to her a wholly new 
 experience, and was to her of inexpressible value. 
 
 Then Urith called a serving man, alighted, and delivered 
 her horse up to him that he might attend Bessie Cleverdon 
 on her way back to the Hare and Hounds, and leave it 
 there for her uncle when it pleased Mr. Solomon Gibbs to 
 return home. 
 
 Bessie found that her brother was angry and offended 
 when he came out of the alehouse and discovered that 
 Urith had departed without a word ; he had felt himself 
 obliged to wait for his sister, because it would not be 
 seemly to allow her to ride home in the dark alone ; but 
 he vented his ill-humour on her when she apiDeared. Bes- 
 sie bore his reproaches with patience. She was accus- 
 tomed to be found fault with by her father, and less fre- 
 quently, nevertheless sometimes, and always unreasonably, 
 by her brother. 
 
 ''I've promised the ostler a shilHng to attend you to 
 Hall," said Anthony. "There is Fox returned, and there 
 is Solomon Gibbs 'here, and— I don't feel inclined to go 
 home." 
 
 " Father will be ill-pleased at your remaining away so 
 long," remonstrated Bessie. 
 
 ''Father has seen so little of me to-day that another 
 hour's absence won't signify. The weather is going to 
 change — we shall have a thunderstorm. Get home as fast 
 as you can. Here, Samuel, attend my sister." 
 
 Then Anthony returned to the alehouse. 
 
 At Willsworthy, "Urith had stood for a moment in the 
 porch in hesitation. She knew that she deserved to be 
 reproached for her conduct, and she expected it. Her 
 mother was not a i^erson to spare words. She was repent- 
 ant, and yet Avas certain that directly her mother addressed 
 her with rebuke her spirit would rise up in revolt. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 43 
 
 To her surj^rise, when she did enter her mother's room, 
 Mrs. Malvine said no more tlian tliis, " Oh, Urith ! what a 
 many hours you have been absent. But, my child, what 
 is that ? You have gloves hanging to your dress." 
 
 Urith stoojDed and looked. It was as her mother had 
 said — the gloves of Julian Crymes had not fallen to the 
 ground, they had been caught by the tags in the gown of 
 Urith, and hung there. She disengaged them, and held 
 them in her hand. She had unwittingly taken up the gage. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Magdalen's plans. 
 
 Magdalen Cleverdon had come out for that day from 
 Tavistock to visit her brother at Hall. She did not appear 
 there very often, but made a point of duty to visit Hall 
 once a quarter. Old Anthon}' had not interfered when his 
 wife resisted the interference of her sister-in-law, and dis- 
 couraged her visits to the house, and after his wife's death 
 he had not invited her to be more frequent in her expedi- 
 tions thither ; nor had he shown her the slightest inclina- 
 tion to defer to her opinions, and attend to her advice. 
 
 Magdalen's visits can hardly have conduced to her own 
 pleasure, so ungracious was her reception when she ap- 
 peared, except only from Bessie, who was too tender- 
 hearted to be unkind, unconciliatory to any one. Anthony, 
 senior, regarded and s^^oke of his sister as an old and stupid 
 harridan, and the younger Anthony took his tone from his 
 father, and did not accord to his aunt the respect that was 
 due to relationship and age. 
 
 Although one of her periodical visits to Hall usually 
 brought on Magdalen a rebuff, yet she did not desist from 
 them, j)fwtly because it satisfied her curiosity to see how 
 matters fared in the old house, and partly, if not chiefly, 
 because she gave herself in Tavistock considerable airs as 
 the sister of the Squire of Hall, and she liked to appear to 
 her neighbours as if on the best of terms with her kindred 
 there. 
 
 Magdalen had never been j^retty. Her's was one of 
 
44 rniTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 those noiulescripfc faces wliicli Nature turns out when 
 invent ive faculty is exhausted, and she produces a being, 
 much as a ^Yorn-out novehst ^Yrites a tale, because she is 
 expected to be productive, though she has nothing but 
 hackneyed features to produce. Or her face may be said 
 to have resembled a modern hymn-tune that is made up of 
 strains out of a score of older melodies muddled together, 
 and void of individual character. Magdalen had, however, 
 not a suspicion that her personal appearance was unattrac- 
 tive. If she had not been sought in marriage, that was 
 due wholly to the inadequate manner in which she had 
 been provided for by her father's will ; he had, she held, 
 sacrificed her to his ambition to make a rich man of 
 Anthony. 
 
 She was a short, shapeless woman, with a muddy com- 
 plexion and sandy hair, now turning grey, and therefore 
 looking as if it were full of dust. Her eyes were faded, so 
 were the lashes. She had bad teeth, and when she spoke 
 she showed them a great deal more than was necessary. 
 Any one conversing with her for the first time found noth- 
 ing in her to notice except these teeth, and carried away 
 from the interview no other recollection of her than one 
 of — teeth. 
 
 She made a point of being well-dressed wh'<?ii she made 
 her periodical visits to Hall, to show her consequence, and 
 to let her brother see that she held herself in condition 
 equal to his pretensions. 
 
 When she learned that her nephew and niece were not 
 at Hall, but had gone to the moor for the day to watch the 
 fires, and to endeavour to recover some colts that had been 
 turned out on it by old Cleverdon, she expressed her satis- 
 faction to her brother. 
 
 "It is as well, Tony," she said, "for I want to have a 
 talk with YOU ; I am thinking " 
 
 "What? Talk first and think after? That is the usual 
 way," said Cleverdon, rudely. 
 
 ilagdaleu tossed her chin. She did not think it prudent 
 to notice and resent her brother's discourtesy. She was 
 not likely to gain much by flattering or humouring him ; 
 but to quarrel with him was against her wishes. 
 
 " Really, Tonv, I have your interests so much at 
 heart > 
 
JfRlTH: A TALE OF BARTMOOn. 45 
 
 *'I never asked you to cupboard them there ; but, if they 
 be there, turn the key on tJieni, and let them abide Avhere 
 they are." 
 
 "You are clever and witty — that every one knows — and 
 you hke to snap your lock under my eyes and make me 
 wince as the sparks fly out ; but I know very well there is 
 no powder in the barrel, and I do not mind. You really 
 must attend to me, brother. There has been so much 
 small-pox about, and it has been so fatal, that upon my 
 word, as a woman, you should lend me your ear." 
 
 "What has the small-pox to do with ujy interests ?" 
 
 " Much. Have you made your will, or a settlement of 
 the property- ? " 
 
 "What now !" exclaimed Anthony Cleverdon roughly." 
 " You came to scare me with thoughts of small-pox, and 
 want me to draw my will, and provide for you?" 
 
 "About that latter point I say nothing, though I do feel 
 that I was ill-treated by my father. You had the kernal 
 and I had the rind of the nut." 
 
 "I dispute that altogether. You are an incumbrance 
 on the estate that I feel heavily." 
 
 " I am likely to encumber it somewhat longer," said 
 Magdalen, not showing resentment at his brutality. " I 
 do not fear the small-pox. I have had it, and it has marked 
 me ; though not so as to disfigure. The Lord forbid ! " 
 
 Observing that her brother was about to make a remark, 
 and being confident that it w^ould be something offensive, 
 she hastily went on : " But what, Tony — what if it were 
 to attack your Anthony?" What if it were to take him 
 off? You have but a single son. To whom would Hall 
 go then ? " 
 
 Old Squire Cleverdon started to his feet, and strode, 
 muttering, about the room. 
 
 " Ah ! It is a thought to consider. The Knightons have 
 lost their heir, and he was a fine and lusty youth. Our 
 Anthony is so thoughtless ; he runs where he lists, and does 
 not consider that he may be near infection. Please the 
 Lord nothing may happen ; but suppose that he were car- 
 ried off, who would have Hall ? Bessie ? " 
 
 " Bessie ! Are you mad ? " Old Cleverdon put his hands 
 in his breeches-pocket and turned and scowled at his 
 sister. 
 
46 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " No. I reckon Bessie would be put off with scant treat- 
 ment, like myself. Then, Luke ? " 
 
 " Luke ! " Cleverdon burst out lauo-hini}'. " Never a 
 parson here in Hall, if I can help it. A shaveling like 
 he " 
 
 " Then, who would have ifc ? " 
 
 " Not you, if you are aiming tliereat," said Cleverdon. 
 
 *' I was not aiming at that. Such a prospect never rose 
 before me. I do not want Hall. I could not manage the 
 estate." 
 
 "I shall take care you have not the chance." 
 
 "I have no doubt you will. But consider what are the 
 accidents of life. If you were to lose Anthony " 
 
 ** Bat I shall not. Anthony is flounshing, and not a 
 thought of small-pox, or the falling sickness, or the plague 
 about him. He is sound as a bell ; so have done with your 
 croak, you raven. I will call up the servants and have in 
 dinner. You can eat, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, I can eat, and digest your unkindness ; but I can- 
 not forget my anxiety. I am considering the welfare of 
 the family. I am looking beyond myself and yourself. You 
 have raised the Cleverdons from being tenant-farmers into 
 being gentlefolks. You have been to the Heralds to grant 
 you a coat of arms and a crest, and, now every one calls you 
 the Squire, who used to call your father a farmer. You 
 have altered Hall into a very handsome mansion, that no 
 gentleman of good degree need be ashamed to live in. I 
 consider all that, brother, and then I think that you are no 
 fool, that you have wonderful wits to have achieved so 
 much, and I am only anxious lest after having achieved so 
 much for the family and the name of Cleverdon, all should 
 go down again, as it did with the Glanvilles — just because 
 there was no heir male." 
 
 "Have done with your croak — here comes dinner." 
 
 During the meal old Anthony was very silent. He pulled 
 long and often at the tankard, and neglected the courtesies 
 due to his sister as a guest. She observed that he was 
 uneasy, and was wrapped in thought. What she had said 
 had stuck, and made him uncomfortable. She was too 
 shrewd to revert to the topic during dinner, and when it 
 was over he went out, and left her alone. She knew her 
 brother's ways, his moods, and the turns of his mind, and 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 47 
 
 was convinced that he would come back to her presently 
 and broach anew the subject. 
 
 She leaned back in the arm-chair, and indulged herself 
 in a nap. The doze lasted about three-quarters of an hour. 
 Whilst she slept her brother was walking about the farm, 
 in great restlessness of mind and body. He was quick- 
 witted enough to see that Magdalen was right. He could 
 not count on matters not falling out as she had said, and 
 then all his labour to build up the Cleverdons would come 
 down like a pack of cards. His son w^as the main prop of 
 the great superstructure raised by his pride and ambition. 
 If his son, by the dispensation of Providence, were to fail 
 him, he had none to sustain the succession save his daughter 
 Bessie and his cousin Luke, a delicate, narrow-chested lad, 
 who had been an encumbrance thrown on him, had been 
 reared by him, and sent to school by him, and then thrust 
 into sacred Orders as the simplest way of providing for 
 him, and getting him out of the way. Hall to pass to Bessie 
 or to Luke ! The idea was most distasteful to him. 
 
 He returned to the oak parlour, where he had left his 
 sister, and shook her until she roused from her nap. 
 
 " Sit up — gather your senses ! You do not come here 
 to sleep like a frog," said old Anthony with his wonted 
 rudeness. 
 
 " I beg pardon, brother. I was left alone and had nought 
 to occupy my mind, and dozed for a minute." 
 
 " I say to yon, Mawdline ! " — Squire Cleverdon paced 
 the room with his hands knotted behind his back, writhing 
 with the inward agitation of his nerves — " I tell you Mawd- 
 line, that you did not come here to scare me about small- 
 pox without some design lurking behind. Let me hear it. 
 Yoa have emptied the pepper-box, now for the salt- 
 box." 
 
 "I do not know anything of a design behind," answered 
 Magdalen, rallying her scattered senses, and then plunging 
 into the main communication with less caution than if she 
 had been fully awake ; " but I think, brother, you should 
 get them both married as quickly as you may." 
 
 " Both !— what Anthony and Bess ? " 
 
 " To be sure. Anthony might take Julian at any time ; 
 and for Bessie " 
 
 Cleverdon laughed. "I never heard that Bessie had a 
 
48 XJRITIt: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 
 
 gallant as yet, and she never had good looks to lure one. 
 If Tony takes a wife that is sufficient." 
 
 "No, brother, it is hardly sufficient. Ho might, if he 
 married, chance to have no children. Besides, it is well to 
 have alliances on all sides. If only I had married — — " 
 
 " Fernando Crymes," muttered her brother. " You tried 
 hard for him before he took his first wife." 
 
 Magdalen tossed and shook lier head. " You indeed 
 misunderstand me. You try to provoke me, brother ; but 
 I will not be provoked. I am too desirous to advance the 
 hunily to be browbeat by 3'ou and forced to hold silence. 
 Elizabeth is getting forward in years, and she might be 
 the means of alliance to a good family that would help to 
 give ours firmer hold in the position it has won. There 
 is Anthony Crymes, for instance." 
 
 *' What !— Fox for Bessie ? This is sheer folly." 
 
 " Yes, Fox. >yhat against him ? " 
 
 *' Nay, naught other against him, save that he does not 
 lay his fancy to Bessie." 
 
 '•'I am not certain of that. Why else has he rid this 
 day to the moor ? He has not gone for love of his sister, 
 that all the world knows. Now see this, brother Tony. If 
 you was to marry Anthony to Julian, and Bessie to Fox, 
 then you would be close allied to one of the best families 
 of the country-side, and he who would lift a word against 
 you would rouse all the Cr\'mes that remain. They were 
 not unwilling to di-aw^ to us, or else why did Squire Crymes 
 bid you to be his son's ^'odfathcr? Fox will not be rich, 
 but he will have something from his father, and that will 
 be enouqli with what vou let Bessie have to make them do 
 w^U. Tben, if there come a family of children on either 
 side, it is well, for there will be a large kindred in the dis- 
 trict, and if there be none on one side, but only on the 
 other then what pi-operty there is, this way or that, does 
 not fall out of the family." 
 
 *' If Bessie is to be married, we might look elsewhere for 
 one richer." 
 
 " Where will you look ? Who among the neighbours is 
 old enough or young enough ? Some are over her age. 
 You would not give her to Master Solomon Gibbs. Some 
 be too young and hot-blooded to care for her, not very 
 well favoured, and without much wealth." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 49 
 
 Old Anthony stood still before the window and looked out. 
 
 *'Then," said ]Magdalen, "there's another side of the 
 matter to be considered. What if Bessie should set her 
 heart on some one of whom j^ou would not approve ? " 
 
 Old Anthony laughed mockingly. "Not much chance 
 of that I reckon." 
 
 " Do you reckon ? " asked his sister, with some heat. 
 "Yes, 3^ou men make up your minds that we spinsters have 
 no hearts, go through no trials, because you do not see 
 them. As our love is not proclaimed on the house-toj)S 
 you assume that it does not exist in the secret chambers of 
 the heart. If you are forced to admit that there is such a. 
 thing in us, you suppose it may be killed with ridicule, as 
 you put salt on weeds. As for your own headlong, turbu- 
 lent passions, they brook no control, they are irresistible, but 
 we poor women must smother our fires as if always illicit, 
 like a chimney in a blaze that must be choked out with damp 
 straw stuffed in. You men never consider us. You per- 
 mit a pretty girl to love, and you consider her feelings 
 somewhat — just somewhat ; but it never occurs to your 
 wise heads, but shallow thoughts, that the plain faces and 
 the ordinarj'-favoured girls ma}' have hearts as tender and 
 susceptible as those who are regarded as beauties. Now, 
 as to Bessie " 
 
 *' Well, what as to Bessie ? " asked Anthony roughly. He 
 knew that his sister was lio-htlv lifting- the corner of a veil 
 that covered her past, and he knew how that by a little 
 generosity on his part, he might have made it possible for 
 her to marry. 
 
 " As to Bessie ? ^ resumed Magdalen, " I can only speak 
 what I suspect. I have thought for some time she was 
 fond of her cousin." 
 
 "What— of Luke?" 
 
 " Of Luke, certainly." 
 
 Old Anthony turned angrily on her, and said, " A pack 
 of folly ! He is her cousin." 
 
 "I said so. Does that prevent her liking him? Have 
 vou au^iit ac^ainst that ? " 
 
 " Everything. I will not hear of her marrying a pigeon- 
 breasted, starveling curate. I will speak to her." 
 
 " If you meddle you will mar. Take a woman's advice, 
 and say not a word." 
 4 
 
50 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "Then be sileiif- on this matter." 
 
 "If you marry Tony," said his sister, " what arc you pfo- 
 ing to do with Ehzal:)eth? Fernando Crymes has Kil- 
 worthy for his hfe, so that the young people will, I doubt 
 not, live here ; and Julian will no more let Bessie remain 
 than would your Margaret suffer me." 
 
 " She shall abide here as I choose it." 
 
 "No, indeecL You may will it; but women's wishes, 
 when they go contrary, can make a bad storm in the house, 
 and spoil it as a port of peace. You take my counsel and 
 mate tiie twain together — the one to Julian and the other 
 to Fox." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said the old man turning away from the win- 
 dow. " Because I was godfather to Fox, it does not follow 
 that he wants to be my son." 
 
 Then the old man came over to the table that stood 
 near his sister, seated himself, and began to trifle with a 
 snuff-box upon it. 
 
 *'I shall not part with Bess," he said, "till Tony is 
 matched." 
 
 " Then let him be matched with speed," said Magdalen 
 sharply. " How know you but that, if you delay, Julian 
 Crymes may turn her fancy elsewhere. She is a wayward 
 hussy." 
 
 " Pshaw ! Where is there such a lad as my Tony ? He 
 is the chiefest of all the youths about. Not one can com- 
 pare with him. Are you mad to think of such a thing ? " 
 
 " There is no reckoning on a maid's eyes ; they do not 
 see like ours. Moreover, there is no saying what freak 
 might take your Tony, and he might set his mind on some 
 one else." 
 
 " No fear of that," answered the squire roughly. "He 
 knows my will, and that is law to him." 
 
 "Indeed! Since when? I thought that the cockerel's 
 whimsies and vagaries set the law to the house ; and that 
 you, and Bess, and every one of the family danced to such 
 tune as he whistled." 
 
 " I reckon he knows his own interests," said the old man 
 grind}'-. He was angered by his sister's opj^osition. 
 
 " None can trust to that in young men," answered his 
 sister, " as you ought best to know, brother." 
 
 Old Anthony winced, and became purple at this allusion 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 51 
 
 to his own marriage. He started \\\), struck the snuff-box 
 across the table, then seated himself again, and said grim- 
 ly : " I asked you, sister, if you could eat and digest a good, 
 wholesome dinner, and T gave it you ; but, by Heaven, you 
 have come here and fed me with unwholesome and unsav- 
 oury diet that I cannot digest, and that gives me a woriy 
 and heartburn. I wish you had never come." 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 IN THE HAEE AND HOUNDS. 
 
 In the tavern with the sign of the Hare and Hounds, a 
 fire of peat was burning on the hearth. A huge oak settle 
 occupied the side of the firei^lace opposite to the window; 
 and beneath and before the window was a long table, the 
 end of which admitted of being drawn out so as to make 
 it serve as a shuffle-board for the use of such as liked to 
 play at that game so popular in the reign of Elizabeth, illi- 
 cit in the time of the Commonwealth, and at the epoch of 
 my story almost obsolete, except in stray corners remote 
 from fashion. 
 
 The settle was of a construction then usual, now rarely 
 met with, and therefore deserving a description as a domes- 
 tic curiosity. The seat was on hinges, and could be raised, 
 disclosing beneath it a cavity like a clothes chest ; the set- 
 tle back opened in compartments and revealed sides of 
 bacon and hams that had been smoked, and there awaited 
 cutting up. Above the heads of those who sat in the set- 
 tle was a sort of projecting roof to cut off all down draught ; 
 but this also served as a cupboard for vinegar, salt, spices, 
 and other groceries. The chest, that was also seat, to a 
 mother with an infant, was of extraordinary service ; when 
 she was engaged at the fire, baking or cooking, she raised 
 the lid or seat and buttoned it back, then she planted the 
 babe in the box, where it lay warm and secure, close to 
 her, without the chance of coming to harm. If the child 
 were in the age of toddledum, then it ran up and down in 
 the box with the little hands on the edge, saw its mother, 
 crowed to her, watched her proceedings, and ran no risk 
 
52 ' URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 of falling into the fire, or of pulling over and breaking the 
 crockery. Altogether the settle was a great institution, 
 and the march of culture, instead of improving it, has 
 abolished it. More is the pit}'. 
 
 The fire2)lace was of granite uncarved, but rudely cham- 
 fered, very wide and very deep, so deep as to allow of a f 
 seat recessed in the wall at the side, in which a chilly old 
 man might sit and toast his knees, protected from the down 
 draught and falling soot by the arched roof of the recess. 
 It used to be said of one of these great fire-places, in which 
 wood and peat were burned, that a necessarj^ accompani- 
 ment was an old man and a pair of tongs, for the logs 
 when burnt through in the midst fell apart, and required 
 some one at hand to pick the ends up, and reverse them on 
 the hearth, and to collect and repile the turfs when they 
 fell down. At the fire-breast burnt, what was called a 
 " spane," that is, a slip of deal steeped in resin, which 
 lighted the housewife at her ojoerations at the fire. But 
 the " spane " emitted more smoke than light. Opposite to 
 the ingle-nook was the "cloam " oven, that is, the earthen- 
 ware oven let into the wall for bakin^^*. 
 
 In more ancient times ovens were constructed with en- 
 ormous labour out of granite blocks, which were scooped 
 out in the middle, but the disadvantage attendant on gran- 
 ite was that it became in time resolved into sand by heat, 
 and crumbled away like sugar.* These were rapidly got 
 rid of when the earthenware oven was introduced, and 
 hardly a specimen remains. Not so, however, with the 
 stone frying-pan, which is only just, and not altogether, 
 superseded. Housewives contend that the iron pan is not 
 so good at frying as the scooped-out pan of stone, and that 
 rashers of bacon done in the latter are incomparably su- 
 perior to those burnt in iron. Thus, it will be seen that in 
 the West we are only recently, in some particulars emerg- 
 ing from the Stone-Age, but it is with a leap over that of 
 Bronze into the era of Iron.f 
 
 * Sucli a granite-oven was discovered in tlie author's own house 
 in an old and long-abandoned chimney-back, in 18G0. It was im- 
 possible to preserve it. 
 
 f 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 ruin^ 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 53 
 
 The walls of the " mug-house " of the Hare and Hounds 
 were well white- washed and ornamented with a quantity of 
 broadside ballads, the illustrations very generally ]3caring 
 no intelligible relation to the letterpress. 
 
 A single rush-candle burning on the table, served to 
 light the room. The servant-wench was expected to act as 
 snuffer, and she regularly at intervals of ten minutes left 
 the work on which she was engaged, cooking, washing, 
 drawing ale, and like the comet that sweeps up to and 
 about the sun, and then dashes back into obscurity, so did 
 she rush up to the candle, snuff the wick between the fore- 
 finger and thumb, and plunge back to the work on which 
 she was engaged, at the fire, in the back-kitchen, or in the 
 cellar. 
 
 At the fire and about the table were seated Anthony 
 Cleverdon, Fox Crymes, the host of the Hare and Hounds. 
 Mr. Solomon Gibbs, also a quaint old grey-haired man in 
 sorry garb, and a couple of miners from the moor. 
 
 At the time of the tale, and, indeed for a century after, 
 it was customary for men of all classes to meet at the ale- 
 house, parson and S(]uire, surgeon, farmer, and peasant, 
 comrades all in merry-making — and at that jDeriod there 
 was no social-democracy, no class-hatreds — how could there 
 be, when all classes met, and gossiped, and smoked, and 
 boozed toq-ether ? No o'ood thini^ comes without brin^^inG: 
 a shadow after it. Perhaps it is well that parson and 
 Squire do not now go to the tavern to take pipe and glass 
 with 3^eoman and ploughbo}", but — the misfortune is that 
 there has come class-alienation, along with this social 
 amelioration of the better sort. 
 
 Mr. Solomon Gibbs was at the table. He had occupied 
 the corner of the settle all the afternoon, searching for his 
 niece in the bottom of his tankard, but after a while, as 
 evening settled in, he declared he felt the heat too greatly 
 by the fire, and then withdrew to the table. In fact, when 
 occupying the settle, his can of ale had stood on a three- 
 legged stool between his feet, and whenever he lusted after 
 a drink he was obliged to stoop to take it up. As the ale 
 got into his head, he found that this stooping produced a 
 
 of Trecarrel — pi'obably coeval witli the buildings, tlie middle of tl^g 
 sixteentii century. 
 
64 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 fulness of the veins that made bim giddy, and he had fallen 
 forward once on his hands, and upset the stool and his ale. 
 Then he deemed it advisable to retire to the tabic, but 
 as men never give direct and true reasons for their proceed- 
 ings, he explained to those who were present that 
 
 " There was thunder in the air, and when there was, ho 
 was liable to fits of giddiness ; moreover, the heat of the 
 fire was insufferable." 
 
 His wig was very much awry ; underneath it was a strong 
 stubbly growth, for Mr. Gibbs had not had his head shaved 
 for a fortnight. His mulberry coat was much stained with 
 ale, and the elbows were glossy. 
 
 The old man in the threadbare coat occupied a chair 
 near the table, and he stood up, turned his eyes to the 
 ceiling, extended his arms rigidly before him, planted his 
 legs apart, and began to sing a song at that time exceed- 
 ingly popular, "The Catholic Cause;" his voice ranging 
 through an extensive scale, from bass to falsetto. 
 
 O the Catholic Cause ! no^r 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 
 X'oom, and a shout from Mr. Solomon Gibbs, "Calvinist 
 Geneva 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 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 thunder- 
 storm," 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." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOU. 56 
 
 ''No Dutch in the Medwaj', then ! No burning of Spit- 
 head 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 wlio 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 Lem- 
 on 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^nuch. 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 cpake at the name of 
 England." 
 
 " When the Duke of Savoy was pei*secuting the Protest- 
 ants, did not Old Noll hold up his finger, and at the sight 
 of his nail the Duke stayed his hands?" said Anthony Clev- 
 erdon. "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 Fos 
 Crvmes. 
 
56 URTTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 «* 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 obser- 
 vation. 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 iiotliing but liarmony reign in your breast. 
 Let comrade with comrade be ever at rest. 
 We'll toss off our bumper, together well 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 cstablrsh sweetest concord. Land- 
 lord ! 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 puuch-ladle — I'll fathom the bowl. 
 
 The host called to his wife to produce the requisite in- 
 gredients, 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." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 57 
 
 "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 yon are not 
 speaking treason, yon go pretty nigh to it, too nigh it for 
 safety, and I'll be off." 
 
 " There are no informers and spies here," said the yeo- 
 man. 
 
 **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 il- 
 luminated 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 ? 
 
 ]\Ii-. 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. 
 
 "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 with- 
 out a gown." 
 
 Your wives they may fluster as much as tliey 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 launch ladle — I'll fathom the bowl. 
 
 — So ! the lemons at last ? Where's a silver !:nife to cut 
 them wath ? 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," 
 
58 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 laughed Anthony, "had you gone out in it just now, 
 shocked at our Whiggeiy." 
 
 " Oh ! you," sneered Fox, " you took good care to say 
 nothing. You were wise not to come within seeing dis- 
 tance 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 IVIi'. Gibbs, "or, curse it, I'll throw 
 the punch out of the door. I will, I swear I will. Tav- 
 erner, give us something cheerful — something with no pol- 
 itics 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 w4io 
 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 marvel- 
 lous twirls and accidentals into the tune, the following 
 
 song : 
 
 My Lady liatli a sable coach 
 
 And horses, two and four, 
 My Lady liath 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, jiray step in and ride ! " 
 
 " I thank thee, I had rather walk, 
 Than gather to thy side." 
 
URITIT: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 59 
 
 The wheels go round witliout 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, 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, bv me for you. 
 
 And all the world beside." * 
 
 * Published with the traditional melody in " Songs of the West, 
 Traditional Songs and Ballads of the West of England," by S. Bar- 
 ing-Gould and H. Fleetwood Sheppard (Methuen, Bury Street, Lou- 
 don, 1889). ■ V » .r , 
 
60 UIUl'U: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ST. jiark's eve. 
 
 The balUid of the " Lady's Coacli," sung to a weird air 
 in an ancient mode, such as was becoming no more usual 
 for composers to write in, and akeady beginning to sound 
 strange and incomplete to the ear, at once changed the tenor 
 of the tlioughts 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 yeo- 
 man. 
 
 " 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 else- 
 where,"'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 Sol- 
 omon Gibbs. " AVhat is this that makes you bicker now ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! " said Crymes. "Anthony Cleverdon and 
 I were discussing the Lyke-Way, and whether either of U3 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 61 
 
 cared to go filong it at mgiit. 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 wdien moon and stars show, to allow of a man 
 fmdim:' his road." 
 
 O 
 
 "I'll tell 3^ou 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. IMark'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 ])leuty o' saffron cake 
 and cyder, and some bottles of real old Jamaica rum, niel- 
 low — Lor' bless you — soft and mellow as a cat's paw. He 
 lived, did my grandfather, at Horndon, and it were a nioht 
 much such as this. My grandfer had rather a deal stayed 
 wd' the corpse, but he was a mighty strict and scruj^ulous 
 old man, and he knowed that his wdfe — 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 sur- 
 prising, 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 launch 
 —I thanky' kindly, llv. 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," an- 
 swered Solomon the Foolish. 
 
 " 'Tes curious, when you come to consider, now," said the 
 farmer ; " for meat and drink both goes the same way and 
 
62 UPdTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 into the same receptacle ; yet how soon one is groimded on 
 cake, but can float, and float — I thank you Mr. Gibbs, my 
 gkass 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 baiu'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, nudg- 
 ing his fellow; "would thou, Tummas?" 
 
 " Not I," resjoonded 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, 
 
UniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 63 
 
 cursinf? the fools who had got up the tale of St. Mark's 
 Eve, why, looking along the aveuue in the yard, what 
 should he see but some carious long, white things, like 
 monstrous worms, crawling and tumbling, and making for 
 the church j^orch. You will understand, gentlemen,°that 
 my grandfather tliought he would do better to w^ait where 
 he was, partly, because he did not wdsh to pass these worm- 
 like creatures, but, chiefly, that he might have something 
 to report to his missus, to make her placable and aoree^ 
 able." 
 
 "But what where they ?" asked Anthony Cleverdon. 
 
 "I'll tell you, Master Anthony. They was human arms, 
 from tbe 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 somer- 
 sault, 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 w^nt hand and shoulder kick- 
 ing 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 pokino- 
 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 jumjD, 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 w^as 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— and direct- 
 
64: uniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 ly my granfer' kuowerl it, and said, ' Wliy, 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 Wring worthy, 
 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 cjuite satisfied, 
 and folded itself up, and made a spring like a cricket — 
 went out of si^ht 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 interf erincf ! " exclaimed Mr. Gibbs. "You've for- 
 feited. 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 hke, 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 belong- 
 ed to folks as died within the year, and in the very order 
 in w^hich they came on and presented themselves before 
 him. What puzzled him most to name w^as 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 grandf er's knee without so much as a 'By your 
 
VniTTI: A TALE OP DARTMOOR. G5 
 
 leave' And there it sat, and poked its hand aljont, wi'all 
 the fingers joined together like a pointed serpent's head. 
 It moved in a queer, irritable, jerky manner, that ^vas 
 familiar, somehow, to my grandfather. After a bit he put 
 his head down to look at the elbow, where ho fancied ho 
 saw a mole, when — crack ! the hand hit him on his check 
 such a blow that he tumbled over, and lay sprawling on 
 the pavement ; and he knew, by the feel of tlie hand as it 
 caught him, that it was — my grandmother's. When he had 
 j^icked himself up, he saw nothing more, so he went home. 
 You may be very sure of those two tlnngs, gentlemen — 
 [Thank you, Mr. Gibbs. I'll trouble you to fill my glass. 
 Talking has made me terrible dry] — he never told his mis- 
 sus that Madam Cake's arm had sat on his knee, nor that 
 he had seen and recognized her own arm and hand." 
 
 *'I wouldn't go on this niglit 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 3'ou 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 tliink naught of them. As for the Lyke-AVa}", 
 what goes over that is but sliadows." 
 
 "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 Autliony 
 Cleverdon. " I have no fear either of shadows or substan- 
 ces. If you choose to come out and try with me, you will 
 see that I am not afraid of 3'our arm, and that I can chas- 
 tise your tongue." 
 
 " Oh ! my arm ! " laughed Crymes. " I never supposed 
 for a moment you dreaded that. But it is the arms with- 
 out 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 vou are not." 
 
66 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 I 
 
 ' " Do you dare me to it ? " 
 
 ' "• I dou't care \Yhetlier 3^011 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 abeady ! Afraid to 
 go alone, and appealing for company." 
 
 " Bv heaven, this is too bad ! " cried Anthony, and started 
 tO liis foGt* 
 
 ^' Don't go," shouted Ish:. 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 cowai'd. 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 Anthonj-, thoroughly roused, and ren- 
 dered doubly excitable by the punch he had been drinking. 
 
 "You have done wrong to spur him," said Gibbs, ad- 
 dressing;' Crvmes. 
 
 "Faith ! I am a scej)tic," said Fox. "I disbelieve alto- 
 gether 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 grand- 
 father lived a loncf time a^:©." 
 
 "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-«tick, 
 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. Anthonj^ stood against the wall out- 
 side for a moment or two till his eyes accustomed them- 
 selves 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 granite 
 
XlklTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 67 
 
 that strewed the slopes before the three or four old farm- 
 houses that were clustered about the inn. 
 
 Then Anthony, having* satisfied himself as to his direc- 
 tion, set down his head against the wind, and strode for- 
 ward, 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 pass- 
 ing another house. 
 
 The principal fury of the storm seemed to be concen- 
 trated over White Tor, a lofty peak of trap rock fortified 
 in prehistoric times, and with beacons and cairns of angu- 
 lar 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 embank- 
 ments the thunder-cloud flamed white, and threw out daz- 
 zling 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 mo- 
 ment 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 CudliiD ; 
 " 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 thes 3 is to be 
 no burials, then no arms will be walking," 
 
68 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 
 
 "I hope lie's not gone the wrong road and tumbled into 
 the river," said Solomon Gibbs. 
 
 "I'll tell you what he will do," said Fox. *''Ho will let 
 us sit expectiuo- 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. Yoa might 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 Tavern er, the ballad- 
 singer. "Everyone knows what Anthony Cleverdon is; 
 if he says he will do a thing, he will do it. If wo wait long 
 enough, he will return from the churcbyard." 
 
 " 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 sutHcient. Let us have calm within over the sea 
 of puncb." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Fox, contemptuously, " I don't quarrel with 
 old Taverner ; no man draws save against his equal." 
 
 " Panch ! 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 ci'azv adventure." 
 
 "What shall I sing?" asked the songman, but he did 
 not wait for an answer. He stood up and began : — 
 
 Oh ! the trees tliey are so high, 
 
 An 1 the trees the\' are so green ! ' 
 
 The da}' is past and gone, sweet love, 
 That you and I liave seen. 
 
 It is cohl winter's night, 
 
 You and I must hide alone, 
 Whilst my pretty lad is young, 
 And is growing. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 69 
 
 The door was burst open, and Anthony entered, ^vith 
 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 tomb- 
 stones. 
 
 "It is an insult ! It is an outrage !" roared Gibbs, " look 
 there ! " He pointed to the inscription on the post — it ran 
 thus : — 
 
 Richard IMalvine, 
 
 OF ^Vn^LSWORTHY, GeNT. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WILLSWOBTHY. 
 
 The night of storm was succeeded by a fresh and spark- 
 ling 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 Dart- 
 moor was black, as though bruised all over its skin of fine 
 tui-f. 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 Clever don. Curate of Mary Tavy, walked slowly up 
 the hill from the bridge over the brawling River Tavy to- 
 wards Willsworthy. He was a tall, spare young man, with 
 
70 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 large soft brown eyes, and a pale face. His life had not 
 been particularly happy. His parents had died Avhen 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 chikl. 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-Ta\7, as it w^ns usually called. His 
 uncle had never shown him afteetion, 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 in- 
 terests 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 x^rovided 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. Fortu- 
 nately for him, Dartmoor was strewn with prehistoric anti- 
 quities ; upright stones ranged in avenues, in some in- 
 stances extending for miles, with mysterious circles of 
 unhew^i blocks, and with cairns and kistvuens, or stone 
 coffins, constructed of rude slabs of granite. Among these 
 he w^andered, imagining strange things, peopling the soli- 
 tude, 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 archasology was one which might, and 
 often did, prove expensive, but was not remunerative from 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 71 
 
 a pecuniary point of view. As soon as ever Luke was 
 ordained and established in a curacy, the old man con- 
 sidered that his obligation towards him had ceased, and he 
 left the poor young man to sustain himself on the miser- 
 able 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 obhged 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 cover- 
 ing her with reproaches ; and this had somewhat discon- 
 certed Urith. Mrs. Malvine was a woman of not much 
 intelUgence, very self-centred, and occupied with her ail- 
 ments? She had a knack of linding 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, exaggerat- 
 ing, 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 in- 
 variably 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 wil- 
 derness, where she could no more be traced, when the day 
 
72 UraTII: A TALE OF DART MOOR. 
 
 and evening passed without her return, the sick woman 
 became seriously alarmed, and faintly conscious that she 
 had transgressed due bounds in the reprimand adminis- 
 tered to Urith for rejecting the suit of Anthony Crymes. 
 Consequently, when finally the girl did reappear, her mo- 
 ther controlled herself, and contented herself with inquir- 
 ing 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 3'esterday, and miglit have 
 been lost on the moor, had not " — she hesitated, her cheek 
 assumed a darker tinge, and she said — " had not I fortu- 
 nately been guided aright to reach home." 
 
 "That is well," said Luke. ^'Wo are all liable thus to 
 stray, and well for us when we find a sure guide, and fol- 
 low 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, tlie be^Yilder- 
 ment 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 appreci- 
 ated 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 sig- 
 nificance. 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 had 
 
UPdTIl: A TALE OF BARTMOOR. 73 
 
 fought nifiny a hard battle with himself to conquer a pas- 
 sion 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. More- 
 over, 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 con- 
 sort 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 bappy 
 together even were circumstances to allow of his marry- 
 ing. 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 maqic that is exercised on one char- 
 acter by another the reverse at every point. The calm, 
 self-ruled, in-wrapped nature of Luke looked out at the 
 turbulence or the morosencss of the wild girl with adnjira- 
 tion mingled with fear. It exercised over him an inexpli- 
 cable but overpowering ^])e\\. He knew she was not for 
 liim, 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 w-as on him, 
 and he walked as in a cloud of light, that dazzled his eyes 
 and confused his mind. 
 
 "Wills wortliy was a very small and quaint old manor house 
 — so small that a modern farmer would despise it. It con- 
 sisted 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 w^as 
 entered through old granite gates, capped with balls, and 
 was backed bv a cluster of bold svcamores 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 arm- 
 chair by the hearth. The narrow mullioned lights did not 
 aftbrd 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 walled gar- 
 
74r URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOli. 
 
 den ; but it was void of flowers and suffered from the neg- 
 lect which allowed everything about ^Yillsworthy 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 some- 
 thing 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 mo- 
 ment was farther removed from ^Yillsworthy, 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 efferves- 
 cent 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, incredi- 
 ble. 
 
 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. Ho hoped there was some mistake — some 
 exaggeration. What could have been Anthony's object? 
 Mr. Solomon Gibbs's account was certainly sufficiently in- 
 volved 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 x:>latitudes to say — nothing that could 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 75 
 
 pacify the excited woman, wlio 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 be- 
 fore 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 3^our 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 tlie 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, sternl}', "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 a 
 
76 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 deep flush in his eheek, and with outstretched arm. 
 " XJrith ! 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 ray 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 vou must ! You know 
 I w^ould not injure you, offend you, grieve you in anj 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. 
 
 CHiiPTEE, X. 
 
 LUKE CLEVERDON. 
 
 Luke Cleverdon left the house. He could no longer en- 
 dure 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 ap- 
 peal. He had seen sufficient to shake and wring his heart 
 with inexpressible pain. He walked hastily down the hill, 
 but stopjDcd 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 mindj but never before had his passion for her so flameci 
 
URITH; A TALE OF DAllTMOOll 77 
 
 up as ut that moment when she took his cousin's hand. 
 What had occurred on the previous day on the moor was re- 
 peated again ; a smouldering fire had suddenly caught a 
 great tuf fc 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 ho had 
 left his uncle's house, now that he was independent, was 
 Anthony still to stand in his waj^ 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, ho had never 
 considered that he could win the affections of any girl, least- 
 ways 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, re- 
 garded by no one else Ijut himself, sought by none, or, if 
 sought, rejecting such seekers witli disdain. He was so 
 simple and single in his aims, that it would have well con- 
 tented 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 infniite pain, 
 and a battle with himself. If ho had formed any ideal pict- 
 ure of the future, it was the liarmless one of himself as the 
 friend, the gentle, unassuming, unasserting friend of Urith, 
 suffered bylier, after some little resistance, to divert her 
 headlong character, brighten the gloomy depths of her 
 strange mind. He knew how greatly she needed an ad- 
 'viser 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 j^ure pastoral zeal 
 he knew, for he who taught others to search their own 
 consciences, not lightly, and after the manner of dissem- 
 blers with God, had explored his own heart, and measured all 
 its forces ; but till this moment he had never realized that 
 
Y8 URITH: A TALE OF DAHTMOOR. 
 
 there was a selfishness and jealousy in his love, a selfishness 
 which would have kept back Uritli from knowing and lov- 
 ing anj'one, 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 ar- 
 dor, 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 j)ut 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 tlie 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 differ- 
 ence 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 be- 
 fore 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, gath- 
 ering his senses together. As in bodily pain, after a par- 
 oxysm, the mind remains distraught for a moment, and is 
 unable to throw itself outward, so it is with mental pain 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 79 
 
 to an even greater degree. As Bessie spoke, Lnke seemed 
 to be brought, or to bring himself, by an effort, out of a 
 far-oif world into that in which Bessie stood surrounded 
 b}^ the old chapel walls, hung with hartstongue leaves, still 
 green, untouched by winter frost. 
 
 " What are you suflering 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 Unth, after last night. I promised 
 her I w^ould come some time, and I thought that I would 
 ask if she were cpite 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 hapiDcned. You have 
 not heard, but it will be noised eveiwwhere 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 the 
 
80 URITH: A TALE OF BARTMOOU. 
 
 act, but hardly redeem it from sacrilege, and was certain 
 to arouse general and deep indignation ; the inconsiderate- 
 ness showed an unbalanced mind, wanting in ordinary re- 
 gard 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 sec 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 j^our 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 S3'mpathetic 
 car, to tell lier how that he did love Urith, but also how 
 that he had never dreamed of making her his ^vife. 
 
 *' 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 tliat 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 wliile Luke rose relieved. He took Bessie's hand 
 in his, and said, "Now, dear cousin, you must make me a 
 promise. AVhen 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. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 81 
 
 But the heart of Luke was reHeved, and he walked 
 homewards encouraged to fight out the battle with him- 
 self, and overcome the jealousy with which he began to re- 
 gard his cousin Anthony. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 THE GLOVES AGAIN. 
 
 Anthony remained at Willsworth}'. He had behaved 
 exceedingly badly, had wounded the good lady of the 
 house where most suscei^tible to pain, and so acutely that 
 she had fallen into unconsciousness ; yet he remained on. 
 He was accustomed to consult his own ^^dshes, not those of 
 others, and io put on one side all considerations of ex- 
 jDedieucy and good feeling, where his own cupnce was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Urith and the servant wench had carried Madame Mal- 
 vine 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 ^udndow ; 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. T]ie walls elsewhere were plainly white- 
 6 
 
82 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 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 farm- 
 houses and manor halls, and their purport is almost for- 
 gotten. They were formerly employed for the scalding of 
 the milk and the making of clouted cream. Eed-hot char- 
 coal 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 quo- 
 tient of fatty matter. Thereupon the pan was removed to 
 the cool dairy. The presence of the granite cream-pro- 
 ducer 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 AVillsworthy was built ; 
 but its inconvenience became apparent with the improved 
 social conditions of the Tudor reigns, and in the time of 
 Elizal^eth 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 these 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DAUTMOOR. 83 
 
 some 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 an- 
 cestral 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 Keformation. 
 
 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 bad 
 
84 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 pulled up Richard Malvine's head-post, and thrown it on 
 the tavern table lief ore the topers, he burst into an exultant 
 laugh, and rubbed his hands together gleefully. 
 
 When, moreover, Anthony expressed his intention of go- 
 ing to Willsworthy to offer an apology, the old man had ve- 
 hemently and boisterously dissuaded him from so doing. 
 
 " What are the Malvines? " he had said ; " a raggle-taggle, 
 bef^fi-arly crew. I won't have it said that a son of mine 
 veiled his bonnet to them. That w\as 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 in- 
 tended. ° 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 of- 
 fence. 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 see- 
 ing 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. 
 
UniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 85 
 
 " 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 stam^^ed with impatience. 
 
 *'I have told 3'ou I am sorry. I never made an apology 
 to any one in my life before. I suj^posed 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 3'ou will, an act of folly — but have you never committed 
 acts of folly ? You ran away from home yesterda3\ Did 
 not that trouble your mother, and occasion greater per- 
 turbation of feeling? " 
 
 Urith looked down. "Yes," she said, ''one foolery fol- 
 lowed another. First came mine, then 3'ours. 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 earlj' 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, for- 
 give 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 sjooko 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 3-ou want with me ? I do not care to go near 
 a man subject to such outbreaks of folly." 
 
 " You are one to declaim ! " said Anthony, scornfully. 
 " You who run awa}', and bite your knuckles till they are 
 raw." 
 
 Urith's brow darkened. '' You might have spared me 
 that taunt," she said ; " you would have done so had you 
 been generous." 
 
 " Come over here," commanded Anthony. "How can I 
 measure my words when I have to throw them at you from 
 
86 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 
 
 a furlong off? It is like a game of quoits when one lias 
 not strid the distance, and knows not what force to em- 
 ploy." 
 
 Urith without further demur came to him. This was a 
 new experience to her to be addressed in tones of com- 
 mand ; her mother scolded and found fault, and gave, in- 
 deed, orders which she countermanded next moment, so 
 that Urith had grown up with the habit of following her 
 own desires, and disregarding the contradictory or impos- 
 sible injunctions laid on her. 
 
 "Come here, Urith," said Anthony ; "I do not see why 
 we have been such strangers heretofore. AYhy do you never 
 come to Hall?" 
 
 " Because Hall has never come to Willsworthy." 
 
 " But my sister ; you would like Bessie — I am sure of 
 that." 
 
 " I like her now." 
 
 "Then you will come and see her at Hall?" 
 
 " When she has first been to see me, and has asked me 
 to return the visit." 
 
 " She shall do that at once." 
 
 " She has promised to come here. She was very kind 
 to me last night." 
 
 " She is a good creature," said Anthony, condescending^. 
 
 "And no fool," threw in Urith. 
 
 " I don't say she is clever, but what brains she has are 
 full ripe. She is considerably older than I am." 
 
 To this Urith made no response. 
 
 Then Anthony took up the gloves, drew them out, and 
 passed them under the ribbon of his hat. 
 
 "I was your true knight yesterday, achieving your de- 
 liverance, and every true knight must Avear either his lady's 
 colours or some pledge to show that she has accepted him 
 as her knight. That, I have heard say, is how some crests 
 were given or taken. Now I have assumed mine — your 
 gloves. I take them as my right, and shall wear them in 
 your name." 
 
 " They are not mine," said Urith ; " you will do me a 
 favour if you will take them for me to her to whom they 
 of right belong, and say that I return them to her. She 
 lost them last night, and I found them. I never go near 
 Kilworthy — never have an opportunity of seeing her — and 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 87 
 
 her brother I am not likely to see. Tiierefore I beseech 
 you to convey them to her from me." 
 
 " To whom ? Not Julian ? " 
 
 "Yes, to Julian." 
 
 Anthony muttered an oath. 
 
 " I will take them from my hat and throw them under 
 foot," he said, angril}-. "I did not ask for a favour of 
 Julian Crymes, but for something of 3'ours, Uiith." 
 
 "You did not ask any one for a favour," she replied, 
 gravely. "You took the gloves unasked." 
 
 He pulled them from his hat, and was about to cast them 
 back on the window-sill, when Urith arrested his hand. 
 
 " No," she said ; " I asked you a favour, and you will 
 not be so discourteous a knio-ht as to refuse it me." 
 
 ''You take me as your knight ! " exclaimed Anthon}', with 
 a flash of pleasure from his eyes that met hers, and before 
 which hers fell. 
 
 "My errand bo}'," she said, with a smile, "my foot-page 
 to carry messages from me. You will take the gloves to 
 Julian Cr3'mes." 
 
 "Not in my hat, but iu my belt — thus," said Anthony, 
 passing them under his girdle. Then, after a pause, he 
 said, "You have given me nothing." 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 " What ? Only another maid's gloves ? " 
 
 " Something else. My forgiveness." 
 
 "Full?" 
 
 '' Yes — full. Go now, and take the gloves." 
 
 "I shall return another day for something of your own." 
 
 Still he loitered ; then suddenly looked up, with a laugh. 
 " Mistress ! What is your livery ? What is your colour ? " 
 
 "My colour! Yellow — yellow as the marigold, for I am 
 jealous." 
 
 " Then, here is ni}^ hat. You shall put your badge in it." 
 
 "Not till I admit your service." 
 
 "You have — you have given me a commission." 
 
 Urith laughed, "Very w^ell. There are marsh mari- 
 golds in the brook. You shall have them." 
 
88 UPdTn: A TALE OF BABfMOOn. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 AND AGAIN. 
 
 Anthony went borne to Hall. He was on foot — if he must 
 go to Kilworthy and return the gloves to Julian Crymes, 
 he would ride. They hung in his girdle. His hat was gay 
 with marsh marigolds. A sudden, overwhelming intoxica- 
 tion of happiness had come over Urith. She was loved, 
 and loved in return. Her heart had hitherto known no 
 love, or only that which was rendered as a duty to an ex- 
 acting and trying mother. The world to her had become 
 wider, brighter, the shy higher. The condition in which 
 her mother was was forgotten for a moment, for a moment 
 only, as with fluttering heart and trembling fingers, and 
 pulses that leaped and then were still, she picked the mari- 
 golds and put them in his cap. Then he was gone, and 
 she returned at once to her mother's room. 
 
 Anthony wore his hat ajaunt as he strode into the yard 
 of Hall, and when he saw his sister Bessie in the door, he 
 called to her to come to him, to save himself the trouble 
 of taking a dozen steps to her out of his way to the stable. 
 
 She obeyed the summons at once. 
 
 *'Bess!" said he, "I have made a promise for thee. I 
 have been to Willsworthy, and have said that thou wilt go 
 there to-day." 
 
 " Oh, Anthony ! " said Elizabeth, in return. " How could 
 you do as you have done concerning the headpiece ? " 
 
 "There, there! that is finished and done for. I sent ib 
 back the same night. I called up the sexton to help me. 
 But the matter is at an end, and I will not have it stirred 
 again. Do you hear, you must go to Wills worthy to-day. 
 I have passed my word." 
 
 " I cannot, Tony, I was on my way there when I met 
 Luke, and he told me what you had done. Then for shame 
 I could not go on, but returned home." 
 
 " I went there and made my peace," said Anthony. '• Do 
 not blow a drop of soap into a vast globe. It is all over 
 and mended. I said I was sorry, and that was the end of 
 the matter." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 89 
 
 ** But Luke told me that Mistress Malvine has had a fit 
 because of it." 
 
 " She has had the like before, and has recovered ; she 
 will be herself again to-aiorrow — and, it matters not ! sickly 
 and aged folk must expect these accidents. You shall go 
 to Willsworthy to-day." 
 
 '' I cannot indeed, brother, for my father has forbidden 
 it." 
 
 " Forbidden you going there ? " 
 
 " Yes, brother, when I came back, he asked where I had 
 been, and when I told him he was wrath, and bade me 
 never go there again. He would not, he said, have it 
 ap23ear that he was begging off from the consequences of 
 what you had done." 
 
 " I have begged off. That is to say — T explained it was 
 all a mistake. I meant no wrong, and so it is covered up 
 and passed over." 
 
 " That may be, Tony, but against my father's command 
 I cannot go." 
 
 "It is such folly," said Anthony, "I will go see him my- 
 self. You shall go there. I told Uritli that I would send 
 you. My father shall not make my word empty." 
 
 He went by her. 
 
 ■ She caught his arm, and said, in a low tone, " Brother, 
 why do you make so much now of Urith Malvine ? And 
 you treating her as your true love ? " 
 
 " True love ! " repeated he, scornfully. " That is the way 
 with all you woman-kind. If one but sees a handsome girl, 
 and speaks two words to her, at once you arrive at the 
 notion that we have chosen each other as true lovers, passed 
 rings and promises, and wished for a marriage licence. Let 
 me go by." 
 
 He walked into the house, and to his father's room, which 
 he entered without announcing himself. 
 
 The old man sat by the fire. His account-books were 
 on the table, at his side. The fire was of turf and wood. 
 
 " What is this, father ? " began Anthony, in his imperious 
 fashion, " That you have forbidden Bess to go to see the 
 Malvine family, and the Madame is ill, had a falling fit this 
 
 morning. " 
 
 " It is not for us to make a scrape and a cringe to the 
 like of them," answered the old man, raising himself in his 
 
90 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOn, 
 
 chair by a hand on each arm, as he had sunk together in 
 the seat. "I take it the Cleverdons need not stoop to 
 that beggar brood." 
 
 "I did wrong," said Anthony, shortly. ''And I have 
 been to Willsworthy, and said I was sorry. I offered to 
 put up a monument of stone to Master Richard Malvine at 
 our own cost." 
 
 ''You did!" 
 
 " Yes, father, I did, I would do it at my own expense." 
 
 " You have not a penny but what I allow you, and not 
 one penny would I hand out for such a purpose." 
 
 " Then it is as well that my offer was refused." 
 
 *' I bade you forbear going to that house when you spake 
 of it this morning. " 
 
 " You advised me not to go ; but my conscience spoke 
 louder than your voice, father, and I went." 
 
 "How were you received?" asked old Cleverdon, with a 
 malignant leer. 
 
 Anthony shrugged his shoulders : " The old Madam fell 
 into a lit at the sight of me. There was also Luke 
 there." 
 
 " Oh, Luke ! " said Anthony senior, with a sneer. " He 
 may go there ; but no son or daughter of mine. We do 
 not consort with beggars. Tliat is enough. You have 
 been. Do not go again. If they bring the matter into a 
 court of law I am well content — more than content, for it 
 will bring them to utter beggary, and they will have, 
 maybe, to sell, and I will buy them out. " He turned to 
 the fire and laughed at the thought. Then, turning his 
 face round again over his pointed shoulder, he said, in an 
 altered tone, " I am glad you are in here ; you do not often 
 give me a chance of a talk, and now I wish to speak with 
 you of serious matters. You are getting to be a man, Tony 
 — quite a man — and must think of settling in life. It is 
 high time for us to have the arrangement with Julian 
 Crymes " 
 
 " What arrangement? " 
 
 " Oh, you know. It has been an understood thing. 
 You have not been ignorant, though you may affect to 
 know nothing about it. Fine property hers ! All the Kil- 
 worthy estate after her father's death. He has it for his 
 life. But there is monev. A good deal, I doubt not, will 
 
UEITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 91 
 
 go with her hand at once. If we had that we could clear 
 the mortgage off Hall." 
 
 Anthony frowned, and folded his arms. 
 
 " I am against delaying marriage till late," continued old 
 Cleverdou ; " so I propose that you have a talk with Julian 
 at once, and get her to say when it is to be. Some time 
 this year ; but not in May — May marriages are unlucky." 
 The old man chuckled, and said, "I reckon your honey- 
 moon you will lind a harvest moon." 
 
 " I have no fancy for Julian Crymes," said Anthony ; '' I 
 never had." 
 
 *' Pshaw ! Of course you have a fancy for Kilworthy. It 
 will fit on with Hall bravely ; and so the old Glanville prop- 
 erty will come together all in time to the Cleverdons." 
 
 "I am not going to take Julian for the sake of Kilworthy. 
 That you may be assured of," said Anthony. 
 
 " dh, yes, you will ; but I dare say you want to keep out 
 of chains a little longer. If so, I do not press you. Never- 
 theless, in the end it comes to this — you must take Julian 
 and her estate." 
 
 " I will have neither one nor the other,'* said Anthon}^ 
 " I do not want to marry — when I do I will please myself." 
 
 " You will consult my wishes and my plans," said the 
 father. " But there, I have said enough. Turn the thing 
 over in your head ; the girl likes you, small blame to her — 
 you are the bravest cockrell in the district, and can crow 
 loud enough to make all others keep silence." 
 
 "I will never take Julian," again said Anthon}'. "It is 
 of no use, father, urging this ; she has been thrown at me, 
 and has thrown herself at me. I may have prattled and 
 laughed with her, but I never cared much for her. I shall 
 never take but the maid that pleases me ; I give you assur- 
 ance of this, father." 
 
 *' Well, well, that will suffice. I was too early in speak- 
 ing. Take your time ; in the end you will see through my 
 spectacles. Now I am busy ; you may go." 
 
 Anthony left. He was irritated at his father for endeav- 
 oring to force him to marry Julian Crymes, irritated with 
 him for his depreciatory tone when speaking of the Mal- 
 vines, irritated with him for not allowing his sister to go to 
 Willsworthy. 
 
 At the present moment he felt very reluctant to go to 
 
92 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Kilworthy and see Julian, to return to her the pah' of gloves. 
 After she had been thrust on him and he had dechned to 
 think of her, he felt out of humour for a visit to her ; he had 
 lost command of himself, in his annoyance, and might speak 
 with scant courtesy. 
 
 " If I could light on Fox I would give him the gloves," 
 said Anthony, as he mounted the horse. 
 
 He rode out on a down near Hall, and there drew rein, 
 uncertain whether he would go direct to Kilv/orthy or not. 
 
 " No," said he, "I will ride first to Peter Tavy and see 
 that the head-post of Master Malvine be secure. I will 
 give the sexton something to have the foot scarfed, that it 
 may not fall over or give way. After that I can go to Kil- 
 worthy." So he turned his horse's head in the direction of 
 the inn, the Hare and Hounds at Cudliptown, where he 
 would fall into the road to Peter Tavy. 
 
 In Lis irritation at what his father had proposed, he for- 
 got about the bunch of flowers in his hat. He left them 
 there disregarded, fretting in his mind at his father's at- 
 tempt to force him to a union that was distasteful to him. 
 He liked Julian well enough ; slie was a handsome girl. He 
 had admired her, he had played the lover — played without 
 serious intent, for his heart had not been touched — but 
 now he entertained an aversion from her, an aversion that 
 was not old ; it dated but from the previous day, but it had 
 ripened whilst his father spoke to him of her. 
 
 Anthony was this day like a charged electric battery, 
 and any one that came near him received a shock. His 
 father had seen that the mood of the young man was not 
 one in which he would bear to be contradicted ; the old 
 man was aware that his son would discharge his feelings 
 against him quite as readily as against another, and he, 
 therefore, had the discretion not to press a point that irri- 
 tated Anthony, and was like to provoke an outburst. 
 
 And now, as Anthony rode over the down, past many 
 old tumuli covering the dead of prehistoric times, he had 
 no eyes for the beauty of the scene that opened before him, 
 eyes for no antiquities that he passed, ears for none of the 
 fresh and pleasant voices of early scoring that filled the air ; 
 he was occu23ied with his own thoughts, grumbling and 
 mutterinof over the matters of dissatisfaction that had risen 
 up and crossed him. He had apologised for the outrage 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 93 
 
 committed on Richard Malvine's grave, but lie could not 
 excuse himself of having occasioned a shock to Mistress 
 Malvine. He was angry with his father for the slighting 
 manner in which he sjDoke of the Malvines, for having for- 
 bidden Bessie going to them, for having endeavoured to 
 force him into an engagement with Julian. He would please 
 himself, murmured Anthony to himself ; in such a matter 
 as this he would brook no dictation. His liking for Urith 
 was too young to have assumed any shape and force, and 
 he had no thoughts of its leading any further. Such as it 
 was, it had been fed and stimulated liDy opposition — the in- 
 terference on the moor, the opposition of his father, the diffi- 
 culties put in his wa}^ by his own act — but then Anthony 
 was just the man to be settled in a course by encountering 
 opposition therein. 
 
 He crossed the river, reached Cudliptown, and saw the 
 surgeon's horse hitched up outside the tavern. The doctor 
 had been to Willsworth}', and had halted at the Hare and 
 Hounds for refreshment on his way home. 
 
 Anthony at once dismounted. He would go in there 
 and ask tidings of the health of the widow. 
 
 He fastened up his horse and entered the tavern, in his 
 usual swaggering, defiant manner, with his hat on, and a 
 frown on his brow. He found in the inn, not the surgeon 
 only, but James Cudlip, and to his surprise Anthony 
 Crymes. 
 
 The relationship in which Anthony Cleverdon stood to Fox 
 was intimate but not cordial. They had known each other 
 and had associated together since they were children; 
 they had been at school together ; they hunted, and rab- 
 bited, and hawked together. Anthony was not one who could 
 endure to be alone, and as he had no other companion of 
 his age and equality with whom to associate, he took up 
 with Fox rather than be solitar}'. But when together they 
 were ever bickering. Fox's bitter tongue made Anthony 
 start, and with his slow wit he was incapable of other re- 
 tort than threat. Moreover, from every one else young 
 Anthony received flattery ; only from Fox did he get gibes. 
 He bore in his heart a simmering grudge against hini that 
 never boiled up into open quarrel. Fox took a malicious 
 delight in tormenting his comrade, whom he both envied 
 and disliked. 
 
94: UniTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 That Anthony Crymes had paid his addresses to Urith, 
 and had been refused, was unknown to Anthony Cleverdon, 
 to whom Crymes contided no secrets of his heart or ambi- 
 tion. 
 
 When Anthony caught sight of Fox at the table, he 
 checked the question rekitive to the condition of Madame 
 Malvine that rose to his Hps, and came over to the settle. 
 
 " Why ! what a May Duke have we here ! " exclaimed 
 Fox Crymes, pointing Avith a laugh at Anthony's cap. 
 " What is the meaning of this decoration ? " 
 
 Instead of replying, Anthony called for ale. 
 
 "And wearing his mistress' gloves as well!" shouted 
 Crymes. 
 
 " They are not my mistress' gloves," answered Anthony, 
 hastil}', and in a tone of great irritation. " If you w^ould 
 know,"^ Fox, whose they arc, then I tell you, they belong to 
 your sister." 
 
 " How came you l)y them ? And wherefore wear 
 
 them ? " 
 
 " I was on the lookout for you, Fox, to return them to 
 vou for her. I do not want them. She lost them over- 
 night." 
 
 " And where did you find them ? On the moor ? " 
 
 " They were given to me by the finder. Will that sat- 
 isfy you ? I will answer no more cjuestions," 
 
 Crymes saw that Anthony Cleverdon was in an irascible 
 mood — such a mood as gave him special opj^ortunities of 
 vexing Anthony and amusing himself. 
 
 " And now about your posie of golden cups ? " he asked 
 tauntingly. 
 
 "I said I would answer no more cpiestions." 
 
 " It is not necessary. I know very well where you have 
 been." 
 
 "I have been home — at Hall," said Anthon}', going over 
 to the table from the settle, where he felt himself uneasy 
 with all eyes fixed on him. He pulled the gloves out of 
 his belt and laid them before him, and drew them their 
 full length on the table, then smoothed them with his fin- 
 ger. He wished he had not entered the inn ; his face was 
 clouded, and his muscles twitched, Crymes enjoying his 
 evident annoyance. He sat on the further side of the ta- 
 ble, with his mug of beer by him. 
 
UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 95 
 
 " I know veiy well where you have been," said he again, 
 witli his twinkling, malicious eyes fixed on Anthony. 'SSo 
 was I the day before yesterday ; and also came off with a 
 posie — but a better one than yours." 
 
 " It is a lie ! " burst from the irritated young man, start- 
 ing. " Urith never " Then he checked himself, as 
 
 Fox broke into ironical laughter at the success of his essay 
 to extract from Anthony the secret of his bunch of mari- 
 golds. Anthony saw that he had been trapped, and be- 
 came more chafed and hot than before. 
 
 *' Do you know what she meant by giving you those 
 flowers ? " asked Crymes, and paused with his eyes on the 
 man he was baiting. 
 
 Anthony answered with a growl. 
 
 " You know what they are called by the people ? " said 
 Crj-mes. "Drunkards. And, when you were presented 
 with that posie, it was as much as to say that none save one 
 to whom such a term applied would have acted as you had 
 done last night by 3'our offence against a dead man's grave, 
 and by adding insult to injury by your visiting the widow 
 and child to-day." 
 
 The blood poured into Anthony's face and dazzled his 
 eyes. A malevolent twitch of the muscles of the mouth 
 showed how Fox enjoyed tormenting him. 
 
 ''Go ao-ain a little later in the season, and XTrith will find 
 another, and even more appropriate, adornment for your 
 hat — a coxcomb ! " 
 
 Yeoman Cudlip and Surgeon Doble laughed aloud, so 
 did the serving wench who had just brought in Anthony's ale. 
 
 The young fellow, stung beyond endurance, sprang to 
 his feet with a snort — he could not s]3eak — and struck Fox 
 across the face with the gloves. 
 
 Crymes uttered a ciy of pain and rage, and with his 
 hand to his eye drew the hunting-knife from his belt, and 
 struggled out of liis place to get at Anthony. The surgeon 
 and yeoman threw themselves in his way and disarmed 
 him, the girl screamed and fled to the kitchen. 
 
 " He has blinded me I " gasped Fox, as he sank back 
 into a seat. '• I cannot see." 
 
 Anthony was alarmed. Water was brought, and the face 
 of Crymes washed. One of the silver tags of the glove 
 had struck and injured the right eyeball 
 
96 UniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 WIDOW PENWAENE. 
 
 There are epochs in the lives of most men when a sad 
 fatahty seems to dog their steps and turn athwart all that 
 they do. Anthony had come to such an epoch suddenly 
 since that ride and walk along the Lyke-Way. He had 
 allowed himself to be taunted into a foolish visit to the 
 churchyard on St. Mark's Eve, when there he had desecra- 
 ted a grave, then he had thrown Madame Malvine into a 
 fit, had disagreed with his father, and now had injured the 
 eye of his comrade. 
 
 Anthony's anger cooled down the moment he was aware 
 of what he had done, but this was not a piece of mischief 
 that could be put to rights at once, like the replacing of the 
 beadj^iece of the grave. His presence in the room was a 
 distraction and cause of irritation to the man he had hurt, 
 now in the hands of the surgeon, and he deemed it advis- 
 able to leave the inn, mount his horse, and ride away to 
 Peter Tavy ChiuTh, where he desu'ed to have a word with 
 the sexton and carpenter relative to the old head-post of 
 Malvine's cjrave. 
 
 Peter Tav}" Church, or the Church of St. Peter on the 
 Tavy, is a grey granite edifice, mottled with lichen, with 
 moorstone pinnacles, and a cluster of fine old trees in the 
 yard. Externally the church is eminently pictui'esque, it 
 was beautiful within at the time of our tale, in spite of the 
 havoc wrought in the period of the Directory ; of more 
 recent times it has undergone a so-called restoration which 
 has destroyed what remained of charm. 
 
 For a long time it has been matter of felicitation that 
 the old opprobrium attaching to the men of the West 
 Country of being wreckers has ceased to apply ; the in- 
 humanity of destroying vessels and their crews for the sake 
 of the spoil that could be got from them has certainly 
 ceased. But we are mistaken if we suppose that wrecking 
 as a profession or pastime has come to an end altogether. 
 The complaint has been driven inwards, or rather, wreck- 
 ing is no longer practised^ en ships, which the law has. 
 
TTlilTIT: A TALE! OF DARTMOOR. 97 
 
 taken under its protection, but on the defenceless parish 
 churches. 
 
 The havoc that has been wrought in our churches within 
 the last thirty yeai'S is indescribable. In Cornwall, with 
 ruthless and relentless activity, the parish churches have, 
 with rare exceptions, been attacked one after another, and 
 robbed of all that could charm and interest, and have been 
 left cold and hideous skeletons. I know nothing that more 
 reminds one (speaking ecclesiologically) of the desert 
 strewn with the bones of what were once living and beau- 
 tiful creatures, scraped of every particle of flesh, the mar- 
 row picked out of their bones, the soul, the divine spark of 
 beauty and life, expelled for ever. 
 
 No sooner does a zealous incumbent find himself in the 
 way of collectiDg money to do up his church, than he rubs 
 his hands over it and says, "Embowelled will I see thee by 
 and by." Falstaff was fortunately able to get away from 
 the knife. Alas ! not so our beautiful old churches. The 
 architect and the contractor are called iu, and the embow- 
 elling goes on apace. All the old fittings are cast forth, 
 the monumental slabs broken u\), the walls are scraped 
 and painted, plaster everywhere peeled off, just as the skin 
 was taken off St. Bartholomew, and the shells are exulted 
 over by architect, contractor, parson, and parishioners, as 
 shells from which the bright soul has been expelled — sans 
 beauty, sans interest, sans poetry, sans everything. The man 
 of taste and feeling crosses the threshold, and falls back 
 with the same sense as comes on the reader of a young 
 lady's novel, as at a moutliful of bread from which the salt 
 has been omitted, of something inexpressibly flat and 
 insipid. Before its restoration, Peter Tavy Church had the 
 remains of a beautiful roodscreen nicely painted and gilt, 
 and an unique pew of magnificent carved oak for the man- 
 orial lord to sit in, with twisted columns at the angles sup- 
 porting heraldic lions. 
 
 Anthony Cleverdon dismounted from his horse at tho 
 church-yard, hitched up his beast, and entered the grave- 
 yard. He saw the sexton there, and talking to him was an 
 old woman in threadbare dress, grey hair, very dark pierc- 
 ing eyes, bent, and leaning on a staff. She was a stranger, 
 at all events, he did not know her, and yet there was a 
 something in her features that seemed peculiar to him. 
 
98 ITRITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 The sexton said sometliing to her, and she at once came 
 down the church path to meet Anthony, extending to him 
 her hand. 
 
 " Ah ! " she said. " I can see, I can see my Margaret in 
 your face — you have her eyes, her features, and the same 
 toss of head. I know you. Yon have never, maybe, heard 
 of me, and yet I am your grandmother. Have you come 
 here to see your mother's grave ? I am glad, I am glad it 
 is cared for, not, I ween, by your father. Which of you 
 thinks of the mother, and has set flowers on the grave — 
 see, it is alight with primroses ? " 
 
 *'I believe that was Bessie's doing," answered Anthony; 
 then involuntarily he looked at her shabby gown, patched 
 and worn. 
 
 <'I would like to see Bessie. Is she like you? If so— 
 she is like your mother. Ah ! my Margaret was tho 
 handsomest girl in all the West of England. You have 
 not forgotten your mother, I hope, young man." 
 
 *' I do not remember her — you forget she died shortly 
 after I was born." 
 
 " How should I know ? " The old woman took his hand, 
 and held it fast as she peered into his face with eager eyes. 
 " How should I know, when your father never took the 
 trouble to let me know that my own, my dear and only 
 child, was dead ? If I had known she was ill, I would 
 have come to her, though he took, as he threatened to take, 
 the pitchfork to me, if I crossed his threshold. I would 
 have come and nursed her ; then, maybe, she would not 
 have died. But he did not tell me. He did not ask me 
 to her burial, and not till long after did I hear she was no 
 more. He was a hard and a cruel man." 
 
 The clear tears formed in the old w^oman's eyes, and 
 trickled down her cheeks. 
 
 "I have been ill all the winter, and very poor ; but that 
 was not known, and if known would not have concerned 
 your father. When I got better, I came here to ask if I 
 might be buried, when I die, near my Margaret. Or are 
 you Cleverdons too great and fine now for that ? Well — 
 you will let me lie at her feet, though I was her mother, 
 just as I have seen a dog put under the soles of the figures 
 in old churches. You are her son, you are my own grand- 
 child, though you have never known me and cared for me. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 99 
 
 and given me a, tliougiit. Please the Lord, you are not 
 hard as yonr father, and you will grant me this." 
 
 "I did not know I had a grandmother," said Anthony. 
 "If there is anything you want, it shall be done." 
 
 " No, I do not suppose that your father ever spoke of 
 me. Your mother's father was the parson here, and died 
 leaving no monev. I had to leave, and become a house- 
 keeper to maintain m3^self, and what little money I then 
 earned has been expended in my illness. Now, will you 
 let me see Bessie ? She is good, she remembers her 
 mother, and thinks of her." 
 
 Anthony endeavoured to withdraw his hand from the 
 grasjD of the old woman, but she would not suffer it ; she 
 laid the other caressingly on his, and said, 
 
 *' No, my boy, you will not be unkind, you will not go 
 from me without a promise to bring me Bessie. I must 
 see her." 
 
 " You shall come to Hall, and see her there." 
 
 She shook her grey head. " Never ! never ! I could not 
 bear to be in that house where 3'our mother, my poor Mar- 
 garet, suffered. Moreover, your father would not endure 
 it ! He threatened to take the pitchfork to me — when 
 your mother was alive." 
 
 "He would not do that now," said Anthony. "But as 
 you will. I will bring Bessie to you. Where shall I find 
 you?" 
 
 "I am staying at Master Youldon's. He knew my dear 
 husband in the old times, and knew me, and does not for- 
 get old kindnesses." 
 
 " Very well. You shall see Bessie. I have some business 
 with the sexton." 
 
 Then he withdrew his hand from the old woman, and 
 went to the grave of Richard Malvine, where he gave direc- 
 tions what was to be done to that and the headpiece. 
 
 Widow Penwarne came to him. 
 
 "What is this?" she asked. "What have you to do 
 with this gTave ? " 
 
 "I have some orders to give concerning it," answered 
 Anthony, vexed at her interference. "I will speak with 
 you later, madam." 
 
 " But what does the grave of Richard Malvine matter to 
 you? " again she asked. "Ah! " she exclaimed, and went 
 
loo imiTIi: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 
 
 and picked some of tlie primroses from the mound ovei* 
 her daughter, and then strewed them over the grave of 
 Eichard, " Ah ! " she said. " Here he two whose hearts 
 were broken by your father — two for whom he will have to 
 answer at the Judgment Day, and then I will stand up along 
 with them, and point the finger at him, and accuse him. 
 If there be a righteous God, then as He is righteous so will 
 He judge and punish ! " 
 
 " Why, well, now, is not this strange ? " exclaimed An- 
 thony. "Here comes my sister Elizabeth. I wonder 
 much what has brought her." 
 
 Bessie appeared, with a wreath of spring flowers in her 
 hand. She had ridden, attended by a serving-man. She 
 was surprised and pleased to see Anthony at liichard Mal- 
 vine's grave. 
 
 •' Oh, brother ! " she said, "I have been so troubled over 
 what has been done that I set to work to make a garland 
 to hang on the grave, as some token of resx:>ect, and regret 
 for what had been done." 
 
 " What, you also ! " exclaimed the old woman, and w^ent 
 to her and clasped her hands. *' You are Bessie Clever- 
 don, the dear child of my Margaret. Let me kiss you, ay, 
 and bless you." She drew the head of Elizabeth to her 
 and kissed her. 
 
 *'This is our grandmother, Bessie," exclaimed Anthony. 
 
 *' Ay ! " said the old woman, studying the girl earnestly 
 with her dark, eager eyes. "Yes, lam the grandmother 
 ©f you both ; but you are not like my Margaret, not in face, 
 and yet not like your father — please God in heaven — not 
 like him in soul ! " she said, with vehemence. 
 
 "Let us go aside," said Anthon}', " out of earshot of the 
 sexton, if you cannot speak of my father without such an 
 overflow of spleen." 
 
 "Then we will go to your mother's grave," said Madame 
 Penwarne. " I see you stand by your father ; but I can see 
 this in you — that you will stand by him so long as he does 
 not cross your will. Let him but oppose you, young man, 
 where your headstrong will drives, and there will be 
 trouble between you. Then, maybe, your father will begin 
 to receive the chastisement from the hand of the Lord that 
 has been hanoino; over him ever since he took Mari^-aret to 
 Hall. That is a strange turn of the wheel, that his two 
 
TTRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 101 
 
 cliilclren should meet at the grave of Kichard Malvine to 
 care for its adornment. And I warrant you do not know, 
 cither of you, what is owing to him who Hes there — ay ! 
 and to her who rests at our feet." 
 
 "I can't understand riddles," said Anthony, "and it is 
 no pleasure to me to hear hard w^ords cast at my father. If 
 you are in poverty, grandmother, you shall be helped. I 
 will speak to my father about you, and when I speak he 
 will Hsten and do as is fitting. Of that be assured. If you 
 have anything further to say of my father, say it to him, 
 not to me." 
 
 ''I will take nothing, not a farthing of his," answered the 
 old woman, sharply. 
 
 "Why not, grandmother?" asked Bessie, gently, and 
 kissed the old woman's quivering cheek. "It will bo the 
 'greatest unhappiness to Anthony and me to think that you 
 are not provided for in your age, and in comfort. We 
 shall not be able to rest if we suppose that you are in 
 want. It would fill us with concern and self-reproach. 
 My father is just, and he also " 
 
 " No," said the old w^oman, interrupting her, "just he is 
 not. Moreover, he owes me too much — or rather he owes 
 my dead daughter, your mother, too much — he cannot re- 
 pay it : not one thousandth part with coin. You, Elizabeth, 
 are older than your brother. You must know that your 
 mother's life was made miserable, that she had no happi- 
 ness at Hall." 
 
 " And I trust and believe," said Bessie, "that my dear 
 mother, in the rest of Paradise, has long c^igo forgotten her 
 troubles, and forgiven my father if he had in any way an- 
 noyed her." 
 
 "Do not be so sure of that, child," exclaimed the old 
 w^oman, with vehemence. "If I were to go out of this life 
 to-morrow, I should go before the throne of God to de- 
 nounce your father, and I would call Richard Malvine and 
 your mother as witnesses against him. Shall I tell you 
 what he did? These who lie here — he yonder, where you 
 have placed the garlands, and my poor IMargaret — loved 
 each other, and would have been happy with each other. 
 But her father died, I was poor, and then for the sake of 
 his money, Margaret was persuaded to take Anthony Clev- 
 erdon, and give up Richard Malvine." 
 
102 UBITII: A TALE CF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "If that be so " begau young Antliony. 
 
 "It is so," said the old woman, vehemently. 
 
 " Then the blame lies with yon," said he. "You pressed 
 her to take the rich man and refuse the poor. My father 
 was guiltless." 
 
 The widow drew back and trembled ; but presently re- 
 covered herself and said, "That may be — I bear in part 
 the blame. But if he had been kind to her it would have 
 been other. I would not reproach him ; but it was not so, 
 and Bessie was old enough to remember that little love 
 passed between them, that he was hard, and cruel, and un- 
 kind. He broke her heart — and there she lies." 
 
 "I am not here," said Anthony, "to hear my father re- 
 proached. I respect you as my grandmother ; but you 
 have doubtless a jaundiced eye, that sees all things yellow. 
 I will see what can be done for you. It does not befit us 
 that the mother of our mother should be in want." 
 
 As the}^ spoke, from out of the cburcli came Luke Clev- 
 erdon. His face was pale, and his eyes were sunken. The 
 sexton had not known that he was in the sacred building. 
 Luke came towards the little group, treading his way 
 among the graves with care. The tomb of the Cleverdons 
 was near the chancel south window. He extended his hand 
 to Mistress Penwarne, saying, "I was within. It was not 
 my fault if I heard much that was said ; and now I have 
 but come into your midst, Anthony, Bessie, and you, 
 Madame, to make a humble petition. I am curate in 
 charge here ; the rector is not resident. I live in the old 
 parsonage, that must be so familiar to Mistress Penwarne 
 — every room hallowed with some sweet recollection — and 
 I am alone, and need a kinswoman to be my housekeeper, 
 and " — he smiled at the old woman — " be to me as a 
 mother. Madame, will you honour my poor roof by tak- 
 ing up your abode therein ? It is, forsooth, more yours 
 than mine, for there you lived your best days, and to it 3'ou 
 are attached by strongest ties ; but I am but a casual tenant. 
 It is not mine — I am but the curate. Here we have no 
 continuous city, and every house is to us but a tavern on 
 our pilgrimage where we stay a night." 
 
UKITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CLEAVE, 
 
 Throughout the day Willsworthy was full of Yisitors. 
 Never before had it been so frequented. The act of An- 
 thony Cleverdon had been bruited through the neighbour- 
 hood, and aroLised general indignation against the young 
 man and sympathy for the widow. 
 
 Mistress Malvine was sufficiently recovered in the after- 
 noon to receive some of those who arrived in her bedroom, 
 and Mr. Solomon Gibbs entertained the rest in the hall. 
 Those who had known the Malvines well — these were not 
 many — and those who knew them distantly, persons of the 
 gentle class, of the yeoman and farmer ranks, all thought 
 it incumbent on them to come, express their opinions, and 
 inquire after the widow. Not only did these arrive, but 
 also many cottagers appeared at the kitchen door, full of 
 sympathy — or at all events, of talk. It really seemed as if 
 AVillsworthy, which had dropped out of ever}' one's mind, 
 had suddenly claimed supreme regard. 
 
 It was a source of real gratification to the sick woman to 
 assume a position of so much consequence. It is always a 
 satisfaction to hear other persons pour out the vials of 
 wrath and hold up hands in condenniation of those who 
 have given one offence, and Madame Malvine was not mere- 
 ly flattered by becoming the centre of interest to the neigh- 
 bourhood, but was influenced by the opinions expressed in 
 her ear, and her indignation against Anthony was deep- 
 ened. 
 
 Wherever in the house Urith went, she heard judgment 
 i^ronounced on him in no measured terms, the general 
 voice condemned him as heartless and profane. Question 
 was made what proceeding would be taken against him, 
 and abundance of advice was offered as to the course to be 
 pursued to obtain redress. Urith was unable to endure the 
 talk of the women in her mother's room, and she descend- 
 ed to the hall, there to hear her Uncle Solomon, amongst 
 farmers and yeomen, tell the story of Anthony's deed with 
 
104" URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 much exaggeration, and to hear the frank expressions of 
 disapproval it ehcited. 
 
 Then she went into the kitchen, where the poorer neigh- 
 bours were congregated. Everywhere it was the same. Con- 
 demnation fell on Anthony. ISI'o one beheved that he had 
 not acted in wilful knowledge of what he was about. 
 
 Urith could not fail to observe that there was a wide- 
 spread latent jealousy and dislike of the Cleverdons in the 
 neighbourhood, occasioned partly, no doubt, by the suc- 
 cess of the old man in altering his position and entering a 
 superior class, but chiefly due to his arrogance, hardness, 
 and meanness. All the faults in Anthony's character were 
 commented on, and his good qualities denied or disparaged. 
 
 Urith could with difficulty restrain herself from contra- 
 dicting these harsh judges, and in taking on her the de- 
 fence of the culprit, but she saw clearly that her advocacy 
 would be unavaiUng, and provoke comment. 
 
 She therefore left the house. Her mother was so much 
 recovered as not to need her. Wbetlier the old lady acted 
 wisely in receiving so much company after her fit, Urith 
 doubted, but her mother had insisted on the visitors being 
 admitted to her room, and under the excitement she rallied 
 
 greatly. 
 
 To be away from the clatter of tongues, she left the farm 
 and went forth upon the moor. 
 
 To the north of AYillsworthy rises a ridge of bold and 
 serrated rocks that rise precipitously above the Eiver Tav}^ 
 which foams below at a depth of three hundred feet ; they 
 present the appearance of a series of ruined towers, and 
 are actually in places united by the remains of ancient 
 walls of rude moorstoue, for what purpose piled up, it is 
 not possible to saj'. 
 
 A bar of red porphyritic granite crosses the ravine, and 
 over this leaps the river into a deep pool, immediately be- 
 neath the boldest towers and pinnacles of rock that over- 
 hang. Among these crags, perched like an eagle above 
 the dizzy abyss, sat Urith on a rock, listening to the roar of 
 the river wafted up to her from beneath. Away to the 
 north and east of the moor extended shoulder on shoul- 
 der, to the lonely peak of Fur Tor that rises in uttermost 
 sohtude near the sources of the Tav}^ amidst all but un- 
 traversablo morasses. 3he was glad to be there, alone, 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 105 
 
 away from the lips that spit their venom on the name of 
 
 Anthony. 
 
 The human heart is full of strange caprices, and is 
 ^vayward as a spoiled child. The very fact that the 
 whole country side was combined to condemn Anthony 
 made Urith in heart exculpate him — that every mouth 
 blamed him made her excuse him. It w^as true that he 
 had acted wath audacious folly, but there was merit in that 
 audacity. What other youth would have ventured into the 
 churchyard on such a night ? The audacity so qualified the 
 folly as almost to obliterate it. He had been challenged 
 to the venture. Would it have been manly had he de- 
 clined the challenge ? Did not the blame attach to such as 
 had dared him to the reckless deed ? She repeated to her- 
 self the words that had been spoken in her mother's house 
 about him, so extravagant in expression, exaggerated in 
 judgment as to transcend justice, and her heart revolted 
 against the extravagance and forgave him. If all the world 
 stood up in condemnation, yet would not she. Her cheeks 
 flushed and her eyes sparkled. She recalled his chivalry 
 towards her on the moor ; she heard again his voice ; recol- 
 lected how he had held her in his arms ; she felt again the 
 throb of his heart, heard his breathing as he strode with 
 her through the flames, as he w^restled with her for the 
 mastery ; and she laughed aloud, she rejoiced that he had 
 conquered. Had she overmastered him, and her will had 
 been submitted to by him, she would have despised him. 
 Because he was so strong in his resolution, so determined 
 in carrying it out, she liked and respected him. 
 
 There flashed before her something like lightning — it 
 was his eyes, lifted to hers, with that strange look that 
 sent a thrill through all her veins and tingled in her ex- 
 tremities. That look of his had revealed to her something 
 to which she dare not give a name, a something which 
 gave him a right to demand of her that morning testimony 
 to his integrity of purpose, a something that constrained 
 her, without a thought of resistance, to give him what he 
 asked, first her hand in witness that she believed him, then 
 the bunch of flowers in token that she accepted him as her 
 knight. As her knight ? 
 
 Her heart bounded with pride and exultation at the 
 thought ! He her knight ! He, the noblest youth in all 
 
106 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 the region round, a very Sanl, taller by the head and 
 shoulders than any other, incomparably handsome, more 
 manly, open, generous, brave — brave ! who feared neither 
 man nor midnight spectre. 
 
 Yet — when Julian Crymes had charged her with attempt- 
 ing to rob her of her lover, she, Urith, had repelled the 
 charo-e, and had declared that she did not value, did not 
 want him. Nor had she then ; but the very violence, the 
 defiance of Julian, had forced her to think of him — to think 
 of him in the light of a lover. The opposition of Julian 
 had been the steel stroke on her flinty heart that had 
 brought out the spark of fire. If anything had been re- 
 quired to fan this spark into flame, that had been supplied by 
 the chattering, censorious swarm of visitors that afternoon. 
 
 And Anthony? How stood he ? 
 
 At that moment he was weiqhed down with a sense of 
 depression and loneliness suoh as he had never felt pre- 
 viously. He had l~)een accustomed to be flattered and made 
 a great deal of. His father, his sister, his cousin, the ser- 
 vants. Fox Crymes, every one had shown him deference, had 
 let him see that he was esteemed a man born to fortune 
 and success ; he had been good at athletic exercises, good 
 in sport, a good horseman, taller, stronger than his com- 
 peers, and heir to a wealthy gentleman. But all at once 
 luck had turned aq^ainst him ; he had committed blunders 
 and had injured those with whom he had come in contact ; 
 possibly blinded Fox, had ofiended the Malvine family, 
 tin-own the old dame into a fit, had quarrelled with his 
 father, brought down on his head the reproach and ridicule 
 of all who knew him. Then came the encounter with his 
 grandmother, and the discovery of the wrong done to his 
 mother and to the father of Urith by his own father. Bold, 
 self-opinionated as Anthony was, yet this sudden shock had 
 humbled him and staggered him : he had fallen from a 
 pinnacle and was giddy. A sort of irrational, blind instinct 
 within him drove him back in the direction of Willsworthy. 
 He felt that he could not rest unless he saw Urith again, 
 and — so he explained his feeling — told her more fully the 
 circumstances of the previous night's adventure, and heard 
 from her own lips that her mother was not seriously injured 
 in health by the distress he had caused her, and that she, 
 Urith, forgave him. 
 
TIRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 107 
 
 His imagination worked. He had not been explicit 
 enough when he came to Willsworth3\ The fainting tit of 
 the mother had interrupted his explanation. Afterwards 
 he had forgotten to say what he had intended to say, and 
 w4iat ought to have been said. When he was gone, IJrith 
 would consider it strange that he had been so curt and 
 reserved, she would hear her Uncle Solomon's stories, 
 tinged with rum punch past recognition of where truth 
 shaded into fiction. 
 
 Moreover, he felt a craving for Urith's sympathy ; he 
 wanted to acquaint her with what he had done to Fox 
 Cr^'mes before the story reached her embellished and en- 
 larged. To his discredit it would be told, and might 
 prejudice her against him. He must forestall gossip? and 
 tell her the truth himself. 
 
 So he rode in the direction of Willsworthy, but when he 
 came near the place, an vniusual diffidence stole over him — 
 he did not dare to venture up to the house, and he hung 
 about the vicinity in the road, then he went out on the 
 moor, and it was when on the down that he thought he 
 caught sight of her at some distance in the direction of the 
 Cleave. 
 
 A labourer came by. " ^Yho is that yonder? " he asked. 
 
 " I reckon any fool knows," answered the clown. " That 
 be our j^oung lad}'. Mistress Urith." 
 
 "Take my horse, fellow," said Anthony, and dismounted. 
 
 He went over the moor in pursuit of the girl, and found 
 her seated on the rock with a foot swinging over the preci- 
 pice. She was so startled when he spoke to her as almost 
 to lose her balance. He caught her hand, and she rose to 
 her feet. 
 
 They stood on a ledge. Two towers of rock rose with a 
 cleft between them like a window. The shelves of the 
 granite were matted with whortleberry leaves, now all 
 ranges of colour from green, through yellow to carmine, 
 and with grey moss. A vein of porphyry penetrating the 
 granite striped it with red, and Nature had tried her del- 
 icate pencil on the stone, staining or stippling it with her 
 wondrously soft-toned lichenous paints. Below, at the 
 depth of five hundred feet, the river roared over its red 
 porphyry barrier, throwing into the air foam bubbles that 
 were caught by the wind and carried up, and danced about, 
 
lOS UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 and sported with as are feathers by a wanton child. The 
 L;Teat side of Staunou Down opposite, rising to sixteen 
 iiimdred feet, was covered by flying shadows of forget-me- 
 not blue and pale sulphurous gleams of sun. As the light 
 glided over it, it picked out the strange clusters of old cir- 
 cidar huts and enclosures, some with their doors and lintels 
 luithrown down, that were inhabited by an unknown race 
 before history began. 
 
 Anthony put his arm round Urith. *'"\Ve stand," said 
 he, "on the edge of a chasm ; a step, a start, and one or 
 other — perhaps both — fall into the abyss to sheer destruc- 
 tion. Let me hold you ; I would not let you go — if you 
 went, it would not be alone."' 
 
 L'rith did not answer ; a trembling fit came on her. 
 She stood, she felt, at the brink of another precipice than 
 that before her eyes. 
 
 '•I could not keep away," said Anthony. "I have got 
 into trouble with eveiy one, and I was afraid that you also 
 Avoidd be set against me ; so, after I had been to see about 
 your father's grave, that all was right there — and Bessie 
 iiad laid a garland of flowers on it — then I came back here. 
 I thought I must see you and explain what I forgot to say 
 this morning." 
 
 "You need say no more about that matter," answered 
 Urith. '•' I told you at the time that I believed your word. 
 You said you intended no ill. I am sore of that, quite 
 sure. I know it is not in you to hurt." 
 
 "And vet I have hurt vou and your mother, and also 
 Fox Crymes." Then he told her how he had struck him, 
 and that he was afraid he had seriously injured his eye. 
 
 " And you have brought back the gloves ! " exclaimed 
 Urith. 
 
 "Yes; here they are." 
 
 "You have not fulfllled my commission?" 
 
 "I will do it if you wish it ; I have not done it yet. I 
 was going to give Fox the gloves ; I did not desire to see 
 Julian. You must understand that my father has been 
 speaking to me to-day about JuHan — it seems he has set 
 his mind on making a pair of us. I do not know what Ju- 
 lian thinks, but I know my own mind, that this is not my 
 taste. After he had spoken to me about her, I could not 
 go on direct to her house and see her. My father would 
 
VniTU: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 109 
 
 think that I gave in to him, and— I slioulJ have been un- 
 easy myself." 
 
 Urith said notliing, she was looking down at the tossing, 
 thundering torrent far below. 
 
 "I never cared much for Julian," continued Anthony, 
 " and after yesterday I like her less." 
 
 "Why so?" Uritli looked up and met his eyes, 
 
 " Why so ? Because I have seen you. If I have to go 
 through life with any one, I will take you in the saddle be- 
 hind me — no one else." 
 
 Urith trembled more than before ; a convulsive, irrepres- 
 sible emotion had come over her. Sometimes it happens 
 when the heavens are opened with a sudden Hare of near 
 and dazzling lightning, that those who have looked up have 
 been struck with blindness. So was it now ; Urith had 
 seen a heaven of happiness, a glory of love — a new and 
 wondrous world open before her, such as she had never 
 dreamed of, of which no foretaste had ever been accorded 
 her, and it left her speechless, with a cloud before her eyes, 
 and giddy, so that she held out her hands gropingly to 
 catch the"^ rock ; it was unnecessar}', the strong arm of An- 
 thony held her from falling. 
 
 The young man paused for an answer. 
 
 *' Well ! " said he. " Have you no word ? " 
 
 None ; she moved her lips, she could not speak. 
 
 "Come," said he, after another pause, "they who ride 
 pillion ride thus — the man has his leather belt, and to that 
 the woman holds. Urith, if we are to ride together on 
 life's road, lay hold of my belt." 
 
 She held out her hands, still gropingly. 
 
 " Stay ! " she said, suddenly recovering herself with a 
 start. " You forgot ; you do not know me. Look at my 
 hands, they are still torn ; I did that in one of my fits of 
 rage. Do you not fear to take me when I go, when 
 crossed, into such mad passion as these hands show?" 
 
 Anthony laughed. " I fear ! I ! " 
 
 Then she put her right hand to lay hold of his girdle, 
 but caught and drew out the gloves. 
 
 " I have these again ! " she exclaimed. " Even these 
 gloves cast at me in defiance. Well, it matters not now. 
 I refused to take them up, yet I could not shake them oil ; 
 now I take them and keep them. I accept the challenge." 
 
110 URITH: A TALK OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 She grasped liim firmly by the girdle, find with the other 
 hand thrust the gloves into her bosom. 
 
 *'I do not understand you," said Anthony. 
 
 *' There is no need that you should." 
 
 Then he caught her up in his arms, with a shout of ex- 
 ultation, and held her for a moment hanging over the aw- 
 ful gulf beneath. 
 
 She looked him steadily in the eyes. She doubted 
 neither his strength to hold her, nor his love. 
 
 Then he drew her to him and kissed her. 
 
 It is said that the sun dances on Easter day in the morn- 
 ing. It was noon now, but the sun danced over Urith and 
 Anthony. 
 
 "And now," said the latter, "about your mother. Will 
 she give her consent ? " 
 
 " And your father ? " asked Urith. 
 
 " Oh, my father I " repeated Anthony, scornfully, " what- 
 soever I will, that he is content with. As to your mo- 
 ther " 
 
 " I know what I will do," said Urith ; " Luke has great 
 influence with her. I will tell him all, and get him to ask 
 her to agree and bless us. Luke will do anything I ask 
 of him." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 When Anthony came home, he found that his father had 
 been waiting supper a while for him, and then as he did 
 not arrive, had ordered it in, and partaken of the meal. 
 
 The old man's humoui' was not xDleasant. He had been 
 over that afternoon to Kilworthy, and had heard of his 
 son's act of recklessness. Fears were entertained for Fox's 
 sight in one eye. He was ordered to have the eye band- 
 aged, and to be kept in the dark. 
 
 When Anthony entered the room where was his father, 
 the old man looked up at him from the table strewn with 
 the remains of his meal, and said, roughly, "I expect 
 regular hours kept in my house. Why were you not here 
 at the proper time ? About any new folly or violence ? " 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. Ill 
 
 Anthony did not answer, but seated himself at the table. 
 
 " I have been to Kilworthy," said the old man, " I have 
 heard there of your conduct." 
 
 "Fox insulted me. You would not have me endure an 
 insult tamely ? " His father's tone nettled the young man. 
 
 " Certainly not ; but men pink each other w'ith raj^iers, 
 instead of striking with lace tags." 
 
 " That is the first time any one has let fall that I am not 
 a man," said Anthony. 
 
 There was always a certain roughness, a lack of amiabil- 
 ity in the behaviour of father to son and son to father, not 
 arising out of lack of affection, but that the old man was 
 by nature coarse-grained, and he delighted in seeing his 
 son blunt and brusque. He — 3'oung Tony — was no milk- 
 sop, he was proud to say. He was a lad who could hold 
 his own against any one, and fight his way through the 
 world. The old man was gratified at the swagger and 
 independence of the youth, and at ever}' proof he gave of 
 rude and over-bearing self-esteem. But he was not pleased 
 at the brawl with Fox Crymes ; it was undignified for one 
 thing, and it caused a breach where he wished to see union. 
 It threw an impediment in the way of the execution of a 
 darling scheme, a scheme on which his heart had been set 
 for twenty years. 
 
 "I do not know what it was about," said the father, 
 ** more than that I had heard you had been squabbling in 
 an alehouse about some girL" 
 
 " The insult or impertinence was levelled at me," said 
 Anthony, controlliug himself ; "I did not mean to iujuro 
 Fox, on tiiat j'ou may rely. I struck him over the face 
 because he had whipped me into anger which I could not 
 contain. I am sorry if I have hurt his eye. I am not 
 sorry for having struck him, he brought it on himself." 
 
 "It is not creditable," pursued old Cleverdon, "that 
 your name should be brought into men's mouths about a 
 vulgar brawl over some village drab or house wench." 
 
 The blood surged into Anthony's face, he laid down his 
 knife and looked steadily across the table at his father. 
 
 " On that score," said he, "you may set your mind at 
 rest. There has been no brawl over any village wench." 
 
 "lean quite understand," said the father, *'that Fox 
 Crymes was jealous and did not measure words. He can 
 
112 XTRITH: A TALE OF DABTMOOU. 
 
 pepper and spice his speeches till they burn as cantharideg. 
 What is he beside 3'ou ? If you cast a fancy here or there, 
 and there be naught serious in it, and it interferes with his 
 sport, he must bear it. But, Tony, it is high time jom was 
 married. We must have no more of these wrangles. 
 Whose name came up between you ? Was it his sister's ? 
 I can well understand he does not relish her marriaofe. 
 There has ever been rough water between them. She has 
 the property — and when old Justice Crymes dies — where 
 will he be ? Was that the occasion of the dispute ? " 
 
 " No, father, it was not." 
 
 '' Then it was not about Juliaii ? " 
 
 " About Julian ? Certaiul}' not." 
 
 " Nor about some village girl ? " 
 
 '' Nor about any village girl, as I have said." 
 
 " Then what was it about ? or rather, about whom was 
 it?" 
 
 " There is no reason why you should not know," an- 
 swered Anthony, with coolness, " tliough that is a side 
 matter. Fox told me that a suitable ornament for my cap 
 was a coxcomb. That is why I struck him." 
 
 The old man laughed out. " You did well to chastise 
 him for that.*' 
 
 " As you asked what girl's name was brought up, I will 
 tell you," said ilnthony. " It was that of Urith Malvine." 
 
 " Until Malvine ! " scoffed old Cleverdon, his even 
 twinkling malevolently. "Not surprised at that light 
 hussy bringing herself into men's mouths in a tavern." 
 
 "Father!" exclaimed the young man, "not a word 
 as'ainst her. I will not bear that from vou or from auv 
 
 man." 
 
 " You will not bear it ! " almost screamed old Anthonv. 
 " You — vou ! make yourself champion of a beggar brat 
 like that?" 
 
 " Did you hear my words?" said the j'oung man, stand- 
 ing up. " No one — not even you — shall speak against her. 
 It was because Fox sneered at her that I struck him ; ho 
 might have scoited at me, and I would have passed that 
 
 over." 
 
 " And you threaten me ? You will knock out my eye 
 with your tags ? " 
 
 "I merelv warn vou, father, that I will not suffer her 
 
URITH: A TALE OF nARTMOOR. 113 
 
 name to be improperly used. I cannot raise my hand 
 against you, but I will leave the room." 
 
 " It is high time you were married. By the Lord ! you 
 shall be married. I will not be rasped like this." 
 
 "I will marry when I see fit," said Anthony. 
 
 "The fitness is now," retorted his father. *'When a 
 young gallant begins to squabble at village mug-houses 
 about " 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 " The near time is ripe. I will see Squire Crymes about 
 it to-morrow." 
 
 "I am not going to take Julian Crymes." 
 
 "You shall take wdiom I choose." 
 
 " I am to marry — not you, father ; according^, the choice 
 lies with me." 
 
 "You cannot choose against my will." 
 
 " Can I not ? I can choose where I list." 
 
 " Anyhow, you cannot take where I do not allow. I will 
 never allow of a wife to you who is not of good birth and 
 rich." 
 
 " Of good birth she is — she whom I have chosen ; rich 
 she is not, but what matters that when I have enough." 
 
 "Are you mad?" screamed the old man, springing from 
 his chair and running up and down the room, in wild ex- 
 citement. "Are you mad? Do you dare tell me you have 
 chosen without consulting me — without regard for my 
 wishes ? " 
 
 "I shall take Urith, or none at all." 
 
 "Then none at all," snaj^ped old Cleverdon. "Never, 
 never will I consent to your bringing that hussy through 
 my doors, under my roof." 
 
 "What harm has she done you? You have not heard a 
 word against her. She is not rich, but not absolutely poor 
 — she has, or will have, Willsworthy. " 
 
 " Willsworthy ! What is that compared with Julian's 
 inheritance ? " 
 
 " It is nothing. But I don't want Julian, and I will not 
 take her for the sake of her property. Come, father, sit 
 down, and let us talk this matter coolly and sensible." 
 
 He threw himself into a chair, and laid his hands on the 
 arms, and stretched his legs before him. 
 
 The Squire stopped, looked at his son, then staggered 
 8 
 
114 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 back to his chair as if he had been struck in the breast. 
 He thought his son must have lost his wits. Why — he had 
 not known this girl, this daughter of his most deadly ene- 
 my, not more than a day, and already he was talking of 
 making her his wife ! And this, too, to the throwing over 
 of his grand opportunity of uniting the Kilworthy property 
 
 to Hall ! 
 
 " Come, father, sit down, and keep cool. I am sorry if 
 you prefer Julian to Urith, but unfortunately the selection 
 has to be made, not by you, but by mc, and I greatly pre- 
 fer Urith to Julian. Indeed, I will not have the latter at 
 any price — not if she inherited all the Abbey lands of Tav- 
 istock. You are disappointed, but you will get over it. 
 When you come to know Urith you will like her ; she has 
 lost her father— and she will find one in you." 
 
 *' Never ! " gasped the old man ; then with an oath, as 
 he beat his fist on the table, " Never ! " _ 
 
 Bessie heard that high words were being cast about in 
 the supper-room, and she opened the door and came in 
 with a candle, on the pretence that she desired to have the 
 table cleared if her brother had done his meal. 
 
 "You may have all taken away," said Anthony. "My 
 father has destroyed what appetite I had." 
 
 " Your appetite," stormed the old man, " is after most 
 unwholesome diet ; you turn from the rich acres to the 
 starving peat-bog. I3y heaven ! I will have you shut up in 
 a mad-house along with your wench. I will have a sum- 
 mons out against her al once. I will go to Fernando 
 Crymes for it — it is sheer witchcraft. You have not seen 
 her to si^eak to half-a-dozen times. You never came to 
 know her at all till you had played the fool with her father's 
 
 grave, and now . By Heaven, it is witchcraft ! Folks 
 
 iiave been burnt for lighter cases than this." 
 
 Bessie went over to her father, and put her arms round 
 him, but he thrust her away. She looked axjpealingly to 
 her brother, but Anthony did not catch her eye. 
 
 " I do not see what you have against Urith," said Antho- 
 ny, after a long pause, during which the old man sat quiv- 
 ering with excitement, working his hands up and down on 
 the arms of his chair, as though polishing them. " That she 
 is not rich is no fault of hers. I have seen her often, and 
 have now and then exchanged a word with her, though 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 115 
 
 only yesterday came to see much of her, and have a long 
 talk with her. I did her a great wrong by my desecration 
 of her father's grave." 
 
 " Oh ! you would make that good by marrying the 
 daughter. AVell, 3'ou have put out Fox's eye. Patch that 
 up by marrying his sister.*' The old man's voice shook 
 with anger. 
 
 Anthony exercised imusual self-control. He knew that 
 he had reached a point in his life when he must not act 
 with rashness ; he saw that his father's opposition was 
 more serious than he had anticipated. Hitherto he had but 
 to express a wish, and it was yielded to. Occasionally he 
 had had differences with the old man, but had invariabh^ in 
 the end, carried out his own point. He did not doubt, even 
 now, that finally his father would give way, but clearly not 
 till after a battle of unusual violence ; but it was one in 
 "which he was resolved not to yield. His passion for Urith 
 was of sudden and also rapid growth, but was strong and 
 sincere. Moreover, he had pledged himself to her, and 
 could not draw back. 
 
 Bessie was resolved, at all costs, to divert the wrath of 
 her father from Anthony, if possible to turn his thoughts 
 into another channel ; so she said, stooping to his ear, 
 
 " Father ; dear father ! We met to-day oui* grandmother 
 in the churchyard." 
 
 The old man looked inquiringly at her. 
 
 "Madame Penwarne," exclaimed Bessie. 
 
 He had forgotten for the moment that she could have a 
 grandmother on any other side than his own, and he knew 
 that his mother was long dead. 
 
 " Yes, father," said Bessie. *' And she says Anthony is 
 the living image of our dear, dear mother." 
 
 The old man turned his eyes slowly on his son. The 
 light of the candle was on his face, bold, haughty, defiant, 
 and wonderfully handsome. Yes ! he w^as the very image 
 of his mother, and that same defiant smile he had inherited 
 from her. The old man in a moment recalled many a wild 
 scene of mutual reproach and stormy struggle. It was as 
 though the dead v/oman's spirit had risen up against him 
 to defy him once more, and to strike him to the heart. 
 
 Then Anthony said, " It is true, father. We both of us 
 met her ; and it is unfit that she should find a shelter else- 
 
116 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 where than in thig house. Something must be done for 
 
 her." 
 
 " Oh ! you will teach me my duty ! She is naught to 
 
 me." 
 
 "But to us she is. She is the mother of our mother," 
 answered Anthony, looking straight into his father's eyes, ' 
 and the old man lowered his ; he felt the reproach in his 
 son's words and glance. 
 
 Then he clenched his hands and teeth, and stood up, 
 and wrung his hands together. 
 
 Presently, with a gasp, he said, " Because I married a 
 beggar, is this mating with beggars to be a curse in the 
 family from generation to generation, entailed from father 
 to son. It shall not be ; by heaven ! it shall not be. You 
 have had your own way too long, Anthony ! I have borne 
 with your whimsies, because they were harmless. Now you 
 •will wreck your own happiness, your honour, make your- 
 self the laughing-stock of the w^hole country ! I will save 
 you from yourself. Do you hear mo ? I tried the sport, 
 and it did not answer. I had wealth and she beauty, and 
 beauty alone. It did not answer. We w^ere cat and dog 
 — your mother and I. Bessie know^s it. She can bear me 
 witness. I will not suffer this house to be made a hell of 
 
 agaiu." 
 
 Father," said Anthony, "it was not that which caused 
 you unhappiness— it was that you had interfered with the 
 love of two who had given their hearts to each other." 
 
 Bessie threw herself between her father and brother. 
 " Oh, Anthony ! Anthony ! " she cried. 
 
 *' You say that ! " exclaimed the old man. 
 
 "I do — and now I w^arn you not to do the same thing. 
 Urith and I love each other, and will have each other." 
 
 " I tell you I hats the girl — she shall never come here." 
 
 *' Father," said Anthony — his pulses were beating like a 
 thundering furious sea against cliffs, as a raging gale fling- 
 ing itself against the moorland tors — " father, I see why it 
 is that you are against Urith. You nourish against her the 
 bitterness you felt against her father. You laughed and 
 were pleased when I had dishonoured his grave. That 
 surprised me. Now I understand all, and now I am forced 
 to speak out the truth. You did a wrong in taking our 
 mother away from him whom she loved, and then you ill- 
 
URITII: A TALE OP DARTMOOU. 117 
 
 treated her when you had her iu your power. You have 
 nothing else against Urith — nothing. That she is poor is 
 no crime." 
 
 Bessie clasped her arms about the old man. "Do not 
 listen to him," she said. " He forgets his duty to you, 
 only because he has been excited and wronged to-daj'." 
 Then to her brother : "Anthony ! do not forget that he is 
 your father, to whom reverence is due." 
 
 Anthony remained silent for a couple of minutes, then 
 he stood up from his chair, and went over to the old man. 
 " I was wrong," he said. " I should not have spoken thus. 
 Come, father, we have had little j^uffs between us, never 
 such a bang as this. Let it be over ; no more about the 
 matter between us for a day or two, till we are both cool." 
 
 "I will make an end of this affair at once," said Squire 
 Cleverdon. ""What is the good of putting off what must 
 be said ? — of expecting a change which will never take 
 place. You shall never — never obtain my consent. So 
 give up the hussy, or you shall rue it." 
 
 "Nothing is gained, father, by threatening me. You 
 must know that. I have made up my mind." He folded 
 his arms on his breast. 
 
 "And so have I mine," answered old Cleverdon, folding 
 his arms. 
 
 Father and son stood opposite each other, hard and fixed 
 in their resolves — both men of indomitable, inflexible de- 
 termination. 
 
 "Hear mine," said the Squire; "you give the creature 
 up. Do you hear ? " 
 
 "I hear and refuse. I will not, I cannot give up Urith. 
 I have pledged my word." 
 
 " And here I jDledge mine ! " shouted the old man. 
 
 " No — no, in pity, father ! Oh, Anthon}-, leave the room ! " 
 pleaded Bessie, again interposing, but again ineffectually ; 
 her brother swept her aside, and refolded his arms, con- 
 fronting his father. 
 
 "Say on ! " he said, with his eyes fixed on the old man. 
 
 *'I swear by all I hold sacred," exclaimed the father, 
 "that I will never suffer that beggar-brat to cross my 
 threshold. Now you Icuow my resolution. As long as I 
 am alive, she shall be kept from it by my arms, and I shall 
 take care that she shall never rule here when I am gone. 
 
118 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 Now 3'ou know my mint!, many her or not as you please. 
 That is my last word to you." 
 
 " Your last Avord to me ! " repeated Anthony. He set 
 his hat on his head, tlie hat in which hung the utterly 
 withered marsh marigolds. "Very well ; so be it." He 
 walked to the door, i^assed through, and slammed it behind 
 him. 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 Luke Cleverdon walked slowty, with head bowed, to- 
 wards Willsworthy. The day was not warm, a cold east 
 wind was blowing down from the moor over the lowlands 
 to the west, but his brow was beaded with large drops. 
 
 Anthony had come to him the night before, and had 
 asked to be lodged. He had fallen out with his father, 
 and refused to remain at Hall. Luke knew the reason, 
 Anthony had told him. Anthony had told him more — that 
 L'rith was going to request his, Luke's, intercession with 
 her mother. 
 
 Neither Anthony nor Urith had the least suspicion of the 
 burden they were laying on the young man. It was his 
 place, thought Anthony, to do what could be done to fur- 
 ther his — Anthony's — wishes. Luke was under an obliga- 
 tion to the family, and must make Limself useful to it when 
 required. That he should employ his mediation to obtain, 
 an end entirely opposed to the wishes of the old man who 
 had housed and fed, and had educated him, did not strike 
 Anthony as preposterous. For the moment, the interests', 
 credit of the family were centred in the success of his own 
 suit for Urith, his own will was the paramount law, which 
 must be obe3'ed. 
 
 Urith thought of Lnke as a friend and companion, very 
 dear to her, but in c^uite another way from that in which 
 she regarded Anthony. Luke had been to her a comrade 
 in childhood, and she looked on him with the same child- 
 like regard that she had given him when they were chil- 
 dren ; with her this regard never ripened into a warmer 
 feoliupf. 
 
UniTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 119 
 
 Anthony had slept soundly during the night. Care for 
 the future, self-reproacli, or self-questioning over the past 
 had not troubled him. His father would come round. He 
 had always given way hitherto. He had attempted bluster 
 and threats, but the bluster ^vas nothing, the threats would 
 never be carried out. In a day or two at the furthest, the 
 old man would come to the parsonage, ask to see him, and 
 yield to his son's determination. 
 
 "I don't ask him to marry Urith," argued Anthonj'. 
 " So there is no reason why he should lie on his back and 
 kick and scratch. There is no sense in him. He will 
 come round in time, and Bessie will do what she can for 
 me." 
 
 But Luke had not slept. He was tortured with doubts, 
 in addition to the inward conflicts with his heart. Ho 
 asked himself, had he any right to interfere to promote 
 this union, which was so strongly opposed by the father — 
 so utterly distasteful to him ? And, again, was it to the 
 welfare of his cousin, and, above all, of Urith, that it should 
 take place ? 
 
 He knew the character of both Urith and Anthony. He 
 was well aware how passionate at times, how sullen at 
 others, she was wont to be. He attributed her sullenness 
 to the nagging, teasing tongue, and stupid mismanagement 
 of her mother, and the blunderheadedness of her uncle — 
 interfering with her liberty where they should have al- 
 lowed her freedom, crossing her in matters where she 
 should have been suffered to follow her own way, and let- 
 ting her go wild in those directions in which she ought to 
 have been curbed. He knew that this mismanagement had 
 made her dogged and defiant. 
 
 He knew, also, how that his cousin, Anthonj^ had been 
 pampered and flattered, till he thought himself much more 
 than he was ; did not know the value of money ; was wil- 
 ful, impetuous, and intolerant of opposition. Would not 
 two such headstrong natures, when brought together, be 
 as flint and steel? Moreover, Luke knew that Anthony 
 Lad been regarded on all sides as the proper person to take 
 Julian Cr^^mes. It had been an open secret that such 
 an arrangement was contemiDlated by the parents on both 
 sides, and the young people had, in a measure, acquiesced 
 in it. Anthony had shown Julian attentions which were 
 
120 VniTB: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 only allowable on such an understanding. He may have 
 meant nothing by them ; nevertheless, they had been suffi- 
 ciently marked to attract observation, and perhaps to lead 
 the girl herself to conclude that his heart was touched, and 
 that he only tarried a few years to enjoy his freedom be- 
 fore engaging himsell 
 
 But Luke was so sensitively conscientious that he feared 
 his own jealousy of his cousin was prompting these sus- 
 picions and doubts ; and he felt that his own heart was 
 too perturbed for him at x^i'esent to form a cool and inde- 
 pendent survey of the situation. 
 
 As he expected and feared, so was it. Urith arrested 
 him on the way up the hill to Willsworthy. She knew he 
 would come to see her mother, and was on the lookout for hira. 
 She asked him to plead her cause for her, and in his irre- 
 solution he accepted the office, against his better judgment, 
 moved thereto by the thought that he was thus doing vio- 
 lence to his own heart, and most eftcctually trampling 
 down and crushing under heel his own wishes, unformed 
 though these wishes were. 
 
 Luke found Mistress Malvino in her bedroom. She had 
 been greatly weakened by the fit on the previous morning, 
 still more so by the exhaustion consequent on the visits of 
 the afternoon. However ill and feeble she might be, her 
 tongue alone retained its activity, and so long as she could 
 talk she was unconscious of her waning powers. In the 
 tranquillity that followed, when her acquaintances and sym- 
 pathisers had withdrawn, great prostration ensued. But 
 she had somewhat rallied on the following morning, and 
 was quite ready to receive Luke Cleverdon when an- 
 nounced. 
 
 She was in her bed, and he was shocked to observe the 
 change that had come over her. She held out her hand to 
 him. "Ah, Master Luke!" she sighed, "I have need of 
 comfort after what I have gone through ; and I am grate- 
 ful that you have come to see me. Whatever will become 
 of my poor daughter when I am gone ! I have been think- 
 ing and thinking, and wishing that it had pleased God you 
 were her brother, that I might have entrusted her into 
 your hands. You were here and saw how she went on and 
 took sides with that Son of Belial, that Anthony, when he 
 came concerning the grave of my dear husband. She has 
 
XJIIITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOIL 121 
 
 no heart, that child. I know she will be glad when I am 
 gone, and will dance on my tomb. I have not spared her 
 advice and counsel, nor have I ever let her go, when I have 
 my rebuke to administer, under half an hour by tlie 
 clock." 
 
 "Madam," said the young curate, "do not now make 
 boast of the amount of counsel and admonition you have 
 administered ; it is even possible that this may have been 
 overdone, and may have had somewhat to do with the temper 
 of your daughter. It is now a time for 3'ou to consider 
 whether you are prepared, should it please God to call 
 
 you " 
 
 "Oh ! " exclaimed j\[rs. Malvine, "I am thankful to say 
 I am always prepared. I have done my duty to my hus- 
 band, to my brother, and my child. As for Urith, I have 
 perfectly fed her with m}' opinions on her conduct in every 
 position and chance of life. My brother has, I am sure, 
 also not to charge me with ever passing it over when he 
 comes home drunk, or gets drunk off our cider, which is 
 no easy matter, but it can be done with application. I 
 have always, and at length, and with vehemence, told him 
 what I think of his conduct." 
 
 " You must consider," said the curate, without allowing 
 himself to be drawn into admiration for the good qualities 
 of the sick woman, "you must consider, madam, not how 
 much 3'ou have harangued and scolded others, but how 
 much you deserve rebuke youi-self." 
 
 " I have never spared m^'self, heaven knows ! I have 
 worked hard — I have worked harder than any slave. There 
 are five large jars of last year's whortleberry jam still un- 
 opened in the store-room. I can die happy, whenever I 
 have to die, and not a sheet unhemmed, and we have 
 twenty-four." 
 
 "There are other matters to think of," said Luke, grave- 
 ly, "than whortleberry jam — five pots, sheets — twenty-four, 
 rebuke of others — unmeasured, incalculable. You have to 
 think of what you have left undone." 
 
 " There is nothing," interrupted the sick woman, "but 
 a few ironmoulds in Solomon's shirts, which came of a 
 nail in the washing-tray. I gave the woman who washed 
 a good piece of my mind about that, because she ought to 
 have seen the naik But I'll get salt of lemon and take that 
 
122 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 out, if it please the Lord to raise me u^ again ; at the 
 same time, I'll turn the laundress away." 
 
 "It is by no means unlikely that heaven will not raise 
 you up," said the curate, "and in your present condition, 
 instead of thinking of dismissing" servants for an oversight, 
 you should consider whether you have never left undone 
 those things which you ought to have done." 
 
 "I never have," answered the widow, with disdain, " ex- 
 cept once. I ought to have had Solomon's dog Toby hung, 
 but I was too good, too tender-hearted, and I did not. The 
 dog scratched, and was swarming with fleas. Solomon 
 never cared to have him kept clean, and I told him if he did 
 not I w^ould have Toby hung, but I did not. I have, I ad- 
 mit, this on my conscience. But, Lord ! you are not com- 
 forting me at all, and a minister of the Word should pour 
 the balm of Gilead into the wounds of the sick. Now, if 
 you would have Urith up and give her a good reprimand, 
 and Solomon also, and if you would hang that dog — that 
 would be a comfort to my soul, and I could die in peace." 
 
 " ^Yith your complaint, Mistress Malvine, you must bo 
 ready to die at any moment — whether in a true or false 
 peace depends on your preparation. I am not here to 
 lecture your brother and daughter, and hang a dog because 
 it has fleas, but to bid you search and examine your own 
 conscience, and see whether there be not therein inordi- 
 nate self-esteem, and whether you have not encouraged 
 the censorious spirit within you till you have become blind 
 to all your own defects, in your eagerness to pull motes out 
 of the eyes of others." 
 
 " The\'e ! bless me ! " exclaimed the widow. " Did you 
 hear that ? The soot has fallen down the chimney. I told 
 Solomon to have the chimney swept, and, as usual, he has 
 neglected to see to it. I'll send for him and give him what 
 I think ; perhaps," she added, in a querulous tone, " wdien 
 he considers that the words come from a dying sister he 
 may be more considerate in future, and have chimneys 
 swept regularly." 
 
 " I have," said the young curate, " one question on which 
 I require an answer. Are you in charity with all the world ? 
 Do you forgive all those who have trespassed against you ?" 
 
 "I am the most amiable person in the world, that is 
 why I am so imposed on, and Solomon, and Urith, and the 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 123 
 
 maids, and tlio men take such advantage of me. There is 
 that dog, under the bed, scratching. I hear it, I feel it. Do, 
 prithee. Master Luke, take the tongs and go under the 
 bed after it. How can I have peace and rest whilst Toby 
 is under the bed, and I know the state his hair is in ? " 
 
 " You say you are on terms of charity with all the world. 
 I conclude that you from your heart forgive my cousin 
 Anthony his unconsiderate act on St. Mark's Eve." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed the sick woman, striving to rise in 
 her bed, "I forgive him that — never — no, so help me 
 Heaven, never.'* 
 
 " So help you Heaven ! " said Luke, starting up, and 
 answering in an authoritative tone, whilst zeal-inspired 
 wrath flushed his pale face. " So help you Heaven, do you 
 dare to say, you foolish woman ! Heaven will help to for- 
 give, never help to harbour an unforgiving spirit. If you 
 do not pardon such a trespass, committed unintentionally, 
 you will not be forgiven yours." 
 
 "1 have none — none to signify, that I have not settled 
 with Heaven long ago," said the widow, peevishly. "I 
 wish. Master Luke, you would not worry me. I need com- 
 fort, not to be vexed on my deathbed." 
 
 " I ask you to forgive Anthony, will you do so ? " 
 
 She turned her face away. 
 
 " Now listen to me, madam. He has fallen into dis- 
 grace with his father. He has had to leave his home, and 
 his father will have no word with him." 
 
 " I rejoice to hear it." 
 
 "And the reason is this — the young man loves 3'our 
 daughter Urith." He paused, and willed his brow. 
 
 The widow turned her face round, full of quickened at- 
 tention. 
 
 " That he did not purpose a dishonour to the grave you 
 may be assured, when you know that he seeks the hand of 
 Urith. How could one who loves think to advance his suit 
 by an outrage on the father's memory? It was an accident, 
 an accident he deplores most heartily. He will make what 
 amends he can. Give him your daughter, and then he will 
 have the right of a son-in-law to erect a handsome and 
 suitable tomb to your husband, and his father." 
 
 As he spoke, he heard the steps creak, Urith was ascend- 
 ing the stairs, coming to her mother, to throw herself on 
 
124 URITH: A TALE OW DARTMOOR. 
 
 her knees at lier side, clasp her hand, and add her entreaties 
 to those of Luke Cleverdon. 
 
 " Help me up ! " said Mrs. Mai vine. 
 
 Then the curate put his arm to her, and raised her into 
 a sitting" position. Her face had altered its expression 
 from peevishness to anger. It was grey, with a green tinge 
 about the nose and lips, the lines from the nostrils to the 
 chin were deep and dark. Her eyes had a hard, threaten- 
 ing, metallic glimmer in them. 
 
 At that moment Urith aj^peared in the doorway. Luke 
 stood, with his hand to his chin, and head bowed, looking 
 at the woman. 
 
 " You are here, Urith ! " said she, holding out her hand 
 towards her sjoread out. "You have dared — dared to love 
 the man who has dishonoured your father's grave. You 
 have come here to ask me to sanction and bless this love." 
 She gasped for breath. Her face was livid, haggard ; but 
 her dark eyes were literati}' blazing — shooting out deadly- 
 cold glares of hate. The sweat-drops ran off her brow and 
 droi:>ped upon the sheet. Tlie lips were drawn from the 
 teeth. There was in her appearance something of unearthly 
 horror. "You shall never — never obtain from me what 
 you want. If 3'ou have any respect for your father's name 
 — any love lingering in your heart for the mother that 
 bore you — you will shake him off, and never speak to 
 him again." She remained panting, and gulj^ing, and 
 shivering. So violent was her emotion that it suffocated 
 her. 
 
 "I know," she continued, in a lower tone, and with her 
 hands flat on the coverlet before her, "what jon do not — 
 how my life has been turned to wormwood. His mother 
 stood between me and my happiness — between me and 
 your father's heart ; and, after what I have endured, shall 
 I forgive that ? Aye, and a double injury — the wrong done 
 by Margaret Penwarne's son to my husband's grave? — 
 Never ! '"' 
 
 She beq-an to move herself in bed, as thouMi tryincf to 
 scramble up into a standing posture, and again her hand 
 was threateningly extended. "Never — never shall this 
 come about. Urith ! I charge 3'ou " 
 
 The girl, alarmed, ran towards her mother. The old 
 woman warned her back. "What ! will you do \'iolence to 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 125 
 
 me to stay my words ? Will you throttle me to prevent 
 them from coming out of my lips? " 
 
 Again she made an effort to rise, and scrambled to her 
 knees : "I pray heaven, if he dares to enter my doors, that 
 he may be struck down on my hearth — lifeless ! " 
 
 She gave a gasp, shivered, and fell back on the bed. 
 
 She was dead. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 THE COUSINS. 
 
 Some days passed. Mistress Malvine had been buried. 
 No direct communication had taken place between Anthony 
 and his father. The gentle Bessie, full of distress at the 
 breach, had done what she could to heal it ; but ineffectu- 
 ally. Each was too proud and obstinate to make the first 
 advance. Bessie's influence with her father was of the 
 slightest — he had never showed love towards his plain 
 daughter ; and Anthony was too much of a man, in his own 
 idea, to allow himself to be guided by a woman. Luke wag 
 perplexed more than ever. Urith was now left wholly 
 without proper protection. Her uncle was worse than 
 useless — an element of disorder in the household, and of 
 disintegration in the pecuniary affairs of the family. The 
 estate of Willsworthy did not come to him. It had belonged 
 to his mother, and from his mother had gone to his sister, 
 and now passed to his niece. It was a manor that seemed 
 doomed to follow the spindle. But, though it had not 
 become his property, he was trustee and guardian for his 
 niece till she married ; and a more unsatisfactory trustee 
 or improper guardian could hardly have been chosen. He 
 was, indeed, an amiable, well-intentioned man ; but was 
 weak, and over-fond of conviviality and the society of his 
 social inferiors, from whom alone he met with deference. 
 He had been brought up to the profession of the law ; but, 
 on his father's death, had thrown up what little work had 
 come to him that he might be Avith his mother and sister, 
 as manager of the estate. When his sister mari'ied Kichard 
 Malvine he was again thrown on his own resoui-ces, and 
 
126 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 lived mainly on subventions from his sister and friends, 
 and a little law business that he picked up and misman- 
 aged, till his brother-in-law died, when he returned to 
 Wills worthy, to the mismanagement of that property which 
 Richard Malvine had barely recovered from the disorder 
 and deterioration into which it had been brought by Solo- 
 mon Gibbs's previous rule. The old fellow was unable to 
 stick to any sort of work, to concentrate his thoughts for 
 ten minutes on any object, was irresolute, and swayed by 
 those with whom he associated. His sister lectured and 
 scolded him, and he bore her rebuke with placid amiabilit3% 
 and i^romises of amendment ; promises that were never 
 fulfilled. One great source of annoyance to his sister was; 
 his readiness to talk over all family matters at the tavern 
 with his drinking comrades, to explain his views as to what 
 was to be done in every contingency, and dilate on the 
 pecuniary difficulties of his sister, and his schemes for the 
 remedy of the daily deepening impecuniosity. This public 
 discussion of the affairs of the family had done much ta 
 bring it into disrepute. Those who heard Mr. Gibbs oven 
 his cups retailed what they heard to their friends and 
 wives with developments of their own, and the whol(S 
 neighbourhood had come to believe that the Malvines were 
 a family irretrievably lost, and that Willsworthy was a pooM 
 and intractable estate. Those who used their eyes — as 
 Crymes — did not share in this latter opinion, they saw that 
 the proj^erty w^as deteriorated by mismanagement, but they 
 all readily accepted the opinion that bankruptcy was inevi- 
 table to the possessors at that time of Willsworthy. 
 
 Luke Cleverdon, knowing all the circumstances, and hav- 
 ing gauged the character and abilities of Solomon Gibbs,, 
 was anxious concerning the future of Urith. She had ten- 
 dered a dubious, sullen, and irregular submission to heu 
 mother, but was not likely to endure the capricious, unin- 
 telligent domination of her uncle. His sister had, moreover,, 
 exercised a verv considerable restraint on Solomon. He 
 always lived in wholesome dread of her tongue ; when re- 
 lieved of every restraint, there was no reckoning on wha^ 
 he might do with the money scraped together. Urith her- 
 self was unaccustomed to managing a house. Her mother 
 had been an admirable disciplinarian in the house, and 
 kept everything there in order, and Urith had run wild. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 127 
 
 Her mother had not attempted to join her with herself in 
 domestic managemeut, and had driven the girl into a 
 chronic condition of repressed .revolt by her unceasing 
 fault-finding-. The girl had kept herself outside the house, 
 had spent her time on the moors to escape the irritation 
 and rebellion provoked bj her mother s tongue. 
 
 The only tolerable solution would have been for Luke to 
 have made Uritli his ^Yife, and taken on himself the man- 
 agement of the property, but such a solution was now im- 
 possible, for Urith's heart was engaged. It had never been 
 a possibility to Luke's imagination, for he had sufficient 
 cool judgment to be quite sure that he and Urith would 
 never agree. He was quiet, reserved, devoted to his books 
 or to antiquarian researches on the moor, and she had an 
 
 intractable spirit — at one time sullen, at another frantic 
 
 with which he could not cojoe. 
 
 Besides this uncongeniahty of temperament, he had no 
 knowledge of or taste for agricultural pursuits, and to re- 
 cover ^Ylllsworthy a man was needed who was a practical 
 farmer and acquainted with business. If he were, more- 
 over, to live at Willsworthy and devote himself to 'the es- 
 tate, he must abandon his sacred calling, and this Luke 
 could not justify to his conscience. The choice of Urith, 
 fallen on Anthony, was unobjectionable as far as suitability 
 for the place went. Anthony had been reared on a farm, 
 and was familiar with all that pertained to agriculture! 
 He had energy, spirit, and judgment. But the strong un- 
 reasoning opposition of old Squire Cleverdon, and the re- 
 fusal of Urith's mother to consent to it, made Luke resolve 
 to do nothing to further the union. 
 
 ^ Luke spoke to Anthony on the matter, but was met with 
 airy assurance. The old man must come round, it was but 
 a matter of time, and as Mistress Malvine was but recently 
 dead, it could not be that the daughter should marry at 
 once. There must ensue delay, and during this delay 
 old Cleverdon would gradually accustom himself to the 
 prospect, and his anger cool. 
 
 Time passed, and no tokens of yielding on the part of 
 the father appeared. Luke spoke again to his cousin. 
 Now Anthony's tone was somewhat altered. His father 
 was holding out because he beheved that by so doing he 
 w^ould prevent the marriage, but he was certain to relent 
 
128 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 as soon as the irrevocable step had been taken. Just aa 
 David mourned and wept as long as the child was sick, but 
 washed his face, and ate and accommodated himself to the 
 situation when the child was dead, so would it be with the 
 Squire. He would sulk and threaten so long as Anthony 
 was meditating matrimony, but no sooner was he married 
 than the old man would ask them all to dinner, kiss, and 
 be jolly. 
 
 Luke by no means shared his cousin's sanguine views. 
 Mistress Penwarne was in the house, and from her he 
 learnt the circumstances of the marriage and subsequent 
 disagreement of old Anthony and Margaret ; and he could 
 to some extent understand the dislike the old Squire had 
 to his son's marrying the daughter of his rival. He knew 
 the hard, relentless, envious nature of the man, he had 
 suffered from it himself, and he doubted whether it would 
 yield as young Anthon}^ anticipated. It was true that 
 Anthony was the Squire's son and heir, that he was the 
 keystone to the great triumphal Cleverdon arch the old 
 man had been rearing in imagination ; it was certain that 
 there would be a struggle in his heart between his pride 
 and his love. Luke was by no means confident that old 
 Cleverdon's affection for his son would prove so mastering 
 a passion as to overcome the many combined emotions 
 which were in insurrection within him against this union, 
 and impelling him to maintain his attitude towards his son 
 of alienation and hostility. 
 
 When Luke sjwke to Anthony of the difficulties that stood 
 in his way, Anthony burst forth impatiently with the words, 
 " It is of no use you talking to me like this, cousin. I 
 have made up my mind, I will have Urith as my wife. I 
 love her, and she loves me. What does it matter that 
 there are obstacles ? Obstacles have to be surmounted. 
 My father will come round. As to Urith's mother, the 
 old woman was prejudiced, she was angry. She knows 
 better now, and is sorry for what she said." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " Oh ! of course it is so." 
 
 "But do 3'ou suppose that Urith will go in opposition to 
 her mother's dying wish ? " 
 
 " She will make no trouble over that, I reckon. Words 
 are wind — they break no bones. I appeal from Alexander 
 
XfTlTTH: A TALF. OV BAnTSIOOru 120 
 
 drunk to Alexander sober, from the ill-informed and 
 peppery old woman, half- crazed on her death-bed, to 
 the same in her present condition. Will that content 
 
 you?" 
 
 "You have not spoken to XJrith on this matter? " 
 
 " No — I have not seen her since the funeral. I have had 
 that much grace in me. But I "will see her to-day, I swear 
 to you. I will tell you what I think," said Anthony, wdth 
 vehemence. " You are as cold-blooded as an eel. You have 
 never loved — all your interest is in old stones, and pots and 
 pans dug up out of cairns. You love them in a frozen 
 fashion, and have no notion what is the ardour of human 
 hearts loving each other. So you make one difficulty on 
 another. Why, Cousin Luke, if there were mountains of 
 ice I would climb over them, seas of fire, I w^ould wade 
 through them, to Urith. Neither heaven nor hell shall 
 separate us." 
 
 " Do not speak like this,'* said the curate, sternly. "It 
 is a tempting of Providence." 
 
 "Providence brought us together and set us ablaze. 
 Providence is bound to finish the good work and unite us." 
 
 " There has been neither consideration nor delay in this 
 matter, and Providence, maybe, raises these bankers against 
 which you kick." 
 
 *' I will kick them over," said Anthony. 
 
 "Yes," said Luke, with a touch of bitterness ; "always 
 acting with passion and inconsideration. Nothing but head- 
 long folly w^ould have led you to do violence to Master Mal- 
 vine's grave. The same rash impetuosity made you injure 
 Pox Crymes' eye ; and now you will thi'ow yourself head- 
 long into a state of life which involves the welfare of an- 
 other, just because you have a fancy in your head that may 
 X^ass as quickly as it has arisen." 
 
 " I am not going to listen to a sermon. This is not Sun- 
 day." 
 
 " I do not believe you will make Urith happy." 
 
 " No, not in the fashion you esteem happiness. Certainly 
 not in that. Li grubbing into barrows after old jDots and 
 counting grey stones on the moor. No. Urith would gape 
 and go to sleep over such dull happiness as this. But I and 
 she understand happiness in other sort from you. We shall 
 manage somehow to make each, other happy, and I defy my 
 9 
 
130 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 father and the ghost of old Madam Malvine to stand be- 
 tween us and s^^oil our bUss." 
 
 Luke bowed his head over the table, and put his hand 
 before his eyes, that his cousin might not observe the emo- 
 tion that stirred him at these cutting but thoughtlessly 
 uttered words of his cousin. He did not answer at once. 
 After some pause he said, without looking up, *'Yes, you 
 may be happy together after your fashion, but something- 
 more than passion is wanted to found a household, and that 
 is, as Scripture tells us, the blessing of the parents." 
 
 " My father is all right," said Anthony. " He has set his 
 head on my uniting Kilworthy to Hall, and trebling the 
 family estate. He can't have that, so he is growling. But 
 Urith does not come empty ; she has Willsworthy. If we 
 do not extend the kingdom of Cleverdon in one direction, 
 we shall in another. My father will see that in time, and 
 come round. The weathercock does not always point to the 
 east ; we shall have a twist about, a few rains, and a soft 
 west, warm breeze of reconciliation. I will make you a bet 
 — what wdll you take ? " 
 
 "I take no bets; I ask you to consider. In marriage 
 each side brings something to the common fund. What 
 do you bring ? Urith has Willsworthy." 
 
 "And I HalL" 
 
 *'No ; recollect your father's threat." 
 
 "It was but a threat — he never meant it." 
 
 " Suppose he did mean it, and perseveres ; you will then 
 have to be the receiver, not the giver." 
 
 " The place is gone to the dogs. I can give my arms and 
 head to it, and bring it round from the kennek" 
 
 " That is something, certainly. Then, again, you are 
 wilful, and have had your way in all things. How will you 
 agree with a girl equally wilful and unbending ? " 
 
 " In the best way ; we shall both will the same things. 
 You don't understand what love is. Where two young 
 creatures love, they do not strive, they pull together. It is 
 of no profit talking to you, Luke, about love ; it is to you 
 what Hebrew or Greek would be to me — an unintelligible 
 language in unreadable characters. I will be off to see 
 Urith at once." 
 
 "No," said Luke, "you must not go to Willsworthy; 
 you will cause folks to talk." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOH. 131 
 
 " I care nothing for their talk." 
 
 *'If you care nothing for what people say, how is it you 
 fell out with and struck Fox ? You must consider others 
 besides yourself. You have no right to bring the name of 
 Urith into discredit. Do you not suppose that already 
 tongues are busy concerning the cause of your quarrel with 
 your father ? " 
 
 "But I must see her, and come to some understanding." 
 
 *' I will go to AVillsworthy at once, and speak to her of 
 your matter. I have not done so hitherto — I have only 
 sought to comfort her on the death of her mother." 
 
 *' I do not desire a go-betweeu," said Anthony, peevishly. 
 "In these concerns none can act like the principals." 
 
 " But I cannot suffer you to go. You must think of 
 Urith's good name, and not have that any more put into the 
 mouths of those who go to the pot-house. It has been 
 done more than enough already. Stay here till I return." 
 
 Luke took up his three-corner hat and his stick and went 
 forth. On reaching Willsworthy he did not find Urith in 
 the house, but ascertained from a maid-servant that she was 
 in the walled garden. Thither he betook himself across 
 the back courtyard. The rooks were making a great noise 
 in the s^'camores outside. 
 
 He found the girl seated on the herb-bank in the neg- 
 lected garden, with her head on her hand, deep in thought. 
 She was pale, and her face drawn ; but the moment she saw 
 Luke she started up and flushed. 
 
 *' I am so glad you are come. You will tell me something 
 about Anthony?" 
 
 She was only glad to see him because he would speak of 
 Anthony, thought Luke ; and it gave a pang to his heart. 
 
 *' Yes," said he, taking a seat beside her, *'I will speak 
 to 3'ou about Anthony." 
 
 She looked him full in the face out of her large, earnest, 
 dark eyes. "Is it true," she asked, "what I have been 
 told, that he has fallen out with his father, and is driven 
 from Hall ? " 
 
 "He has taken himself off from Hall," answered Luke, 
 " on your account. His father refuses to countenance his 
 attachment to 3'ou." 
 
 " Then where is he ? With you ? " 
 
 "Yes, with me. I have come to know your mind. He 
 
132 URITH: A TALE OF BARTMOOn. 
 
 cannot ahva^'S remain with me and at variance with hig 
 father." 
 
 " On my account this has happened ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes, on j'our account. How is this to end ? " 
 
 She put her hands to her brow, and pressed lier temples. 
 *'I am pulled this way and that," she answered, "and I feel 
 as if I should go mad. But I have made my resolve, I will 
 give him up. I have been an undutiful daughter always, 
 and now I will obey my mother's last wishes. In that 
 one thing that will cost me most, I will submit, and so 
 atone for the wrong I did all the years before." 
 
 " Then you determine to give up Anthony, wdiolly ? " 
 
 The colour came and went in her cheek, then deserted it 
 entirely. She clasped her hands over her knee — she had 
 reseated herself — and she said in a lov/ voice, " Wholly." 
 
 "You give me authority to tell him this? " 
 
 " Yes. It can never bo that we can belong to each other 
 after what my mother said. You heard. She hoped if ho 
 ever passed through this door, that he might be struck 
 dead on the hearth," 
 
 "They were awful words," said Luke, "but " 
 
 " They were her last words." 
 
 Luke returned to his homo and found Anthony there, 
 pacing his little parlour, to work off his impatience. When 
 he heard what Luke had to say, ho burst into angry re- 
 proach. " You have spoken like a parson ! It was wrong 
 for you to meddle, I knew no good would come of it ! I 
 will not hear of this ! I will go to Urith myself ! " 
 
 "You must not." 
 
 "I will! Nothing shall stay me." He caught up his 
 hat and swung oat of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XVm. 
 
 A LOVER AND HIS LASS. 
 
 Anthony strode along the way to Y\7"illsworthy. That 
 way took him past Cudliptown. The landlord was at the 
 door of his inn. 
 
 " What ! pass my house without a step inside ? " asked 
 
URITn: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 133 
 
 he. "There's Master Sol Gibbs there and Moorman 
 Ever." 
 
 " I cannot stay," answered Anthony. 
 
 *_' Oh ! " laughed the taverner, " I see ; " and he began to 
 whistle a country song — "An evening so clear."' 
 
 Instantly the strains of a viol-de-gamba were beard from 
 within taking up the strain, and Uncle Solomon's voice 
 singing lustily : 
 
 Au evening so clear 
 
 I would that I were, 
 To kiss tliy soft cheek 
 
 With the faintest of air. 
 The star that is twinklinc: 
 
 So brightly above, 
 I would that I were 
 
 To enlighten my love ! 
 
 Anthony walked on. His brow knitted, and ho set big 
 teeth. The innkeeper bad guessed that be w\as going to 
 Willsworthy, and suspected the reason. That idiot Solo- 
 mon Gibbs had been talkino-. 
 
 As he strode along, the plaintive and sweet melody fol- 
 lowed him ; all that was harsh in the voice mellowed by 
 the distance ; and Anthony sang to himself low, as he con- 
 tinued bis course : 
 
 I would I were heaven, 
 
 O'erarching and blue, 
 I'd bathe thee, my dearest, 
 
 In freshest of dew. 
 I would I the sun were, 
 
 All radiance and glow, 
 I'd pour all my splendour 
 
 On thee, love, below ! 
 
 He remembered bow — only a few weeks agone — when be 
 bad been at the tavern with some comrades, and songs had 
 been called for, be bad expressed bis impatience at this 
 very piece, which be said w^as rank folly. Then be had not 
 understood the yearning of the heart for the loved one, 
 bad not conceived of the desire to be all and everything to 
 its mistress. Now be was expelled from bis father's bouse, 
 threatened with being disinherited, and was actually with- 
 
134 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 out money in bis pocket wherewith to pay for ale or wine 
 at the tavern, had he entered it. He who had been so free 
 with his coin, so ready to treat others, was now unable to 
 give himself a mug of ale. That was what had driven 
 him past the tavern door without crossing the threshold, 
 or rather that was one reason why he had resisted the in- 
 vitation of the host. Yes — he had suffered for Urith, and 
 he rather plumed himself ou having done so. She could 
 not resist his appeal when he told her all he had risked for 
 her sake. 
 
 Besides, Anthony was stubborn. The fact of his father's 
 resistance to his wish had hammered his resolution into 
 inflexibility. Nothing in the world, no person ahve or 
 (lead — neither his father nor her mother — should interfere 
 to frustrate his will. Anthony's heart beat fast between 
 anger and impatience to break down every obstacle \ he 
 sang on, as he walked : — 
 
 If I were the waters 
 
 That round the worhl run, 
 I'd hivish my pearls on thee, 
 
 Not keeping of one. 
 If I were the summer, 
 
 My flowers and green 
 I'd heap on tliy temples, 
 
 And crown thee my Queen. 
 
 He had reached the ascent to Willsworthy, he looked up 
 the lane— and saw Urith in it ; outside the entrance gates 
 to the Manor House. She was there looking for her uncle, 
 wdio had been required about some farm-business. She 
 saw Anthony coming to her, with the sun glistening on him 
 over the rude stone hedge hung with fern. She heard his 
 song, and she knew the words — she knew that he was ap- 
 plying them to her. For a moment she hesitated, whether 
 to meet him or to retire into the house. She speedily 
 formed her resolution. If there must be an interview, a 
 final interview, it had better be at once, and got over. 
 
 The evening sun was low, the moor peaks over the ma- 
 nor house were flushed a delicate pink, as though the 
 heather were in bloom. Alas ! this year no heather would 
 >vi-ap the hills in rose flush, for it had been burnt in the 
 great fire. High aloft the larks were shrilling. She could 
 
URITJT: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 135 
 
 hear their song in broken snatches between the strophes 
 of Anthon3''s lay as he ascended the hill. He had seen her, 
 and his voice became loud and jubilant : — 
 
 If I were a kiln, 
 
 All fire and flame, 
 I'd mantle and girdle thee 
 
 Hound with the same. 
 But as I am nothing 
 
 Save love-mazed Bill, 
 Pray take of me, make of me, 
 
 Just what you will. 
 
 He had reached her. He held out his arms to engirdle 
 her as he had threatened, and the flame leaped and danced 
 in his e^^es and glowed in his lips and cheek. 
 
 She drew back proudly. 
 
 *' You have had my message ?" 
 
 " I take no messages — certainly none sent through par- 
 sons. The dove is the carrier between lovers, and not the 
 croaking raven." 
 
 "Perhaps it is as well," said Urith, coldly. She had 
 nerved herself to play her part, but her heart was bound- 
 ing and beating against her sides like the Tavy in one of 
 its granite pools beneath a cataract. *' I sent by Master 
 Luke Cleverdon to let you know that we must see each 
 other no more." 
 
 " I will take no such message. I will— I must see you. 
 I cannot live without." 
 
 " My mother's wishes must be followed. I have j)rom- 
 ised to see and speak to you no more." 
 
 " You promised ! To whom ? To her ? " 
 
 Urith was silent. 
 
 " I will know who twisted this promise out of you. Was 
 it Luke ? If so his cassock and our cousiuship shall not 
 save him." 
 
 "It was not Luke." 
 
 " It was your mother ? " 
 
 " I did not actually promise anything to my mother. 
 But — I must not shrink from telling you— I hive made the 
 X3romise to myself, we can be nothing to each other." 
 
 " Unsay the promise at once — do you hear? At once." 
 
 "I cannot do that. I made it because I considered it 
 
13G UMTII: A TALE OF DAUTMOOR. 
 
 riglit. Your father is against our — acquaintance " She 
 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Go on — he is againstour being lovers, and more against 
 our marrying. But what of that ? He always gives way 
 in the end, and now the only means of bringing him to 
 his senses is for us to go before the altar." 
 
 "My mother, with her last breath, warned me from 
 you." 
 
 *'I know perfectly well for what reason. My mother 
 and your father were to each other what are now you and 
 I ; then, b}^ some chance, all went wrong, and each got wed 
 to the wrong person. Neither was happ}' after that, and 
 my father on one side and your mother on the other, could 
 not forget this, so they have carried on the grudge to the 
 next generation, and would make us do the wrong that 
 they did, and give you to — tlie Lord knows who? — perhaps 
 Fox Crymes ; and me, certainly, to Julian. I have seen 
 what comes of wedding where the heart is elsewhere. I 
 will not commit the folly my father was guilty of. Julian 
 Crymes shall take another, she shall never have me. And 
 you, I reckon, have no fanc}" for another save me ; and if 
 your mother had made any scheme for you, she has taken 
 it with her to the grave, and you are not tied to make your- 
 self unhappy thereon." 
 
 As he spoke, Urith retreated through the gateway into 
 the court, and Anthony, vehement in his purpose, followed 
 her. 
 
 They were as much alone and unobserved in the little 
 court as in the lane, for only the hall windows and those 
 of an unused parlour looked into it. But Anthony raised 
 his voice in his warmth of feeling. " Urith," said he, " I am 
 not accustomed to take a No, and what I am not accus- 
 tomed to I will not take." 
 
 '' No ! " she answered, and looked up, with a kindling of 
 her eye. *' And what I say, to that I am accustomed to 
 hold ; and what I am accustomed to hold, that hold I will. 
 I say No." She set her foot down. 
 
 "And I will not take it. I throw it back. Why, look 
 you, you have said Yes. We are pledged to each other. 
 You and I on The Cleave. There I have you, Urith. You 
 passed your word to me, and I will not release you." 
 
 She looked on the paved ground of the court, with grass 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 137 
 
 sprouting between the cobble-stones, and played with her 
 foot on the pebbles. Her brows were contracted, and her 
 lips tight closed. Presently she looked up at him steadily-, 
 and said — 
 
 " It is for the good of both that I withdraw that word, 
 stolen from me before I had weighed and appraised its 
 worth. I will not be the cause of strife between you and 
 your father, and I dare not go against the last words of 
 my mother. Do you know what she said ? She prayed 
 that you might be struck dead on the hearth should you 
 dare enter our doors again." 
 
 ''Very well," said Anthon}', *' let us see what her prayer 
 avails. Stand aside, Uritli." 
 
 He thrust her away and walked forward to the entrance 
 of the house, then he turned and looked at her and laughed. 
 The sun shone on the porch, but it was dark within. He 
 put out his hands and held to the stone-jambs, and looking 
 at Urith with the dazzling evening sun in his eyes, he 
 said — 
 
 "See now! I defy her. I go through!" and w^alkiug 
 backwards, with arms outspread, he passed in through the 
 porch, then in at the second doorway-. 
 
 Urith had remained rooted to one spot, in astonishment 
 and terror. Now she flew after him, and found him stand- 
 ing in the hall on the hearthstone, his head above the dark 
 oak mantel, laughing, and with his legs wide apart, and 
 his hands in his belt. 
 
 " See, Urith !" he jeered, "the prayers are of no avail. 
 Prayers bring blessings, not curses. Hero am I on the 
 hearthstone, alive and well. Now — wdll you fear au idle 
 threat ? " 
 
 He laughed aloud, and broke out into a snatch of song. 
 
 " If I Avere n, kiln, 
 
 All fire and flame, 
 I'd mantle and girdle thee 
 
 Round with the same." 
 
 Then he caught her round the waist and drew her towards 
 him ; but by a sharp turn she freed herself from his grasp. 
 *' No," she said ; "one must give w^av, and that shall not 
 be I." 
 
138 URITH: A TALE OF UARTMOOU. 
 
 •'Nor I," lie said, resolutely, and the blood rose in his 
 clieeks ; "I am wholly unwont to give way." 
 
 "So am I." 
 
 " Then it is — which is strongest." 
 
 " Strongest in will — even so ; there I doubt if you will 
 surpass me." 
 
 " I tell you this is foll}^ mad folly," said Anthon}', with 
 violence ; "my happiness — my everything dej^ends on you. 
 I have broken with my father. I am too proud to go back 
 to Hall and say to him, * Urith has cast me off, now she 
 finds that I am penniless.' "What am I to do ? I cannot 
 dig, to beg I am ashamed, and I have no stewardship in 
 which to be dishonest. If I caimot have you, I have noth- 
 ing to live for, nothing to work for, nothing, and no one 
 to love." He stamped on the hearthstone. " By heavens, 
 may I be struck dead here if only I get you, for without 
 you I will not live. Let it be as your mother wished, 
 so that I have you." 
 
 She remained silent, with hands clasped, looking down — 
 her face set, colourless, and resolved with a certain dogged, 
 sullen fixity. 
 
 " Am I to be the laughing-stock of the parish? " asked 
 Anthony, angrily, "Turned out of Hall, turned out of 
 Willsworthy ! My father will have naught to do with me 
 because of Urith Malvine, and Urith Malvino will have 
 naught to say to me because of Scjuire Cleverdon. This is 
 too laughable — it would be lauqhable if it concerned another 
 than me — but I am the sufferer, I am the ball tossed about 
 and let drop by every hand. I will not be thus treated. I 
 will not be the generally rejected. You must and you shall 
 take me." 
 
 " Listen to me, Anthony," said Urith, in tones that hardly 
 vibrated, so complete was her self-control. "If you will 
 not ask your father's pardon- " 
 
 " What for ? I have done him no harm." 
 
 " Well, then, if you will not, go to your father and say 
 I will not take you, and therefore all is to be as before." 
 
 " No, that I will not do ; I will have you even against your 
 will. You may give me up, but I will not so lightly let 
 you fall." 
 
 " Hear me out. If you will not do this, go away from 
 this place." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 139 
 
 '^Wlnther?" 
 
 " Nay, that is for you to decide. I should say, were I 
 a maii,'^ that I could always find a where — in the KingVj 
 arm}^" 
 
 Anthony laughed scornfulh'. '' In the King's forces, that 
 on the accession of the Duke of York will be employed to 
 put down the Protestants, and treat them as they have been 
 treated in Savoy and in France '? No, Urith, not at your 
 wish will I do that ; but if the Duke of Monmouth or the 
 Prince of Orange were 
 
 Urith held up her hand. In at the door came her uncle, 
 red and wine-flushed, carrying his viol. 
 
 " Halloo ! " shouted Mr. 'Solomon Gibbs, " in vino Veritas. 
 Hussey, you don't understand Latin. I have learnt some- 
 thing—slipped out unawares from Moorman Ever. To- 
 morrow — What think you? A Drift." 
 
 "A Drift!" For the moment Urith forgot all about 
 the presence of Anthony, in the excitement of the an- 
 nouncement. 
 
 '* A Drift ! " Anthony tossed up his head and clasped his 
 hands, and forgot Urith and all else, for a moment, in the 
 excitement of the announcement. 
 
 " Ay," said Uncle Solomon ; " and Tom Ever would have 
 bitten out his tongue when he said it, he was so vexed." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A DKITT, 
 
 A Drift ? What is a Drift ? 
 
 The vast expanse of Dartmoor, occupying nearly a hun- 
 dred and fifty thousand acres, for the most part, but not 
 altogether, belongs to the Duchy of Cornwall. Consider- 
 able, and, in many cases, fraudulent encroachments have 
 been made on Duchy property — slices taken out of it in 
 past times— and the Duchy agents bribed to turn theii 
 eyes away ; or simply taken and secured to the squatters 
 by prerogative of long squatting unmolested. The main 
 mass of moor constitutes the ancient and Royal forest of 
 Dartmoor ; but much waste land exists outside the forest 
 
1-iO URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 bounds in the possession of private owners, or as common 
 land, over which the lord of the manor has but manorial 
 
 rights. 
 
 Around the circumference of the moor are, and always 
 have been, stationed certain men having a position under 
 the Duchy, corresponding to that of foresters elsewhere. 
 But, as there are no trees on Dartmoor, these men have no 
 care of timber ; nor have they, as foresters elsewhere, the 
 custody of the deer, as there are no red deer in this Eoyal 
 forest. Red deer there were in times past ; but they were 
 all destroyed at the close of the last century, v,-hen largo 
 plantations were made on the moor and in its conines, be- 
 cause the deer killed the young trees. 
 
 On account of the rugged and boggy nature of Dartmoor, 
 no Royal hunters had come there since the Saxon kings ; 
 consequently, no pains were taken to preserve the deer, 
 and every moorman and squire neighbouring on the wilder- 
 ness considered that he had a right to supply himself with 
 as much venison from off it as he could eat, and every 
 farmer regarded himself as justified in killing the deer that 
 invaded his fields and swarmed over his crops. The men 
 answering to foresters elsewhere, living under the Duchy, 
 and posted around the borders of the moor, inherited their 
 offices, which passed in families for generations, and it is 
 probable that the Evers, the Coakers, and the Widdecombes 
 of to-day are the direct descendants of the moormen who 
 w^ere foresters under the Conqueror — nay, possibly, in Sax- 
 on times. 
 
 They are a fine-built race, fair-haired, blue-eyed, erect, 
 better able to ride than to walk, are bold in speech, and 
 perhaps overbearing in action, having none above them 
 save God and the Prince of Wales— //i(? Duke, the only 
 Duke above their horizon. 
 
 Around the forest proper is a wide tract of common land, 
 indistinguishable from moor proper, and this does not be- 
 long to the Duchy, but the Duchy exerts, for all that, cer- 
 tain rights over tills belt of waste. The parishes contigu- 
 ous on the moor have what are termed Venville rights, 
 that is to say, rights to cut turf and to free pasturage on 
 the moor ; the tenants in Venville may be said to have the 
 right to take anything ofi' the moor that may do them 
 good except green oak and venison, or more properly, vert 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 141 
 
 and venison. This has led to the most ruthless destruction 
 of prehistoric antiquities, as every farmer in Venville car- 
 ries away as his right any granite-stone that commends 
 itself to him as a gate-post, or a i^illar to prop a cowshed ; 
 sheep, bullocks, and horses are turned out on Dartmoor, 
 and the horses and ponies live in all weathers on the wil- 
 derness, defy all boundaries, and ask for no care, no shelter, 
 no winter quarters. Bullocks and sheep have their lairs, 
 and want to be levant and couchant, and to be cared for in 
 winter, and therefore are not driven on to the moors till 
 spring, and are driven off in autumn. 
 
 The moor is divided into regions, and over each region 
 is a moorman. In each quarter of the moor a special ear- 
 mark is required for the ponies turned out in that district, 
 a round hole punched in the ear, through which is passed 
 a piece of distinguishing tape, scarlet, blue, white, and black. 
 Ponies wander widely : a herd will disappear from one 
 place and appear at another like magic, in search after pas- 
 ture ; but the moormen of each region claim the fines on 
 the x^onies belonging to their region, and, to a certain ex- 
 tent, exercise some sort of supervision over them. 
 
 Although every tenant in Venville has an undisputed 
 right to free pasturage, yet it is usual for him to fee the 
 moorman for each horse or beast he sends out, and, if this 
 be refused, he may find his cattle stray to a very remarka- 
 ble extent, and be liable to get " stogged " in the bogs and 
 be lost. 
 
 As horses, etc., that are driven on parish commons, or 
 on moors belonging to private individuals, very often leave 
 these cjuarters for the broader expanse of the Eoyal For- 
 est, it is necessary, or deemed advisable, on certain days 
 arbitrarily determined on, without notice to anyone, to have 
 a "Drift." A messenger is sent round in the night or very 
 early in the morning to the Venville tenants, from the 
 moorman of the quarter, to summon them to the Drift ; on 
 certain tors are upright holed stones, through which horns 
 were passed and loudly blown, to announce the Drift. All 
 the neighboui'hood is^on the alert— dogs, men, boys are 
 about, squires and farmers armed with long whips, and for- 
 merly with pistols and short swords and bludgeons. 
 
 All the ponies and colts on the quarter, not only on 
 Dartmoor Forest, but on all the surrounding zone of waste 
 
142 VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 land, are driven from every nook and corner l3y rooiinted 
 horsemen and dogs, towards the place of gathering, which 
 is, for the western quarter, Merrivale Bridge. The driving 
 completed, a vast numl:)er of ponies and horses of all ages, 
 sizes, colours, and breeds, and men and dogs, are collected 
 together in a state of wild confusion. Then an ofHcer of 
 the Duchy mounts a stone and reads to the assembly a 
 formal document Avith seals attached to it. That ceremony 
 performed, the owners claim their ponies. Venville ten- 
 ants carry off theirs without objection ; others pay fines. 
 Animals unclaimed are driven off to Dinnabridge Pound, 
 a large walled-in field in the midst of the moor, where they 
 remain till demanded, and if unclaimed are sold by the 
 Duchy.* 
 
 To "this day a Drift causes violent altercations ; formerly 
 free fights between Venville tenants and those who were out- 
 side the Venville parishes were not uncommon, and blood 
 was not infrequently shed. That a Drift should excite a 
 whole neighbourhood to the utmost may be imagined. The 
 dispersion of the horses by the fire on the moor occasioned 
 the Drift at this unusual time of early Sirring. 
 
 The morning was windy, clouds large and heavy were 
 lumbering over the sky, turning the moor indigo with their 
 shade, and where the sun shone the grey grass, as yet un- 
 tinged with spring growth, was white as ashes. 
 
 On the top of Smerdon stood a gigantic moorsman, with 
 lungs like blacksmith's bellows, blowing a blast through a 
 cow's horn that w^as heard for miles around. But the yelp- 
 ing of dogs, the shouts of men proclaimed that the whole 
 world was awake and abroad, and needed no horn to call to 
 attention. Men in rough lindsey and frieze coats and 
 leather breeches, high boots, with broad hats, wild-looking 
 as the horses they bestrode, and the hounds that bayed 
 about them, galloped in all directions over the turf, shout- 
 ing and brandishing their long whips. Colts, ponies of 
 every colour, with long manes and flowing tails, wild as any 
 bred on the ^Drairies, leaped, plunged, raced about, snort- 
 ing, frightened, and were x^nrsued by dogs and men. 
 
 Although there was apparent confusion, yet a rude order 
 
 * See an article on Venville riglits on Dartmoor, by W. F. Collier, 
 Esq , in the Devon Association Transactions for lb67. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 143 
 
 miglit be observed. All the men were moved by one com- 
 mon impulse — to drive the horses and ponies inwards, and 
 though these frightened creatures often broke the ring that 
 was forming and careered back to the outer downs v/hence 
 they had been chased, to be pursued again by a host of 
 dogs and men, yet there was observable a rough chain 
 of drivers concentrating towards a point on the Walla, 
 spanned by a bridge under Mistor. 
 
 The whole neighbourhood was there — Anthony had come, 
 ashamed to be seen afoot, and yet unwilling not to be there. 
 He saw one of his father's servants on his own horse, and 
 he demanded it ; the fellow readily yielded his saddle, and 
 Anthony joyously mounted his favorite roan. Fox Crymes 
 was there with his eye bandaged, and glancing angrily at 
 Anthony out of the one uninjured eye. Old Squire Clever- 
 don did not come out, he could no longer sit at ease on 
 horseback, and had never been much of a rider. Mr. 
 Solomon Gibbs was out in a soiled purple coat, and with 
 hat and wig — as was his wont — awry. And Urith was 
 there. She could not remain at home on such an occasion 
 as a Drift. Her uncle was not to be trusted to recognise 
 and claim the Willsworthy cobs. He was not to be calcu- 
 lated on. There was a tavern at Merivale Bridge, and 
 there he would probably sit and booze, and leave his colts 
 and mares to take care of themselves. There was no x^roper 
 hind at the manor, only day-labourers, who were poor rid- 
 ers. Therefore Urith was constrained to attend the Drift 
 herself. 
 
 She was the only woman ^Dresent ; Julian Crymes had 
 not come out. When Anthony saw Urith he approached 
 her, but she drew away. 
 
 " Why, how now ! " shouted Fox. *' Whose horse are 
 you riding? " 
 
 " My own," answered Anthony, shortly. 
 
 "■ Oh ! I am glad to hear it. t understood that you had 
 been bundled out of Hall without any of your belongings ; 
 but your father, I suppose, allowed you to ride off on the 
 roan?" 
 
 " I will thank you to be silent, " said Anthony, an- 
 grily. 
 
 "Why should I, when even dogs are open-mouthed? 
 And as for Ever and his horn, he is calling everyone to 
 
144 URITH: A TALE OP DARTMOOR. 
 
 speak in a scream, so as to be lieard at all. Were you al- 
 lowed to take off oats and hay as well ? " 
 
 Anthony spurred his horse, to be out of ear-shot of his 
 tormentor ; but Fox followed him. 
 
 " What was it all about ? " he asked. " All the country- 
 side is ringing with the news that you and your father are 
 fallen out, and that he has turned you out of doors ; but 
 opinions are divided as to the occasion." 
 
 "Let them remain divided," answered Anthony, and 
 dug his spurs in so deeply that his horse bounded and 
 dashed away. Fox no longer attempted to keep up with 
 him, but turned to attach himself to Urith. She saw his 
 intention, and drew near to her uncle, who was in conver- 
 sation with Yeoman Cudlip. 
 
 They were now riding through a broad vale or dip be- 
 tween a range of serrated granite heights to the east, and 
 the great trap-rounded i^ile of Cox Tor crowned with vast 
 masses of cairn piled about the blistered basaltic prongs 
 that shot through the turf at the summit. These cairns 
 were probably used as beacons, for all were depressed in 
 the middle to receive the heaps of fern and wood that 
 were ignited to send a signal far away to the very Atlantic 
 on the north, from a w^arning given on the coast of the 
 English Channel. 
 
 The turf was free from masses of boulder, but w^as in 
 places swampy. At the water- shed was a morass with a 
 spring, and from this point the stream had been labori- 
 ously worked in ancient times for tin ; the bed was 
 ploughed up and thrown into heaps in the midst of the 
 course. 
 
 " Look yonder," said Cudlip. " Do you see that pile o* 
 stones with one piece o' granite atop standing up ? There's 
 P. L. cut on that. Did you ever hear tell how Philip Lang 
 came by his death there ? and how he came to lie there? 
 For I tell y' there he is buried, and it is the mark where 
 Peter Tavy parish ends and Tavistock parish begins, and 
 they say he do lie just so that the parish bound goes thro* 
 the middle of him. It all came about in the times of the 
 troubles between the King and the Parliament. Sir Eichard 
 Grenville was in Tavistock, and was collecting men for the 
 King ; and Lord Essex came up with the Roundheads, and 
 there was some fighting. Then some of the train band- 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 146 
 
 men were out here, and amonj^ tbem was Philip. He -u-as 
 a musketeer ; but, bless your soul ! lie didn't know how to 
 use the piece, and I've heard my father say that was the 
 way with many. It was an old matchlock, and to fire it he 
 had a fuse alight. Lord Essex was skirmishing round the 
 country and Sir Richard had set a picket at this point. 
 Well, Philip Lang, not knowing but the enemy might sur- 
 jmse him from one side or the other, had his fuse alight, 
 and his musket charged. But by some chance or other, 
 the fuse was uncoiled, and the lighted end hung down be- 
 hind him and touched the horse on the croup. The beast 
 jumped and kicked, and Lang could not make it out, for 
 the fuse was behind him. Every time the horse bounded, 
 the burning end struck him again in another spot, and he 
 sprang about, and ran this way and that, quite mad ; and 
 Philip Lang, who was never a famous rider, let go his 
 matchlock, and liad hard to do to keep his seat. But, 
 though he had dropped the musket, the fuse was twisted 
 round him and kept bobbing against the horse, and 
 making it still madder. Then the beast clashed ahead 
 across the valley, and went head over heels down into the 
 old miners' works, and Philip was flung where you see that 
 stone, and he never breathed or opened his eyes after. 
 'Twas a curious thing that he fell just on the boundary of 
 both parishes, and there was no saying whether he lay in one 
 or the other. There was mighty discussion over it. The 
 Peter Tavy men said the body belonged to Tavistock, and 
 the Tavistock men said it belonged to Peter Tavy ; and 
 neither parish would bury him, for, you see, he was a poor 
 man, without friends or money." 
 
 *'Say, rather," threw in Fox, ''without money and 
 friends. " 
 
 As you like, " answered the yeoman, and continued. 
 
 Well, it was thought that the parishes would have to go 
 to law over it, to find out which would have to bury him, 
 but after a deal o' trouble they came to an agreement to 
 bury him where he fell, and three Peter Tavy men 
 threw stones over him on one side, and three Tavistock 
 men threw stones the other ; and when the stone was set 
 up the Peter Tavy men went to the expense of cutting one 
 letter, P, and the Tavistock men went to the cost of the 
 other letter, L. " 
 10 
 
 
146 UlilTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "Come, " said jMr. Solomon Gibbs, "we are fallen into 
 the rear. " 
 
 Tliey pricked on, and descended the slope to the Eiver 
 Walla, that foamed and plunged over a floor of broken 
 granite at some depth below. In the valley, where was the 
 bridge, two or three mountain-ash trees grew ; there was 
 an inn and by it a couple of cottages. Here was now a 
 scene of indescribable confusion and noise. The wild, 
 frightened horses and ponies driven together, surrounded 
 on all sides by the drivers, were leaping, plunging over 
 each other, tossing their manes and snorting. The ring 
 had closed about them. Everv now and then a man 
 dashed among them, on foot or mounted, when he recog- 
 nized one of his own creatures, and by force or skill sepa- 
 rated it from the rest, shouted to the drivers, who instantly 
 opened a lane, and he drove the scared creature through 
 the lane of men back on to the free wild moor. To eflect 
 this demanded daring and skill, and the men rivalled each 
 other in their abilitv to claim their animals, and extricate 
 them from the midst of the crowd of half-frantic creatures 
 plunging and kicking. Neither Urith nor Solomon Gibbs 
 had any intention of attempting such a dangerous feat, but 
 purposed waiting till all other horses had been claimed, 
 when they would indicate their own creatures, and the 
 good-humoured moor-men of their quarter would dis- 
 charge them. Accordingly they remained passive obser- 
 vers, and the sight was one full of interest and excitement ; 
 for the extrication of the horses claimed was a matter of 
 personal danger, and demanded courage, a quick eye, 
 great resolution, and activity. 
 
 Fox Crymes had no intention of venturing wathin the 
 ring ; he was standing on foot near Anthony's horse. An- 
 thony was awaiting his time when he would rush in to the 
 capture of his fathers colts. All eyes but those of Urith 
 were riveted on the stiiipfq-le with the horses. There were 
 some tall men, or men on large horses, between her and 
 the herd of wild creatures, and as she could not well see 
 what went on within the ring, she looked towards An- 
 thony. 
 
 She was a little surprised at the conduct of Fox. In 
 the first place, he seemed to be paying no attention to what 
 was engrossing the minds and engaging the eyes of the 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 147 
 
 rest. Ho held a little back from Anthony, and was strik- 
 ing a, light with a flint and a steel whicli he had taken from 
 his pocket. 
 
 What could be his purpose ? 
 
 Urith was puzzled. Fox was no smoker. 
 
 She noticed that he had a piece of amadou under the 
 flint, and the sparks fell on it ; it kindled, and Fox en- 
 closed it within his hollowed hand and blew it into a glow. 
 
 Then he looked hastily about him, but did not observe 
 Urith. His bandaged eye was towards her, or he must 
 have seen that she was watching him, and watching him 
 with perplexity. 
 
 Then he took three steps forward. 
 
 Urith uttered a cry of dismay. 
 
 Fox had thrust the fragment of burning amadou into 
 the ear of the horse Anthony rode. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A BLOODY HAND. 
 
 The effect on Anthony's horse was instantaneous. With 
 a snort it bounded into the air, threw back its head, then 
 kicked out and began to dance and revolve, put its head 
 down between the fore-legs, then reared into the air, every 
 violent motion fanning the burning bunch of amadou into 
 stronger heat. 
 
 Anthony was taken by surprise, but maintained his seat. 
 The horse quickly scattered those around. One man, 
 struck by the hoofs, was drawn away in a state of uncon- 
 sciousness. Some men were driven in among the enclosed 
 ponies, but quickly ran away ; and, in less time than it 
 takes to write, the circle of lookers-on had reformed, en- 
 closing Anthony on his maddened steed in the same arena 
 with the wild cobs and colts. 
 
 A scene of indescribable confusion ensued. The tor- 
 tured horse bounded in among the throng of ponies, and 
 threw them, if possible, into wilder disorder. All that 
 could be seen for some moments was a tumult of heads, 
 flying manes, hoofs, beasts leaping on and over each other, 
 
148 UPdTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 and Anthony with clijfi&culty, and in extreme danger, carried 
 up and down above the sea of horses' heads and heels. 
 If he had fallen, his brains would have been dashed out in 
 one minute. He knew this, and endeavoured to force his 
 horse by deep spur out of the tangle ; but, agonised by the 
 fire in its ear, it disregarded rein and spur. Of its own 
 accord, however, it disengaged itself, or by chance found 
 itself free for an instant from the surrounding tossing, 
 plunging mass of its fellows ; and then, with a scream 
 rather than a snort, it dashed right among the suiTOunding 
 men. They divided at once — not a man ventured forward 
 to catch the rein and sta}" the mad beast. 
 
 In front was the river, with the low wall of the bridge 
 over it, and under the arch, among huge masses of granite, 
 leajDcd, and roared, and tumbled the Walla, as mad as the 
 frightened moorland ponies — of a rich brown, but trans- 
 parent, colour, where not whij^ped into foam. 
 
 Anthony's horse w^as dashing at the wall. The brute's 
 head was now round biting itself, then down between its 
 fore-hoofs, in a frantic paroxj'sm of kicks. Then it rushed 
 forward, halted, spun round, then leaped with all four feet 
 into the air, uttering screams. Everyone was cowed — no 
 one dared approach, and yet the situation of Anthony was 
 critical. Another bound, maybe, and his horse would be 
 over the wall, and roll with him among the masses of rock 
 big as haj'stacks, over and among which the river dashed 
 itself to threads and flakes of foam, or went down into one 
 of the wine-dark pools, where the eddies swii'led and dis- 
 solved their foam before taking another leap. 
 
 Instinctively, overawed by one of those waves of feeling 
 which come on men and beasts alike, all sounds ceased, the 
 men no longer spoke, nor did the dogs bark. Only the 
 churning of the colts' and ponies' feet was heard within 
 the living ring of men, and the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of a 
 sheep-bell beyond the river. 
 
 The horse was rearing to leap. 
 
 At that moment — a shot, and the horse fell like lead. 
 Urith had snatched the pistol from the holster of her 
 uncle's saddle, had leaped to the gi'ound, run forward, and 
 fired. 
 
 Silence remained as unbroken as before, save for the 
 tinkle of the sheep-bell, till Anthony disengaged himself 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 149 
 
 from Ills fallen horse, stood up, shook himself, and then a 
 cheer burst from all the men present, who pressed forward 
 to congratulate him. 
 
 *' Stay ! " said Urith, still on the bridge, and with the pis- 
 tol in her hand. She was white with emotion, and her 
 eyes flaming with wrath. "Listen to me — you — all of you. 
 I saw him do it — I saw him light a ball of tinder and thrust 
 it into the horse's ear, to drive the beast mad." 
 
 She looked round — her flashing eyes sought out him of 
 whom she spoke. 
 
 "I saw him do it, when all were looking elsewhere after 
 their cobs. He hated him, and he sought this mean, this 
 cruel, this treacherous revenge on him." 
 
 She panted, her heart was beating furiously, and the 
 blood rushed to her temples, and then ebbed away again, 
 leaving her giddy. 
 
 "Take him !" she cried. "He deserves it. Take him 
 and fling him among the horses, and let them trample him 
 down into the dirt. The man who did what he has done 
 deserves no better." 
 
 " Who !— who ! — name ! " shouted the bystanders. 
 
 " Who it was who did this? Did I not name him? It 
 is he." She had caught sight of him with his bandaged eye. 
 "Bring him forward — Fox Crvmes." 
 
 In a moment Fox was hustled forth out of the throng 
 into the foreground. 
 
 " I would," gasped Urith, in quivering fury, " that I had 
 another pistol, and I would shoot you as I have the horse, 
 base, vile coward." 
 
 Fox looked at her contemptuously out of his one eye. 
 "It is well that none is in your hand — a maniac should 
 not be trusted with firearms, or should practise them on 
 herself." 
 
 " What has he done ? " shouted Farmer Cudlip. " What 
 is the charge against him ? " 
 
 " I say," answered Urith, " that whilst all were engaged 
 looking for their colts, I saw him light a piece of tinder 
 with flint and steel, and then thrust it into the ear of the 
 horse." 
 
 Silence followed this announcement. The men had 
 been too surprised to follow her charge when first 
 made. 
 
150 XIBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 ''Wliat do you say to that, Master Crymes?" asked Cud- 
 lip. 
 
 "It is a lie," retorted Fox. "She did it lierself, so as 
 to make a spectacle and a2)pear as the preserver of her 
 lover." 
 
 Again silence, save only for the trampling of the en- 
 ringed ponies. The sheep-bell had ceased ; maybe the 
 sheep that bore the bell was lying down. 
 
 Urith spoke slowly, in her deepest tones. 
 
 " On the moor there is no law — or only the plain law of 
 God that all can understand and obey. He is a murderer 
 in heart. He tried to kill Anthony Cleverdon, and now he 
 — coward that he is — insults me. Take him up and throw 
 liim amouo' the horses." 
 
 At once a score of hands were laid on Fox Crymes. It 
 was true, there was no law on the moor. There everv man 
 was a law unto himself. The Stannary Court sat but 
 once in the year on the top of one of the central Tors, but 
 that took cognisance only of offences against the mining 
 laws. There was no criminal jurisdiction over the moor 
 lodged anywhere — or, it was supi:)Osed that there was none. 
 But then — crime was unknown on Dartmoor. 
 
 "When an act of violence is to be done, especially when 
 sanctioned by some rough rule of justice, there is no lack 
 of hands to commit it. 
 
 Fox Crymes was generally disliked, his stinging tongue, 
 his lack of geniality had alienated every acquaintance from 
 him ; the farmers x^resent were rude men of the moor con- 
 fines, brought under little or no control, kings on their 
 own estate, and free of the moor to do thereon w^hat they 
 listed, take thence what they desired, fight thereon any 
 with whom they were at feud, avenge themselves with 
 their own arms for any wrong done to them. Never had 
 a lawver been invoked to unravel a doubtful claim, or to 
 settle a dispute. Every knot was, if not cut through with 
 a sword, at all events beaten out with the quarterstaff ; and 
 every dispute brought to an end by silencing one side with 
 a bludgeon or a pistol. 
 
 In one moment, Fox Crymes was caught iip, with a roar 
 of many voices giving consent to the execution of the sen- 
 tence pronounced by Urith, at once accuser and judge. 
 
 " Hold off ! " cried Fox, and drew his knife ; freeing him- 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. iSl 
 
 self by a twist of the bocty from those who held him, and 
 who shrank back at the flash of steel. 
 
 His one eye glared. " I will drive it up to the haft in 
 the first man who touches me ! " he said. 
 
 " Strike it out o' his hand ! " shouted Cudlip. 
 
 Fox, stabbing with his blade to right and left, backed 
 from his assailants towards the wall. Cudgels were raised 
 and aimed at him, but he dexterously withdrew his arm as 
 each descended. The sight of the drawn weapon kindled 
 the blood of the moor men, and those who had held back 
 at first, now pressed forward to take him. 
 
 A shout ! the colts and horses had made a rush, a dash, 
 and had broken through the ring. It was quickly re- 
 formed, and away after those "who had escaped rushed 
 some of the men with their whips whirled about their 
 heads. 
 
 This caused a momentary diversion. Anthony took ad- 
 vantage to leave his place by the fallen horse, come for- 
 ward, and with his elbows force his way through to Crymes, 
 and then, planting himself between Fox and his assailants, 
 he shouted : 
 
 " No harm has been done. It was a joke. He and I 
 had sport together, and I hit him in the eye and hurt him ; 
 he knows I never designed to injure him. Now he tried a 
 merry prank on me. He designed no hurt to me — but it 
 has gone further than he w^ould, as did mine wdth him. 
 Hands off — here. Fox, show them we bear each other no 
 malice — here before all, give me your right hand, good 
 friend." 
 
 Crymes held back. 
 
 Cudgels were lowered, and the men drew away. 
 
 Fox slipped his hunting-knive up his sleeve, and sul- 
 lenly extended his arm. 
 
 " You see ! " called Anthony, looking round, and not re- 
 garding Crymes. " You see ! We are good friends, and 
 hearty comrades." 
 
 Then he clasped the right hand of Fox. As he did so, 
 the blade slipped down the sleeve into the hand of Crymes, 
 and as Anthony clenched his fingers about those of Fox, 
 they closed on the blade in his hand, w^hich was keen, and 
 cut. He felt the knife, but he did not relax his grasp, and 
 when he drew his hand away it was covered with blood. 
 
152 tJRITIi: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "It was a miscliance," said Crymes, with a malicious 
 laugli. " You did not give me time to slieath the knife." 
 
 " Many a mischance falls between us," answered Antliony, 
 hastil}', drawing his glove over the wounded hand, lest it 
 should attract attention. 
 
 Then he strode up to Urith, who stood palpitating near. 
 
 *' I have saved you from yourself to-day," he said. 
 
 ** Yes — I thank you." 
 
 " You can thank me but in one way." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "Give me your hand. Take me forever." 
 
 She put her hand into his: " I cannot help myself," she 
 said, in a low tone. " Oh, mother, forgive." 
 
 Then she loosed her hand, looked on it, and said, "There 
 is blood ! " 
 
 The blood had oozed through his glove. 
 
 "It is my blood," answered Anthony, " on your hand." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 FIXED. 
 
 Squire Cleverdon gave no token of relenting towards his 
 son. Bessie had her brother's interests so at heart that 
 she ventured, without sufficient tact, to approach him on 
 the subject, but was roughly repelled. The old man was 
 irritated when she spoke, and irritated when she was si- 
 lent ; for then her eyes appealed to him in behalf of An- 
 thony. The father held out, believing that by so doing he 
 would break down Anthony's resolution. He did not be- 
 lieve in the power of love, for he had never experienced 
 love. His son had taken a fancy, a perverse fancy for this 
 Urith, as a child might take a fancy for a new toy. When 
 the lad had had time to feel how ill it was to be an exile 
 from his father's house, without money, without authority 
 over serving-men, hampered and clipped in every direction 
 and all sides, he would come to a better sense, laugh at his 
 folly, and return to obedience to his father and to the suit 
 for Julian Crymes and Kilworthy. 
 
 His heart overflowed with gall against Urith. The 
 
ITRITH: A TALK OF DARTMOOR. 153 
 
 thought of having a poor daughter-iu-law could never have 
 been other than distasteful to him, when he had set his 
 mind on tlie wealth}^ Julian ; but there were special reasons 
 which made the acceptance of Urith impossible to him. 
 She was the daughter of the man over whom he had 
 gained a triumph in the eyes of the world, but it was a tri- 
 umph full of shame and vexation inwardly. It was due to 
 that man that his married life had been one of almost in- 
 tolerable wretchedness. Not for a moment did he consider 
 himself to blame in the matter ; he cast all the responsibil- 
 ity for his unhappiness on Richard Malvine ; on him he 
 heaj^ed all the hate that flamed out of envy at the personal 
 superiority of the latter, jealousy because he had won the 
 heart of his wife, and held it so firm that he — Anthony 
 Cleverdon — had never been able to disengage it and attach 
 it to himself ; revenge for all the slights and insults he had 
 received from her unsparing, barbed tongue, slights and 
 insults she had known w^ell how to administer, so as to 
 leave rankling wounds which no time would heal. Even 
 now, as he brooded over his quarrel with Anthony, the 
 sneers, the mockery she had launched at him for his mean- 
 ness, his pride, his ambition, rose up fresh in his memory, 
 charged with new poison, and rankled in him again. But he 
 did not feel anger against his dead wife for that, but against 
 him who had used her as his instrument for torturing him ; 
 and as Richard Malvine was dead, he could but retaliate on 
 his daughter. 
 
 Old Cleverdon attributed the worst motives to Urith. 
 Margaret Peni'ose had married him for his money, and, 
 naturally, Urith Malvine compassed the capture of Anthony, 
 his son, for the same reason ; he did not see how he in- 
 volved himself in contradiction, in that he charged Urith 
 with her attempt to become the wife of his son for the sake 
 of his wealth, as if it were a deadly crime, whilst he him- 
 self acted on no other motive than ambition and money- 
 greed. She had entangled the young fellow in her net, 
 and he would tear this net to pieces and release him. He 
 would break down his son's opposition. He was not one 
 to be defeated in what he took in hand, and no better 
 means could be chosen by him for his purpose than 
 making Anthony feel what poverty and banishment signi- 
 fied. Anthony had hitherto had at command what money 
 
154 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 he needed, and now to be with empty pockets would 
 speedily bring him to reason. To attempt gentle means 
 ■with his son never occurred to him ; he had been accus- 
 tomed to command, not to persuade. He became harder, 
 more reserved, and colder than before ; and Bessie in vain 
 looked for a gentle hght to come into his steely eyes, a 
 quiver to come on his firm-set lips, and a token of yielding 
 to flicker over his inflexible features. 
 
 And yet the old man felt the absence of his son, and had 
 little sleep at night thinking of him ; but never for one 
 moment did he suppose that he would not in the end tri- 
 ■umph over his son's whim, and bring the young man back 
 in submission to his usual place. 
 
 Luke had been to Hall to see his uncle, in behalf of, but 
 -without the knowledge of, young Anthony. 
 
 " Oh ! tired of keeping him, are you ? " asked the old 
 Squire. " Then turn him out of the parsonage. I shall 
 be the better pleased ; so will he be the sooner brought to 
 a right mind." 
 
 TSlothing was effected by this visit. After it, with bent 
 head, full of thought, Luke took his way to Willsworthy. 
 On entering the house, he found Anthony there, in the hall, 
 •with Urith and Uncle Solomon, the latter on the settle 
 smoking, with a table before him on which stood cider. 
 The light from the window was full and strong on the 
 toper's face, showing its blotched complexion. Mr. Gibbs 
 appeared to his best when partially shaded, just as a lady 
 nowadays assumes a gauze veil to soften certain harshnesses 
 in her features. 
 
 I saddled my horse and away I did ride 
 Till I came to an ale-liouse hard by the road-side, 
 I called for a glass of ale hnmming and brown, 
 And hard by the fireside I sat myself down, 
 
 Singing tol-de-rol-de-rol, tolde-rol-dee, 
 
 And I in my pocket had one penny ! 
 
 Uncle Sol sang in subdued tones till he came to the tol-de- 
 rol ! when he drew the pipe from the corner of his mouth and 
 sang aloud, ratthng his glass on the table. He was not in- 
 toxicated, but in that happy, hilarious mood which was his 
 wont, even out of his cups. 
 
 " Oh, uncle ! do be silent," pleaded Urith. " Here comes 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 155 
 
 Mr. Luke, and we want to talk of serious matters, and not 
 of " 
 
 ''I in my pocket had one x^enny !" shouted Uncle Sol, 
 diving into the depths of his pouch and producing the coin 
 in question, which he held out in his open jDalni ; " never 
 got more— never from this confounded place. Squeeze, 
 squeeze, and out comes one penny. Never more. If An- 
 thony can do better with it, let him try. I have done my 
 utmost, toiled and moiled, and at the end of all these years 
 I in my pocket have one penny : — • 
 
 I tarried all niglit, and I parted next day ; 
 Thinks I to myself, I'll be jogging away — 
 
 but you w^on't send me off with in my pocket but one 
 penny ? " 
 
 " We will not send you off at all, uncle," said Urith. 
 *' But here is Master Luke. Let us talk the matter over 
 with seriousness, and without snatches of song. " 
 
 " I can't help myself, I must sing," said ]\Ir. Gibbs. " You 
 say on, and I ^vill warble to myself. It is your affair rather 
 than mine." 
 
 Luke looked at Anthony and Urith, who stood near 
 each other. He folded his hands behind his back, that he 
 might conceal the nervous twitching of his fingers. 
 
 " What is it, Anthony ? " he asked. 
 
 *' Lake, we want yonr help. I know very well that this 
 is early times since the death of Urith's mother ; but that 
 cannot be helped. I cannot live on upon you longer. You 
 are poor, and " 
 
 " I grudge you nothing that I have." 
 
 '•' I have a vast apj^etite. Besides, I like to have money 
 of my own to spend ; and I am not like Mr. Solomon 
 Gibbs, who has in his pocket one penn^-, for I have none." 
 
 "I will give 3^ou what I can." 
 
 "I will not take it, Luke ; what I have and spend shall 
 be mine own. So Urith and I will ask you to make us one, 
 and give me a right to a penny or two." 
 
 Luke was confounded ; this was acting with precipi- 
 tation, indeed. He quite underetood that Squire Cleverdon 
 would not receive Urith as a daughter-in-law with open 
 arms, and that he would oppose such an alliance by all 
 
156 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 means in his power. Like Anthony, he supposed that the 
 old man's violence of language and threats of disinheritance 
 meant notliing. He would cut o£l: his right hand rather 
 than give up his ambitions set upon his son. But in the 
 end he would yield to the inevitable, if inevitable this were. 
 But this haste of Anthony in precipitating the marriage, in 
 disregard to all decency, must incense the old father, and, 
 if anything could do so, drive him to act upon his word. 
 
 Luke became, if possible, graver ; the lines in his face 
 deepened. He withdrew his hands from behind his back. 
 
 *' Anthony," said he, "this will not do. You are acting 
 with your usual hot-headedness. You have angered your 
 father, and must seek reconciUation and the abatement of 
 his wrath, before you take such a step as this." 
 
 " I said so," threw in Urith. 
 
 " My father never wdll yield so long as he tliinks that I 
 may be brought to change my mind. When he finds that 
 I have taken the irrevocable step, then he»will buckle under." 
 
 *' And is it for the son to bid the father do this? " asked 
 Luke, with some warmth. " No, I will be no party to this," 
 he added, firmly, and set his thin lips together. 
 
 "I love her, and she loves me ; we cannot live apart. 
 God has made us for each other," said Anthony ; "my 
 father can't alter that ; it is God's will." 
 
 Luke did not meet Anthony's glowing eyes, his were rest- 
 ing on the ground. He thought of his own love, and his 
 own desolate heart. For a moment the bitterness therein 
 overflowed ; he looked up sharply, to speak sharply, and 
 then his eyes fell on the two young things— Anthony big, 
 sturdy, wondrously handsome, and full of joyous life, and 
 at his side Urith, in her almost masculine and sullen beauty. 
 Yes, they were as though made for each other— the bright, 
 light temper to be conjoined to the dark and sombre one, 
 each qualifying, correcting the exuberance _ in the other, 
 each in some sort supplementing the deficiencies in the 
 other. The harsh words that were on his lips remained 
 unspoken. On the settle Uncle Sol was murmuring _ his 
 tune to himself, every now and then breaking forth into 
 a louder gush of song, and then at once suppressing it 
 
 again. 
 
 Perhaps it was God's will that these two should belong 
 to each other ; perhaps the old hostility, and wrath, and 
 
VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 157 
 
 envy that had embittered the lives of their several parents 
 were to be atoned for by the mutual love of the children. 
 Luke was too true a Christian to believe that the words of 
 hate that had shot like fire-coals from a volcano out of the 
 mouth of Madam Malvine, when dying, could avail aught 
 now. In the better light into which she had passed, as he 
 trusted, in the world of clearer vision and extinguished 
 animosity, of all-enwrapping charity, she must, witla inner 
 anguish, repent, and desire to have unsaid those terrible 
 words. The dying utterances of the woman did not weigh 
 with Luke, or, if they had any weight, it was to turn the 
 scale against them. No better comfort to the soul of the 
 dead could be given than the certainty that those words 
 bad been reversed and cast aside. Luke passed his hands 
 over his brow, and then said, " I will see your father again, 
 
 Anthon}^" 
 
 "That will avail nothing; you have spoken with him al- 
 ready. I tell you he will not alter till he sees that his pres- 
 ent conduct does not affect me. What can he say or do after 
 I am married ? He may, indeed, cut me off with a shilling ; 
 but he will not do that. He loves me too well. He is too 
 proud of having founded a family to slay his firstborn. 
 Whom could he make his heir but me ? You do not sup- 
 pose he would leave all to you ? " 
 
 "" No," answered Luke. " If he did — as an extreme meas- 
 ure — it would all come to you. I would not keep one 
 penny of it." 
 
 *'And I in my pocket " 
 
 " Do be quiet, uncle ! ** i^leaded Urith. 
 
 " Then what can he do ? He must come round. He is 
 as certain to come round as is the sun that sets every even- 
 ing in the west." 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 " I am sure of it. I know my father better than do you, 
 Luke. See here. Urith has Mr. Solomon Gibbs as her 
 guardian, and he is quite wilhng." 
 
 " Oh, heartily !— heartily ! " shouted Mr. Gibbs. *' I'm 
 quite incompetent to guardian any one, especially such a 
 defiant little devil as my niece. She snaps her fingers in 
 my face." 
 
 Luke stood biting his thumb. 
 
 He was as fully confident as was Anthony that the old 
 
158 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 man would not leave Hall away from liis son. He might 
 be angry, and incensed against Anthony ; but his pride in 
 the family position which he had won would never suffer 
 him to disinherit his son, and leave the estate away from 
 him — away from the name. 
 
 " I cannot — I cannot ! " exclaimed Luke, with pain in his 
 tone, for he felt that it was too great a sacrifice to be re- 
 quired of him that he should pronounce the nuptial bles- 
 sing over Anthony and Urith. He laboured for breath. 
 His brow was beaded with sweat. His pale face flushed. 
 
 *' Anthony ! this is unconsidered. You must postpone 
 all thought of marriage to a later season. Consider that 
 Urith's mother is but recently dead." 
 
 " I know it ; but whether now or in tln-oe months, or 
 three years, it makes no matter — I shall lovo her all the 
 same, and we belong to each other. But, see you, Luke, 
 I cannot go on three years — nay, nor three months, and 
 hardly three weeks — without an occupation, and without 
 money, and without a position. I am as impatient as you 
 are for my reconciliation with my father. But we can be 
 reconciled in one way only — through Urith's wedding-ring. 
 Through that we will clasp hands. The longer the delay, 
 the longer the estrangement, and the longer does my father 
 harbour his delusion. If you will not marry me at once 
 to Urith " 
 
 " That I will not." 
 
 *' Then I shall remain here, and work for her as her stew- 
 ard, look after the farm and the estate, and put it straight 
 for her. Why, this is the time of all the year of the great- 
 est importance to a farmer — the time that my direction is 
 most necessary. I tell you, Luke, I stay here, either as 
 her husband or as her steward." 
 
 "That cannot be, that must not be,'* said Luke, with 
 heat, " and tliat Urith herself must feel." 
 
 Urith did feel it. But Urith's mind was disturbed by 
 what had taken place. She had no knowledge of the world, 
 and Anthony's arguments had seemed to her conclusive, so 
 conclusive as to override her own repugnance to an imme- 
 diate marriage. She had resolved to give him up alto- 
 gether, and yet she had yielded ; that resolve had gone to 
 jDieces. She had resolved that if she did take him it should 
 be at some time in the future, but when he pointed out to 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 159 
 
 lier that bis only chance of reconciliation with his father 
 Avas through marriage, as to abandon her ^Yas an ini^^ossible 
 alternative, and that he was absolutely without work, with- 
 out a position, without means — sponging on his cousin, a 
 poor curate, then she saw that this, her second resolve, 
 must go to j^ieces, like the first. 
 
 ''Anthony," said Luke ; "you will have to go away for 
 a year — for some months at the least.'"' 
 
 " Whither ?— To whom ? " 
 
 ** Surely Justice Crymes knows of " 
 
 " How can I accept any help from him when I refuse 
 his daughter, and when I have blinded his son ? " 
 
 " Tbat is true — and your mother had no relatives ? " 
 
 " None that I know of but my grandmother, who is with 
 you." 
 
 " Then go to sea." 
 
 " I have no taste to be a sailor." 
 
 " Be a soldier ? "' 
 
 " No, Luke, here I can serve Urith — save Willsworthy 
 from going to destruction. It is not a bad estate, but has 
 been mismanaged. Here I can be of utility, and here I 
 can be a help to Urith, and find work that suits me, and 
 which I understand. It seems plain to me that Willswor- 
 thy is crying out for me to come and take it in hand ; and, 
 unless it be taken in hand at once, a whole j^ear is lost." 
 
 " That is true," threw in Solomon Gibbs, whose great 
 ea^'erness now was to be disembarrassed of a task that was 
 irksome to him, and obligations that were a burden. "You 
 see, I was never reared to the farm, but to the office. I can 
 draw you a lease, but not a furrow ; make a settlement, 
 but not a turf-tye. I wash my hands of it all." 
 
 " Then, in God's name," said Luke, in grey pallor, and 
 with quivering features, "if it must be, then so be it. 
 May be His finger points the way. As you will. I am at 
 your service — but not for one month. Concede me that." 
 
 "From to-day," said Anthony. "So be it. That is 
 fixed." 
 
160 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 BANNS. 
 
 Sunday morning. A more idyllic and peaceful scene 
 than Peter Tavy Church on Sunday could hardly be found. 
 The grand old granite church with its bold grey tower and 
 rich pinnacles standing among trees, now bursting with 
 leaf ; overhead, the soaring moors strewn with rock ; the 
 river or brook bounding, brawling down between the hills, 
 with a pleasant rush that filled the air with a fresh, never- 
 failing music. 
 
 The rooks cawing, pee-whits calling, larks thrilling, wood- 
 pigeons cooing, and the blackbirds piping during the 
 pauses of the church-bells. And within the church, after 
 the service had l^egun, when the psalm was not sung, as an 
 accompaniment to the parson^s prayer came in through the 
 open door, with the sweet spring air and the sunlight, and 
 through tlie ill-set and cracked wavy-green glass of the 
 windows — that wondrous concert of Nature. As an organ- 
 ist sometimes accompanies the Confession and the Creed 
 and Lord's Prayer, with a subdued cliange of harmonies on 
 the instrument, so did mighty awakening Nature give its 
 changing burden to this voice of praj^er wdtLin, without a 
 discord, and never unduly loud. 
 
 A quaint old church, with fragments of stained glass in 
 the windows, with old oak-carved benches representing on 
 shields various strange sea-monsters, also rabbits running 
 in and out of their holes, moor-birds fluttering over their 
 young, and along with these symbols of trade, a spit with 
 a goose on it, a flax-beating rack, a sheaf of wheat, and a 
 sickle, and again the instruments of the Lord's Passion, and 
 armorial bearings of ancient families, a queer jumble of 
 subjects sacred and profane, a picture of human life. The 
 screen existed almost intact, richly sculjDtured and gilt, and 
 painted with the saints and apostles. Above this a great 
 Royal Arms. 
 
 The church was full. In the great carved pew% men- 
 tioned in a former chapter, were the Crymes family ; in 
 another, newly erected, were Squire Cleverdon and his 
 
URITII: A TAL^ OF DARl'MOOR. 161 
 
 daughter. Urith and her uncle sat in the old bench be- 
 longing to the Willsworthy Manor ; the family had not had 
 the stray cash at command to replace this with a deal pew, 
 according to the new fashion. Anthony was within the 
 screen, in the rectory seat. 
 
 Looking through the screen, he could see his father, with 
 his blue coat — the collar dusted over with powder — his 
 dark eyebrows and sharp features. The old man looked 
 straight before him, and purposely kept his eyes away from 
 the chancel and his son when he stood up during Psalm 
 and Creed. 
 
 The Second Lesson was read, and then ensued a pause. 
 Even Anthony's heart gave a leap and flutter then, for he 
 knew what was to follow. 
 
 Luke, in distinct tones, but with a voice in which was a 
 slight tremor, announced : " I publish the banns of marri- 
 age between Anthony Cleverdon, of this jDarish, bachelor, 
 and Urith Malvine " 
 
 He was interrupted by a strange noise — something be- 
 tween a cry of pain and the laugh of a madman. Squire 
 Cleverdon, who had risen to his feet on the conclusion of 
 the Lesson, had fallen back in his pew, with livid face and 
 clenched hands. 
 
 The curate waited a moment till the commotion was 
 abated ; then he proceeded — " Urith Malvine, of this 
 parish, spinster. If any of you know any just cause why 
 these persons may not be joined together in holy matri- 
 mony " 
 
 Squire Cleverdon staggered to his feet, and, clasping tho 
 back of the j^ew with both hands, in a harsh voice that 
 rang through the church, cried, " I forbid the banns." 
 
 *' This is the first time of asking." Luke proceeded, wdtli 
 a voice now firm : "If an}" objection be raised, I will hear 
 it immediately after Divine Service." 
 
 Little attention was given through the rest of public 
 worship to anything save the old father, his son, and to 
 Urith. All eyes wandered from the Cleverdon pew, in 
 which the Squire sat screened, and in which he no more 
 rose, to Anthony in the chancel, and then to Urith, who 
 was deadly pale. 
 
 Luke's sermon may have been eloquent and instructive ; 
 not a person in the congregation gave heed to it. 
 
 11 
 
162 URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 There was another person present who turned white at the 
 announcement, and that was JuUan Crymes ; but she speedi- 
 ly recovered herself, and, rising, looked across the church 
 at Urith with eyes that flamed with jealousy and hate. Her 
 hand clenched her gloves, wrapped together in it. Yes, 
 that wild moor-girl had won in the struggle, and she — the 
 rich, the handsome Julian — was worsted. Her heart beat so 
 furiously that she was afraid of leaning against the carved 
 oak sides of the pew lest she should shake them. Her eyo 
 encountered that of her haK-brother, twinkling with malice, 
 and the sight gave back her self-possession ; she would 
 not let Fox see, and triumph over her confusion. 
 
 The congregation waited with impatience for the con- 
 clusion of the service, and then, after defiling into the 
 churchyard, did not disperse ; they tarried to hear the 
 result of the objection raised to the publication. 
 
 Urith hastened away with lier uncle, but she had diffi- 
 culty in persuading him to go with her. Ho had so many 
 friends in the churchyard, there was such a topic for dis- 
 cussion ready ; but her will prevailed over his, and after 
 a forlorn look back at his friends, and a shrug of the 
 shoulders, he left with her. 
 
 But Anthony remained with head erect ; he knew that 
 no objection his father could make would avail anything. 
 He nodded his head to acquaintances, and held out his 
 hand to friends with his wonted confidence ; but all showed 
 a sUght hesitation about receiving his advances, a hesita- 
 tion that was so obvious that it angered him. He was at 
 variance with his father, and the father held the purse- 
 strings. All knew that, and none liked to be too friendly 
 with the young man fallen out of his fortune, and out of 
 place. 
 
 Fox alone was really friendly. He pushed forward, and 
 seized and shook Anthony's hand, and congratulated him. 
 The young man was pleased. 
 
 " Bygones are bygones," said Fox, whose eye was cov- 
 ered with a patch, but no longer bandaged. " My sight is 
 not destroyed, I shall receive it again, the doctor says. As 
 for that affair on the moor, at the Drift — you know me bet- 
 ter than to suppose I meant you harm." 
 
 "Certainly I do," answered Anthony with warmth, 
 " Just as you knew that when I struck you with the glove. 
 
VniTU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 163 
 
 I had not the smallest desire to hiirt you. It was — well, 
 what 5'ou like to call it — a passage of arms or a frolic. It 
 is over." 
 
 "It is over, and all forgotten," said Fox. '' You will not 
 be deterred by your father's refusal to give consent to this 
 
 marriage .'' 
 
 9" 
 
 "Certainly I will not," answered Anthony. "He will 
 come round in time. It is but a question of time.'* 
 
 There was no vestry. Old Cleverdon waited in the church 
 till Luke had taken off his surplice, and then w^ent up to 
 him in the chancel. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? " he asked, rudely. 
 " How dare j-ou — who have eaten of my bread, and whose 
 back I clothed, take the part of Anthony against me ?" 
 
 Luke replied gravely, "I have done my office ; whoever 
 asks me to read his banns, or to marry him, I am bound 
 to execute my office." 
 
 "I will send to the rector, and have you turned out of 
 the cure." 
 
 " You may do so, if you please." 
 
 Luke maintained his calm exterior. The old man was 
 trembling with anger. 
 
 "If you have objections to the marriage, state them," 
 said Luke. 
 
 " Objections ! Of course I have. The marriage shall 
 not take place. I forbid it." 
 
 " On what grounds ? " 
 
 " Grounds ! — I do not choose that it shall take place ; let 
 that suffice." 
 
 " That, however, will not suffice for me. I am bound to 
 repeat the banns, and to marry the pair, if they desire it, 
 unless you can show me reasons — legitimate reasons — to 
 make me refuse. Anthony is of age." 
 
 " He shall not marry that hussy. I will disinherit him if 
 he does. Is not that enough ? I will not be defied and 
 disputed with. I have grounds which I do not choose to 
 proclaim to the parish." 
 
 " Grounds I know you have," answered Luke gravely ; 
 "but not one that will hold. Why not give your consent ? 
 XJrith is not penniless. Willsworthy will prove a good 
 addition to Hall. Your son loves her, and she loves 
 him." 
 
164 tJRTTIT: A TALE OF DAETMOOtt. 
 
 " I will not have it. He sliall not marry her ! " again 
 broke from the angry man. "He does it to defy me." 
 
 "There you are in error. It is yon who have forced him 
 into a position of estrangement, and apparent rebellion, 
 because you will not suffer him to obey his own heart. He 
 seeks his happiness in a w^a}^ different from what you had 
 mapped out ; but it is his haj^piness, and he is better able 
 to judge what conduces thereto than are you.'* 
 
 "I do know better than he. Does it lead to happiness 
 to live separated from me — for I will never see him if he 
 marries that huss}^ ? Will it be to his happiness to see 
 Hall pass away into other hands ? Never, so help me God ! 
 shall he bring her over my threshold — certainly never as 
 mistress. Answer me that." 
 
 The blood mounted to Luke's cheeks, and burnt there 
 in two angr}^ spots. 
 
 " Master Cleverdon," he said, and his voice assumed the 
 authority of a priest, " your own wrongdoing is turning 
 against you and j^ours. You did Urith's father a wrong, 
 and you hate him and his daughter because you know that 
 you were guilty towards him. You took from him the wo- 
 man he loved, and who loved him, and sought to build 
 your domestic happiness on broken hearts. You failed : 
 you know by bitter experience how great was 3'our failure ; 
 and, instead of being humbled thereby, and reproaching 
 yourself, you become rancorous against his innocent child." 
 
 " You — you, say this ! You beggar, whom I raised from 
 the dunghill, fed, and clothed ? " 
 
 "I say it," answered Luke, with calmness, but with the 
 flame still in his cheek, " only because I am grateful to you 
 for what you did me, and I would bring you to the most 
 blessed, peace-giving, and hopeful state that exists — a state 
 to which we must all come, sooner or later — some soon, 
 some late, if ever we are to pass into the w^orld of Light — 
 a knowledge of self. Do not think that I reproach you for 
 any other reason. You know that I speak the truth, but 
 you will not admit it — bow your head and beat your breast, 
 and submit to the will of God." 
 
 The Squire folded his arms and glared from under his 
 heavy eyebrows at the audacious young man who pre- 
 sumed to hold up to him a mirror. 
 
 " You will not refrain from reading these banns? " 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 165 
 
 " Not without just cause." 
 
 ** And you will defy me— and marry them?'' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The old man paused. He was trembling with rage and 
 disappointment. He considered for a while. His face be- 
 came paler— a dusky grey— and the lines between his nos- 
 trils and the corners of his mouth hardened and deepened. 
 Forgetting that he was still in the church, he put his hat 
 on his head ; then he turned to walk away. 
 
 " I have shown all — all here, that I am against this ; I 
 have proclaimed it to the parish. I will not be defied with 
 impunity. Take care you, Luke ! I will leave no stone 
 unturned to displace you. And as for Anthony, as he has 
 made his bed so shall he lie— in his pigstye. Never— I 
 call God to my witness — never in Hall." 
 
 As he passed through the richly-sculptured and gilt and 
 painted screen, an old woman stepped forward and inter- 
 cepted him on his way to the church door. 
 
 He put out his hand impatiently, to wave her away, with- 
 out regarding her, and would have thrust past. But she 
 w^ould not be thus put aside. 
 
 "Ah, ha! Master Cleverdon ! " she exclaimed, in harsh 
 tones. " Look at me. Do you not know me— me, your 
 wife's mother. Me, whom you threatened with the stick 
 should I venture through your doors to see my daughter ?" 
 
 Old Cleverdon looked at her with a scowl. " Of course 
 I know you — you old beldame Penwarne." 
 
 "There is a righteous God in heaven !" cried the old 
 woman, with vehemence— extending her arms to bar his 
 passage. " Now wall he recomiDcnse to you all the heart- 
 ache and misery you brought on my child— aye, and through 
 your own child too, That is well ! That is well ! " 
 
 " Stand aside ! " 
 
 "I will not make a way for you to go," continued the 
 old woman. " If you venture to go away until I have spo- 
 ken, I will run after you and shriek it forth in the church- 
 yard where all may hear. Will you stay now ? " 
 
 He made no further attempt to force his way past her. 
 
 "You thought that with your money you could buy 
 everything — even my child's heart ; and when you found 
 you could not, then you took her poor heai't, and trampled 
 on it ; you spurned it ; and you trod it again and agaiu 
 
166 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 imder your cursed foot till all the blood was crushed out 
 of it. " Her eyes glowed, there was the maduess of long- 
 retained and fostered hate in her heart. " You made a 
 wreck of her life, and now your own child spurns you, and 
 tramples on all your fatherly love, laughs at your ambition, 
 mocks all your schemes, and flings back 3-our love in your 
 face as something too tainted, too base, to be worth a 
 groat. Ah, ha ! I have prayed to see this day. I see it, 
 and am glad. Now go." 
 
 She stepped on one side, and the Squire walked dowii 
 the church. In the porch he found Bessie, or rather Bes- 
 sie found him, for he did not observe her. She put her 
 hand on his arm, and looked earnestly, supplicatiugly into 
 his eves. He shook off her hand, and walked on. 
 
 Half the congregation — nearly all the men, and a good 
 many of the w^omen, were in the churchyard in groups, 
 talking. Fox was with Anthony, but as soon as the Squire 
 appeared, he fell from liim and drew back near one of the 
 trees of the church avenue, and fixed his keeii observant 
 eye on the old man. But every other eye w^as on him as 
 well. Cleverdon came slowly, and with that mixture of 
 pomposity and dignity which was usual with him, but 
 which was this day exaggerated, down the avenue, he nod- 
 ded and saluted with his hat the acquaintances whom he 
 observed, but he said no word of greeting to any one. 
 Presently he came opposite his son, then he stayed his foot, 
 looked at him, and their eyes met. Not a muscle w\as re- 
 laxed in his face, his eye was cold and ston}^ Then he 
 turned his head away, and walked on at the same leisurely 
 X^ace. 
 
 The blood boiled up in Anthony's arteries, h. film 
 passed over his sight and obscured it, then he turned and 
 went down another path, and abruptly left the graveyard. 
 
UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XXin. 
 
 IN THE PORCH. 
 
 The marriage liad taken place ; the banns were no fur- 
 ther opposed. Old Cleverdon, indeed, sought a lawyer's 
 advice ; but found he could do nothing to prevent it. An- 
 thony was of age, and his own master. The only control 
 over him he could exercise was through the strings of the 
 purse. The threads of fiUal love and obedience must have 
 been slender, they had snapped so lightly. But the Squire 
 had never regarded them much, he had considered the 
 others tough to resist any strain — strong to hold— in the 
 wildest mood. 
 
 He was not only incensed because Anthony defied him, 
 but because the defiance had been open and successful. 
 He had proclaimed his disapproval of the match by for- 
 bidding the banns before the entire parish ; consequently, 
 his defeat was public. 
 
 Urith had been carried, as by a whirlwind, out of one 
 position into another, without having had time to consider 
 how great the change must necessarily be. She had, in 
 her girlhood, hardly thought of marriage. Following her 
 own will, independent, she had not pictured to herself that 
 condition as invested with any charm which must bring 
 upon her some sort of vassalage— a state in which her will 
 must be subordinate to that of another. 
 
 The surroundings were the same : she had spent all her 
 days since infancy iu that quaint old thatched manor-house ; 
 looked out on the world through those windows ; seen what 
 of the world came there flow in through the same doors ; 
 had sat at the same table, on the same chairs ; heard the 
 tick-tick of the same clock ; Hstened to the same voices— 
 of Uncle Sol and the old family maid. The externals were 
 the same ; but her whole inner life had assumed a new 
 purpose and direction. 
 
 She could think, at first, of nothing save her happiness. 
 That rough home was suddenly invested with beauty and 
 fragrance, as though in a night jessamine and rose had 
 
168 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 sprung up around it, covered its walls, and were breathing 
 their fragrance through the windows. 
 
 The course of her life had not been altered, broken by a 
 leap and fall, but had expanded, because fuller, and at the 
 same time deeper. 
 
 Now and then there came a qualm over her conscience 
 at the thought of her mother. She had defied her last 
 wishes, and her marriage had followed on the burial with 
 indecent haste, but in the d>azzle of sunshine in which she 
 walked the motes that danced before her served but to in- 
 tensify the brilliance of the light. 
 
 Summer was advancing. The raw winds of early spring 
 were over, and the east wind when it came down off the 
 moor was no longer edged as a razor, but sheathed in vel- 
 vet. The world was blooming along with her heart, not 
 with a lone flower here and there, but with exuberance of 
 life and beauty. 
 
 Her mother had kept but a single domestic servant, a 
 woman who had been with her for many years, and this 
 woman remained on. A charwoman came for the day, not 
 regularly, but as frequently as she could. 
 
 The circumstances of the Malvines had been so bad that 
 they could not afford a large household. Mistress Malvine 
 had helped as much as she was able, and Urith, now that 
 she was left mistress, and had introduced another inmate 
 into the house, was called on to consider whether she 
 would help in the domestic work, or keep another servant. 
 She wisely resolved to lend a hand herself, and defer the 
 enlargement of the household till the farm paid better than 
 it did at present. That it would be doubled in value 
 under prudent management, neither she nor Anthony 
 doubted. 
 
 She believed his assurances, and his assurances were 
 well-grounded. To make it possible to double its value, 
 however, one thing was wanted, which was not available — 
 capital, to buy sheep and cattle. 
 
 Anthony attacked the task with great energy. He knew 
 exactly what was wanted, and he had great physical 
 strength, which he did not spare. 
 
 Some of the walls of moonstone — uncemented, unbound 
 together by mortar, piled one on another, and maintaining 
 their place by their own weight — ^had fallen, and presented 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 169 
 
 gaps through which the moor-ponies and cattle invaded 
 th(i fields, and their own beasts escaped. 
 
 Anthony set to work to rebuild these places. The stoneg 
 were there, but prostrate, and, through long neglect, over- 
 grown with moss, and embedded in the soil. Urith 
 brought out her knitting and sat on a stone by him, as he 
 worked, in the sun and sweet air. Never had Urith been 
 so happy — never Anthony so joyous. Never before had 
 Urith cared about the prepai'ation of a meal, and never 
 before had Anthony so enjoyed his food. They were like 
 children — careless of the morrow, laughing, and in cloud- 
 less merriment. The old servant, who had grumbled and 
 shaken her head over the precipitate marriage of Urith, 
 was carried away by the jo^'ousness of the young couple, 
 unbent, smiled, and forgave the indiscretion. 
 
 They received visitors — not many, but some. Urith and 
 her mother had had few acquaintances, and these came to 
 wish the young couple happiness. Those of old Cleverdon 
 kept aloof, or came hesitatingly : they were unwilling to 
 break with the rich father for the sake of the son out of 
 favour. Luke made his formal call. He came seldom ; he 
 had not sufficiently conquered his own heart to be able to 
 look on upon the happiness of his cousin and Urith without 
 a i)ang. When, a month after the wedding, he met An- 
 thony one day, the latter flew out somewhat hotl}^ in com- 
 plaint of the neglect wdth which he had been treated. 
 
 " I suppose 3'ou also, Cousin Luke, are hedging, and try- 
 ing to make friends with my father by showing me the 
 cold shoulder." 
 
 " You say this ! " exclaimed Luke, in pained surprise. 
 
 "You have rarely been to see me since my marriage. I 
 hardly know what is going on in the world outside our 
 boundary-walls. But it does not matter — I have a world 
 of work, and of content witLin." 
 
 Luke made no reply. 
 
 " There is Bessie, too — I thought better of her — she has 
 not been over to us. I suppose ylie knows on which side 
 her bread is buttered." 
 
 " There you wrong her," answered Luke, hotly. "Y^ou 
 little have understood and valued Bessie's generous, unsel- 
 fish, loving heart, if you can say such a word as that of 
 her." 
 
170 URITII: A TALE OF DART3fOOR. 
 
 " Then why has she not been near me ? " 
 
 " Because she has been forbidden by your father. You 
 know, if you have any grace in you, Anthony, that this 
 prohibition troubles her, and costs her more tears and 
 heartaches than you." 
 
 " She should disobey in this matter. I see neither 
 reason nor religion in blind obedience to irrational com- 
 mands." 
 
 '* She may serve j'our interests better by submission. 
 You may be well assured that jowv welfare is at her 
 heart ; and that she seeks in every w\ay to bend your 
 father's stubborn will, and bring him to a reconciliation 
 with you." 
 
 " By the Lord, Luke ! " exclaimed Anthony, "I wish you 
 would take Bessie yourself. She would make an admirable 
 parson's wife." 
 
 Luke paused a moment before he replied, then he an- 
 swered, in a constrained voice, coldly : " Anthony, in such 
 matters I follow my own impulse, and not the directions of 
 others. You speak thinking only of j^ourself, and j^our 
 wash to be able once more to see your sister makes you 
 suggest what might be distasteful to her and unsuitable to 
 me." 
 
 "There, there, it was a joke," said Anthony. "Excuse 
 me if I be a little fretted by sejDaration from Bessie. She 
 would be of the greatest possible assistance to Urith, and 
 Urith has no one " 
 
 "There is still one course open to you, which may lead 
 to reconciliation," said Luke. 
 
 "And that ?" 
 
 "Is to go to Hall and see 3^0 ur father. Try what effect 
 that has on him. It cannot make matters worse, and it 
 may make them better." 
 
 " Oh, repeat the storj'- of the Prodigal Son ! But I am 
 not a prodigal. I feel no repentance. I cannot say, ' Father, 
 I have sinned against heaven and against thee — make me as 
 one of thy hired servants.' I cannot say what I do not feel. 
 It is he who has transgressed against me." 
 
 " And you expect|him to come to you, beating his breast ; 
 and then you will kill the fatted calf and embrace and for- 
 give him ? " 
 
 Anthouy laughed, with a heightened colour. " Not so, 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 171 
 
 exactly ; but — it will all come i-iglit in the end. He can't 
 hold out, and in the end must take me back into favour. 
 To whom else could he leave Hall ? "' 
 
 One market day Anthony and Urith were in Tavistock. 
 Every one was there that he knew ; market was attended 
 by all the gentry, the farmers, and tradespeople of the 
 country side ; by all who had goods to sell or wanted to 
 buy, and by such as wanted to, or were able to do, neither 
 one the other, but who could exchange news and eat and 
 drink at the ordinary, and perhaps thereat get drunk. 
 
 Urith rode to market on pillion behind Anthony, hold- 
 ing to the leather belt about his waist. The day was bright, 
 and as the^^ rode, he turned his head over his shoulder and 
 spoke to her, and she answered him. They were as chil- 
 dren full of mirth, only one little cloud on the horizon of 
 each — on that of Anthony the lack of warmth with which 
 his old acquaintance greeted him, a matter that vexed him 
 more than did the estrangement from his father ; on that 
 of Urith, the consciousness that she had disobeyed her 
 mother's last wishes ; but in the great splendor of their 
 present happiness these little clouds were disregarded. 
 
 In Urith's bosom was a rose — the first rose of summer — 
 that Anthony had picked, and he had himself fastened in 
 with a pin to her bodice, and she had kissed his head as he 
 was engaged thereon. 
 
 The day was not that of ordinary market ; it was the 
 Whitsun fair as well ; and, as Anthony approached Tavi- 
 stock, numbers of holida3^ makers were overtaken, or over- 
 took him, on his way to the town. The church bells were 
 ringing, for there was Divine Service on such festival days, 
 and this was usually attended by all the women who came 
 to fair, whilst their husbands saw to the putting away of 
 their horses, saving only such as had wares for sale, and 
 these occupied themselves during worship with their stalls, 
 if they had them ; if not, with spreading their goods on 
 the ground in such advantageous manner as best to at- 
 tract purchasers. 
 
 " You will come to me to the church porch, Tony ! " said 
 Urith, as she dismounted. " In the crowd we may miss 
 each other, and I shall like to go on your arm." 
 
 So it was agreed, and Urith entered the church. This, a 
 fine four-aisled building, was in ancient times, as it is now. 
 
172 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 the parish church ; it stood in the shadow of the mighty 
 Minster of the Abbey, dwarfed by it, a stately pile, second 
 only in size in the county to the Cathedral Church of Exeter. 
 Ruins of it remained at the time of this tale, tall pillars and 
 arches, and the main road from Plymouth had, out of wil- 
 ful wickedness, been run, in the days of the commonwealth, 
 up what had been the nave, and the east end torn down, 
 so that market could be held in the desecrated House of 
 God, under the partial shelter of the vaulted aisles. All is 
 now gone, c^uarried away to supply every man with stone 
 who desired to rebuild his house ; most of it removed for 
 the construction of the stately mansion of the Earls of 
 Bedford, who were possessed of the Abbey propei'ty.* 
 
 " What — you here ! So we see you again ? " exclaimed 
 Fox, as Anthony dismounted in the inn-yard. Fox Crymes 
 held forth his hand, and it was warmly grasped by An- 
 thony, who at once looked at his eye. Crymes had discon- 
 tinued the bandage, but all did not seem right with the 
 orb. "I can see with it," said the latter, observing the look 
 of Anthony, " but with a cloud ; that, I fear, will ever 
 hang there." 
 
 " You know that I would pluck out one of my own eyes 
 and give it you," said Anthony, with sincerity and emotion. 
 " I shall never forget that unhappy blow." 
 
 *'Nor I," answered Crymes, chwly. 
 
 " Is 3'our sister here ? " asked Anthony. 
 
 " Yes — in the church. Bj' the Avay, Tony, how is it that 
 we never see you at the Hare and Hounds? Does not the 
 apron-string extend so far? Or are your legs so clogged 
 with the honey in the pot into which you are dipping for 
 vou to be able to crawl so far ? " 
 
 " Oh, you will see me there some day ; but now I am too 
 hard-worked. All Sol Gibbs's muddles to mend, you un- 
 derstand, and neglects to be made up for. I work like a 
 slave?" 
 
 " How about your father? Any nearer a reconciliation?" 
 There was a leer in Fox's eve as he asked this. 
 
 Anthony shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I must be off," said he. 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 * Now the Bedford Inn, 
 
XIRITH: A TALI^ OF DARTMOOR. 1T3 
 
 "To the iDorcli. I promised Uritli to meet her there." 
 
 " Oh ! she is pulHiig at the apron-string. Let me not 
 detain you." 
 
 Antliony walked away. He was annoyed. It was al> 
 surd, preposterous of Fox to speak to him as if he were in 
 subjection to his wife. The words of Fox left an uneasy 
 feeling in his breast, as if it had been touched by a nettle, 
 a tingle, a sting, nothing to signify — but a perceptible dis- 
 corafort. 
 
 He reached the church-porch as Urith and Julian were 
 leaving the church, and he arrived at a critical moment. 
 
 That morning before leaving Willsworth}^ Urith had 
 taken her gloves to draw them on, when she found them 
 stuck together with some adhesive matter. On pulling 
 them over she found that the palms and fingers were cov- 
 ered with i^itch. It then occurred to her that she had laid 
 her hands on some rails that been recently blackened with 
 pitch to preserve them from decay, by her husband and 
 that it was not dry as she had supposed. The gloves 
 were spoiled — she could not wear them. She was not pos- 
 sessed of another pair, and could not ride to Tavistock 
 with hands uncovered. 
 
 Her eyes fell ou the pair that had belonged to Julian, 
 and which had been cast at her in defiance. After hesitat- 
 ing for a moment, she drew these on, and resolved to pur- 
 chase herself fresh gloves in the fair. 
 
 On reaching church, she drew off her gloves, and laid 
 them across the rail of the pew. 
 
 Julian Crymes was near, in the Kilworthy pew— that be- 
 longing to the Glanvilles, as did the pew in Peter Tavy 
 Church also, attached to another house owned by the fam- 
 ily in that parish. 
 
 Urith did not give her gloves a thought till she saw Ju- 
 lian's eyes fixed on them, and caught a dark glance from her. 
 
 Then she coloured, conscious of the mistake she had 
 made, but recovered herself immediately. She had won 
 in the match— a fair one, and had carried off the stakes. 
 A sense of elation came upon her, she held up her head, 
 and returned Jalian's look with one of haughty triumph. 
 She saw Julian's colour darken, and her lips tremble ; a 
 passage of arms took place in the church, the weapons 
 being but glances of sharp eyes. 
 
174 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 What was played and sung neither considered, each was 
 engaged on her own thoughts. Elated Urith was — happi- 
 ness fills the heart with pride. She — she whom no one 
 hitherto had regarded, had wrested away the great prize 
 against tremendous odds — Julian's beauty, family position, 
 wealth, and the weight of his own father's advocacy. For 
 her sake he had thrown away everything that others es- 
 teemed. She had cause to he proud — reason to feel her 
 heart swell with the sense of victory : and who that has 
 won a victory does not desire a public triumph? 
 
 No sooner was service over, than Urith, with a little os- 
 tentation, drew on the gloves, then took the rose Anthony 
 had pinned to her stomacher, and looking fixedly at Ju- 
 lian, loosened it, pressed it to her lips, and replaced it. 
 Her rival read in the act the very thoughts of her heart. 
 Tliat rose which had been given her was the pledge of An- 
 thony's love. 
 
 Julian panted with anger. It was well for her that none 
 was in the pew by her to notice her emotion. At the last 
 Amen she Hung open the door, and stepped out into the 
 aisle, at the same moment as Urith, and both made their 
 way to the porch, side by side, without a look at each other. 
 They passed through the doorway together, and saw An- 
 thony standing there. 
 
 Instantly — the whole thing was done so quickly as to es- 
 caj^e Anthony's notice — Julian turned with flashing eye on 
 Urith, plucked the rose from her bosom, pressed it to her 
 own lips, then threw it on the ground and crushed it under 
 her foot. 
 
 There was no time — that was no place for retaliation. 
 Urith's blood rushed to her heart ; then she caught her 
 husband's arm, and with him walked away. 
 
 All that day a sense of alarm and unrest troubled her. 
 Julian had renewed her defiance ; had threatened both her 
 and Anthony. Would this threat be as vain as her former 
 defiance ? Urith swallowed her fears, scorned to entertain 
 them — but the sting remained. 
 
 In the evening, when about to start on her return, when 
 his horse was ready — "You must wait for me a moment, 
 Tony," she said, and hurried back to the porch. 
 
 The rose, trampled out of shape, trodden on by many 
 feet, lay there, soiled and petalless. 
 
UlilTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 175 
 
 If Julian were to snatch liim away, were to cast him 
 down under foot and crush him — what would she do? 
 Would she wear him again ? AVould she stoop to him ? 
 
 She stood in the grey, cool porch, looking at the bat- 
 tered flower. Then she bent, picked up the rose, and hid 
 it in her bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 KILWORTHY. 
 
 Anthony helped Urith to the saddle, saying, 
 
 *' I am not coming home just now. You must ride back 
 alone." 
 
 "But why not?" Urith asked, in surprise, and a little 
 disappointment. 
 
 " Must I account to you for all my acts ? " said Anthony, 
 somewhat testily. 
 
 "Not at all," answered Urith ; "but surely there is no 
 objection to my asking so innocent a question as that. If, 
 liowever, it gives you displeasure, I will abide without an 
 
 answer." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Anthony, the cloud passing from his face, 
 "I have no reason not to answer. I am going with Fox. 
 He has asked me to return with him to Kil worthy ; and as 
 I have seen no one for a couple — nay, for three months, 
 and have well-nigh lost the use of my tongue, I have ac- 
 cepted." 
 
 "I do not like Fox. I do not like you to be with him." 
 
 " Am I to consult you as to whom I make my friends ? 
 He is the only one who has come forward with frankness, 
 and has braved my father's displeasure by showing me a 
 countenance of old friendliness." 
 
 " I do not like Fox — I mistrust him." 
 
 "I do not," said Anthony, bluntly. "I am not going to 
 take my opinions from you, Urith." 
 
 " I do not suppose you will," retorted she, with a little 
 heat ; " but do not forget what he did to you at the Drift. 
 That was a false and cowardly act." 
 
 " Oh ! " laughed Anthony, somewhat contemptuously ; 
 " you maidens do not understand the sort of jokes we men 
 
176 UniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 play on each other. He meant no harm, and things went 
 worse than he intended. None can have been more vexed 
 at the turn they took than himself. He told me so." 
 
 *' What ! That a horse should go mad when burning 
 touchwood is set in his ear ? " 
 
 " He did not purpose to put it into his ear. The horse 
 tossed his head, and Fox's hand slipped." 
 
 "And his hand slipped when your fingers were cut?" 
 
 " No, not his hand, but his knife ; it was in his sleeve. 
 You would not have had it slip upwards ? " 
 
 Urith was silent ; she was angered, vexed — angered and 
 vexed at Anthony's easy good-nature. Any excuse satisfied 
 him. So with regard to his father's displeasure ; it did not 
 concern him greatly — cost him not an hour's wakefulness. 
 All would come right in the end, he said, and satisfied 
 himself with sanguine hope. His was a buoyant nature, the 
 opposite to her own, which was gloomy and mistrustful. 
 She raised no further objection to Anthony leaving her 
 to return home alone. He was in a touchy mood, and, for 
 the first time since their marriage, answered her testily. 
 
 But she made allowance for him. He had been cut off 
 from his friends, he had been forced out of his wonted 
 course of life. He had l^een pinched for money, obliged to 
 work hard. Was it not reasonable that on a fair-day and 
 holiday he should wish to be with his old companions and 
 make merry, and have a glass of ale or a bottle of sack ? 
 Uncle Sol could not or would not accompany her home ; 
 he also had friends to detain hira, and purposed to pass 
 the evening in an alehouse singing and making merry. 
 
 Urith's knowledge of men, their ways, and their fancies, 
 was limited to the study of her uncle ; and though she 
 could not believe that her Anthony was a sot and witless, 
 yet_ she supposed that he partook of the same taste for 
 society and for the bottle, which she regarded as much a 
 characteristic of men as a rough chin and a masculine 
 voice. 
 
 Anthony, with unconcern, was on his way to Kilworthy. 
 This ancient mansion stood high, with its back to the north 
 , wind ; before it the hills fell away in noble park-land 
 j studded with oak and beech over a century old — trees that 
 / had been planted by Judge Glanville in the reign of Eliz- 
 abeth — and beyond the valley of the Tavy rose the tumbled, 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 177 
 
 desolate ridges of Dartmoor, of a scabious blue, or wan 
 as ashes. 
 
 The side of the hill was hewu away near the house into 
 a series of terraces, one jjlaiited with yews, the others rich 
 with flowers. The house itself had that stately beauty 
 that belongs to Elizabethan mansions. 
 
 When Anthony arrived along with Fox, he was not a 
 little surprised to see a large company assembled. Many 
 of the young people and their parents of the best families 
 around were there, saunteiing in the gardens, or playing 
 bowls on the green. 
 
 He was surprised, for Fox had not prepared him to meet 
 company, but he was pleased, for he had been cut off from 
 society for some months, had hardly seen old friends, and 
 now he was delighted to be among them, and — his father 
 being absent — on the old familiar terms. The depression 
 of his spirits gave way at once, and he was filled with 
 cheerfulness and fan ; he played bowls, and when the dew 
 fell, and it was deemed advisable for all to retire from the 
 garden, he was most ready of all for a dance. 
 
 Julian was also in high spirits ; she was looking remark- 
 ably pretty in a light summer dress. She met Anthony 
 with frankness, and he engaged her for the first dance. 
 
 The beauty of the place, the pleasant society, the profu- 
 sion of good food and wines, united to give Anthony sat- 
 isfaction. He appreciated all this so much the more, as he 
 had been deprived of these things for some time. It was 
 true that he had enjoyed the company of Urith, but then 
 Urith's circle of associates was almost nothing ; she did not 
 know those people that he knew, was not interested about 
 matters that woke in him curiosity. She could talk only 
 of Willsworthy, and Willsworthy as a subject of conversa- 
 tion wag easily exhausted. There was a freedom in the so- 
 ciety of those he novv^ met, a want of constraint that de- 
 lighted him. When one topic ran dry another was started. 
 With Urith conversation flagged, because there was no 
 variety in the subjects of conversation. 
 
 Then again the beauty and richness of the place grati- 
 fied his eye after the bleakness of Willsworthy. There, 
 high on the moor side, onl}^ sycamores would grow — here 
 were trees of royal appearance, huge-trunked, with broad 
 expanding branches, the aristocracy of trees as only seen in 
 13 
 
178 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 
 
 Englisli parks, where they are given scope to expand from 
 infancy. At home, moreover, the general narrowness of 
 means and lack of management had not made of the table 
 a place of enjoyment. A meal was necessary, somethiDg 
 to be scrambled through and got over. No effort was 
 made by Mrs. Mai vine in earlier days to make it a gratifica- 
 tion for the palate, and it did not occur to Urith when she 
 was married and mistress of the household that things 
 might in this respect be improved. Anthony was no epi- 
 cure, but 3'oung men as well as old like to have palatable 
 dishes set before them, and to have not only their wives 
 well-dressed and tricked out, but also their dishes. Here also 
 Urith failed. She disregarded personal adornment. Hand- 
 some though she was, slie would have looked far hand- 
 somer had she cared to set off her charms with tasteful 
 dress. She despised all solicitude about dress, and it was 
 a little disax3pointment to Anthony that she took so little 
 pains to do justice to herself in this respect. Now that he 
 was in the midst of pretty girls, charmingly set off by their 
 light gowns and bright ribbons, he felt as if he had stepped 
 out of association with moths into that of butterflies — out 
 of a vegetable, into a flower-garden. 
 
 Ao-ain, since his marriai^fe — indeed, ever since he had left 
 Hall, he had felt the irksomeness of being without money, he 
 had discovered the value of coin, and had learned that it 
 could not be tin-own away. He had nothing of his own, 
 what coins he had in his pocket came to him from his wife. 
 
 Now he was in a house where money seemed to be dis- 
 regarded. He need not drink sour cider, but take his 
 choice of wines. He was not served at table by one old 
 maid-of -all-work, but by liveried footmen, in the blue and 
 yellow Glanville colours. The table was furnished with 
 abundance of plate, engraved with the Glanville stags or 
 the Crymes martlet. At Willsworthy he had used bone- 
 handled knives and forks, and had eaten off pewter. 
 
 He danced with Julian once more. She was bright, 
 sparkling with merriment, full of lively sally, and she 
 looked marvellously pretty. Anthony wondered at himself 
 for not having observed it before, or at not having suffi- 
 ciently appreciated it. 
 
 His sister arrived, somewhat late, and Anthony at once 
 went to her, with both hands extended. 
 
XJBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 179 
 
 »* Ig Urith here ? " she asked. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " She was not invited." 
 
 " Then why are you here ? ** 
 
 "For this good reason, that I was invited." 
 
 "But, Tony," said Bessie, "you ought not to have ac- 
 cepted unless she was asked as well." 
 
 "Nonsense ! Bet," exclaimed Anthony, fretfully. "I am 
 not tied to her apron-strings. We have not met for months, 
 and 3'our first address to me is — a rebuke." 
 
 He walked away, annoyed, and rejoined Julian. 
 
 What ! was he to be debarred visiting his friends — 
 spending a pleasant social evening with them — because he 
 was asked without his wife I 
 
 " I say, Tony," said Fox, into his ear, " what do you 
 think of Kilworthy now ? You have thrown it away for 
 the sake of a pair of sulky eyes — aye, and Hall, too ? Well 
 I have always heard say that love was madness ; but I never 
 believed it till I heard what you had done." 
 
 Anthony's pleasure was spoiled. The contrast between 
 Kilworthy and Wills worthy had been unconsciously drawn 
 in his mind before ; now it was fixed and brought into prom- 
 inence, and he saw and realised in a moment the tremend- 
 ous sacrifice he had made. From this minute he looked 
 on all around him with other eyes. He saw what might 
 have been his position, his wealth — how he would have 
 been esteemed and envied had he followed the course 
 mapped out for him by his father — had he taken JuHan 
 instead of Urith. 
 
 He looked again at Julian — his eyes insensibly followed 
 her — and again he marvelled that hitherto there had been 
 a veil over them, so that he had not appreciated her beauty. 
 He could not withdraw his eyes : they pursued her where- 
 ever she went. 
 
 All at once she turned, with the consciousness that he 
 was looking at her. Their eyes met, and he coloured to 
 the temples. He blushed at his thoughts, for he was ask- 
 ing himself whether life, with such comfortable surround- 
 ings, would not have been more than bearable — even de- 
 lightful — at her side. 
 
 In a moment he had recovered himself ; but not his light- 
 
180 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 lieartedness— that was gone. He asked for his horse, and 
 then remembered that he had none. XJrith had ridden 
 home on his horse, therefore he must walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 GATHERING CLOUDS. 
 
 V 
 
 Next day Anthony's brow was clouded, and his manner 
 had lost its usual cheerfulness. He was angry with himself 
 for having been to Kil worthy. Bessie was right, he acknowl- 
 edged it now — a shght had been put on his wife by his 
 befng invited without her. He ought to have seen this be- 
 fore. He ought to have refused the invitation. Then he 
 remembered that he had been told nothing about a party 
 at the house, so his anger was turned upon Fox, who had 
 entrapped him into a false position. 
 
 But this was not all. He was ashamed at himself for 
 having for a moment reconsidered his conduct in taking 
 Urith instead of Julian. In vain did he reason with him- 
 self that he had done something heroic in resigning such 
 enormous advantages for the sake of a girl ; whether he 
 liked it or not, the odious thought lurked in a corner of 
 his heart and would not be expelled — Was Urith worth the 
 sacrifice ? 
 
 There was much to humiliate him in his present state. 
 He who had been wont to spend his money freely, had now 
 to reckon his coppers and calculate whether he could afford 
 the small outlay that slight x^leasures entailed. And then 
 — these coppers were not his, but his wife's. He was liv- 
 ing on her bounty, indebted to her for every glass of ale he 
 drank. Of his own, he had nothing. His confidence that 
 his father's obstinacy would give way, and that he would 
 be taken into favour again, was shaken. He began to fear 
 that so long as his father lived he would remain in dis- 
 favour. That, on his father's decease, he would inherit 
 Hall, he did not doubt for a moment. There was no one 
 else to whom the old man could bequeath the estate. Bes- 
 sie was a girl, and Luke a parson — disqualifications absolute. 
 
 Most heartily did he wish that the misunderstanding with 
 
UBITn: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 181 
 
 his father were at an end. It wag a deg-radatiou for him — 
 for him, the heir of the Cleverdons — to bo sponging on his 
 wife. The situation was intolerable. But how was it to be 
 altered ? He could not force his father to reconciliation. 
 His pride forbade his going to him and acting the prodigal 
 son. His heart grew hot and bitter against the old man 
 for his unreasonable and persistent hostility', which had 
 reduced him to a position so pitiable and humiliating. 
 
 Then there arose before his mind's eye the beautiful 
 grounds and noble mansion of Kilworthy, the pleasant 
 company there — and Julian. He shook his head impa- 
 tiently, set his teeth, and stamped on the floor, but he 
 could not rid himself of the thoughts. 
 
 "I do not see, 'fore Heaven, why we should not have a 
 clean table-cover," he said at dinner ; "nor why every dish 
 should be huddled on to the board at once. I am not a 
 pig, and accustomed to feed as in a stj'e." 
 
 Urith looked at him with surprise, and saw that dis- 
 pleasure was lowering on his brow. 
 
 She answered him gently, but he spoke again in the same 
 peevish, fault-finding tones. He complained that the pew- 
 ter dishes were hacked with knives, and the mugs bent out 
 of shape and unpohshed. If they must eat as do servants 
 in a kitchen, let them at least have the utensils in trim 
 order. 
 
 Urith sought in vain to dispel the ill-humour that trou- 
 bled him ; this was her first experience of domestic dis- 
 agreement. The tears came into her eyes from disappoint- 
 ment, and then his ill-humour proved contagious. She 
 caught the infection and ceased to speak. This annoyed 
 him, and he asked her why she said nothing. 
 
 *' When there are clouds over Lynx Tor there is vapour 
 over Hare Tor as well," she answered. " If you are in gloom 
 I am not like to be in sunshine. What ails you ? " 
 
 "It is too maddening that my father should remain stub- 
 born," he said. "You cannot expect me to be always gay, 
 with the consciousness that I am an outcast from Hall."^ 
 
 She might have answered sharply, and the lightning 
 would then have flashed from cloud to cloud, had not, at 
 that moment, Luke entered the house. 
 
 " Come at last ! " was Anthony's ungracious salutation. 
 "I have not been here often, certainly," said Luke, "for 
 
182 URITH : A TALE OP DARTMOOR. 
 
 I did not SNppose you wanted me ; the parson is desired 
 by those in sorrow and tears, not by those in perfect happi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Anthony, " it is not as the parson we want 
 yon, but as a cousin and comrade." 
 
 Urith asked Luke if he would have a share of the meal 
 just concluded. He shook his head ; he had eaten before 
 leaving the rector}^ He had taken his meal early, so as 
 to be sure of catching Anthony at home before he went 
 abroad. 
 
 As Luke spoke he turned his eyes from his cousin to 
 Urith, and saw by the expression of their faces that some 
 trouble was at their hearts ; but he had the tact not to ad- 
 vert to it, and to wait till they of their own accord revealed 
 the cause. 
 
 "Have you been to Hall lately? Have you seen my 
 father ? " asked Anthony, after a pause, with his eyes on 
 the table. 
 
 '' I have not been there ; your father will not see me. 
 He cannot forgive the hand I had in making you hax^py." 
 
 " Then you have no good news to bring me ? " 
 
 " None thence. I have talked to Bessie " 
 
 ■ *' So have I. I saw her yesterday at Kil worthy, and she 
 scolded me instead of comforting me," 
 
 " Comforting you ! Why, Anthony, I do not suppose 
 for an instant that she thought you needed comfort." 
 
 " Should I not, when my father shuts me out of his 
 liouse— out of what should be mine — the house that will be 
 mine some day ! It is inhuman ! " 
 
 " I can quite believe that your father's hardness causes 
 you pain, but no advantage is gained by brooding over it. 
 You cannot alter his mood, and must patiently endure till 
 it changes. Instead of altering his for the better, you may 
 deteriorate your own by fretful repining." 
 
 Anthony tossed his head. 
 
 " You, too, in the fault-finding mood ! All the world is 
 in league against me." 
 
 "Take my advice," said Luke ; "put Hall out of your 
 thoughts and calculations. You may have to wait much 
 longer than you imagined at one time till your father re- 
 lents ; you know that he is tough in his purpose, and firm 
 in his resolution. He will not yield without a struggle 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOJl. 183 
 
 with Lis pride. So — act as if Hall were no more yours than 
 Kilworthy." 
 
 Anthony winced, and looked up hastil}', his colour dark- 
 ened, and he began hastily and vehemently to rap at the 
 table. 
 
 *' Kilworthy ! " Why had Luke mentioned that place by 
 name ? was he also mocking him, as Fox had yestereven, 
 for throwing away his chance of so splendid a possession. 
 
 Luke did not notice that this reference had touched a 
 vibrating string in his cousin's conscience. He went on, 
 "Do not continue to reckon on what may not be yours. 
 It is possible — though I do not say it is likely — that j^'our 
 father may disinherit j^ou. Face the worst, be prepared 
 for the worst, and then, if things turn out better than you 
 anticipated, well ! — jow unman yourself by living for, reck- 
 oning on, dead men's boots ; make yourself shoes out of 
 your own hide, and be content that you have the where- 
 w^ithal to cover your feet." 
 
 " You think it possible that my father may never come 
 round — even on his death-bed ? " 
 
 •' God grant he may," answered Luke, gravely. " But 
 he entertains an old and bitter grudge against your wife's 
 father, and this grudge has passed over to, and invests her. 
 God grant His grace that he ma}' come to a better mind, for 
 if he goes out of this life with this grudge on his heart, he 
 cannot look to find mercy when he stands before the throne 
 of his Judge." 
 
 Anthony continued drumming on the table with his 
 fingers. 
 
 " My recommendation is," continued Luke, " that you 
 rest your thoughts on what you have, not on what jom have 
 not. And j-ou have much to be thankful for. You have a 
 wife whom 3'ou love dearly, and who loves you no less de- 
 votedly. You are your own master, living on your own 
 estate, and in your own manor house. So — live for that, 
 care for that, cultivate your own soil, and your own family 
 hajDpiness, and let the rest go packing." 
 
 " My own house ! my own land ! " exclaimed Anthony. 
 "These are fine words, but they are false. Willsworthy is 
 not mine, it belongs to Urith." 
 
 "Anthony ! " cried his wife, "what is mine you know is 
 yours — wholly, freely." 
 
184 JJRiTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " Well," said Luke, ^\-ith heat, " and if Hall had been 
 yours when you took Urith, it would have been no longer 
 mine or thine, but ours. So it is with Willsworthy. Love 
 is proud to receive and to give, and it never reckons what 
 it gives as enough, and acce^Dts what it receives as wholly 
 
 its own." 
 
 Anthony shrugged his shoulders, then set his elbows on 
 the table, and put his head in his hands. 
 
 "I reckon it is natural that I should grieve over the 
 alienation from my father." 
 
 " You are not grieving over it because it is an alienation 
 from your father, but from Hall, with the comforts and 
 luxuries to 'which you were accustomed there." 
 
 " Do you not see," exclaimed Anthony, impatiently, " that 
 it is I who should support my wife, and not my wife who 
 should find me in bread and butter ? Our x^roper positions 
 are reversed." 
 
 "Not at all. Willsworthy has gone to rack and ruin, 
 and if it be brought back to prosperity, it will be through 
 your energy and hard work." 
 
 " Hard work ! " echoed Anthony. " I have had more of 
 that since I have been here than ever I had before." 
 
 " Well, and why not ? You are not afraid of work, are 
 
 you?" 
 
 "Afraid! No. But I was not born to be a day la- 
 bourer." 
 
 " You were born, Anthony, the son of a yeoman family 
 which has worked hard to bring itself up into such a cou- 
 dition that now it passes for a family of gentry. Do not 
 forget that, and do not blush for yourself when you use 
 the muck-fork or the spade, or you are unworthy of your 
 stout-hearted ancestors." 
 
 Anthony laughed. The cloud was dispelled. This allu- 
 sion to the family and its origin touched and pleased him. 
 He had often joked over his father's pretensions. He put 
 forth his hand to his cousin, who clasped it warmly. 
 
 " All well, old friend, you are right. If I have to build 
 up a new branch of the Cleverdons, it is well. I am con- 
 tent. Fill the tankard to the prosperity of the Cleverdons 
 of Willsworthy — and to the dogs with Hall ! " 
 
 Anthony put his arm round Urith's waist. The clouds 
 had cleared, and, as they rolled off his brow that of Urith 
 
XJRITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 185 
 
 brightened also. Luke rose to depart. He -would not 
 suffer bis cousin to attend him from the door. He went forth 
 alone ; and, when he had passed the gate, he halted, raised 
 his hand, and said, "Peace be to this house ! " Yet he said 
 it with doubt in his heart. He had seen a rufHe on the 
 placid water, and that rufHe might forebode a storm. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 ON THE TERRACE. 
 
 Months had passed. On the 6th of February, 1G85, 
 died Charles H., and James, Duke of York, succeeded to 
 the throne. At once, through England, the story was 
 spread that he had been poisoned by the Jesuits to secure the 
 succession for James, and forestall tlie purpose of the King 
 to declare the legitimacy of his son, the Duke of Monmouth. 
 So great was the suspicion entertained against James, that 
 this slander was very widely believed, and alarm and re- 
 sentment grew in the hearts of the people. On the very 
 first Sunday after his father's death James went in solemn 
 state to Mass, and at his Coronation refused to receive tho 
 Sacrament at the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 
 "When the crown was set on his head it slipped, and nigh 
 fell on the floor ; and this little incident was whispered, 
 then bruited, through England, and was regarded as a 
 token from heaven that he was not the ri<^htful Sovcreio-n, 
 but an usurper. 
 
 Then came the punishment of that scoundrel, Titusi 
 Gates, richly deserved ; but Oates was a popular favourite, 
 and his chastisement raised him to the pedestal of a 
 Protestant mart^'r. 
 
 It was well known that James aimed at the repeal of the 
 Habeas Corpus Act, and at the toleration — even promotion- 
 — of Popery, and the country was in fevered agitation and 
 brooding anger at what was menaced. 
 
 Such was the condition of affairs in the spring of 1G85. 
 
 There had been catching weather, a few days of bright 
 sunshine, and then thunder-showers. Then the sky had 
 
18G URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 cleared, the ^vind was well up to the north, and, though 
 the sun was hot, the ah* w'as fresh. It was scented, everj^- 
 where except on the moor, with the fragrance of hay. 
 
 Julian Crymcs was out of doors enjoying the balmj' air 
 find the sloping, golden rays of the evening sun. She had 
 some embroidery in her hands ; but she worked little at it. 
 Her eyes looked away dreamily at the distant moor, and 
 specially at a little grey patch of sj'camores, that seemed 
 — so remote were they — against the silvery moor, to be a 
 cloud-shadovr. Behind that grey tuft rose Ger Tor, strewn 
 with granite boulders ; and on one side opened the blue 
 cleft of the Tavy, where it had sawn for itself a way from the 
 moor-land into the low country. The dark eyes of the girl 
 were full to spilling — so full that, had she tried to con- 
 tinue her needlework, she would have been unable to see 
 how to make her stitches. 
 
 Her breath came short and quick, for she was suffering 
 real pain — that gnawing ache which in its initiation is 
 mental, but which becomes sensibly physical. 
 
 Julian had loved iVnthony. She loved him still. When 
 he had come that evening of the fair to Kilworthy, her 
 heart had bounded : her head had been giddy with pleas- 
 ure at seeing him again — above all, at seeing him without 
 his wife. Towards Urith she felt implacable, corroding 
 hatred. That girl — with no merit that she could see, only 
 a gloomy beauty — a beauty as savage as the moors on the 
 brink of which she lived, and on wdiich Anthony had found 
 her — that girl had shaken to pieces at a touch her cloud- 
 castle of happiness, and dissolved it into a rain of salt dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Anthony was taken from her, taken from her for ever, 
 and her own hopes laid in the dust. Julian had battled 
 with her turbulent heart ; her conscience had warned her 
 to forget Anthony, and at times she really felt as if she had 
 conquered her passion. No sooner, however, did she see 
 Anthony again, than it woke up in full strength ; and 
 vrhenever she saw Urith, her jealous rage shook itself and 
 sharpened its claws. 
 
 Her father w^as away in London, and on the seat beside 
 her lay a letter she had that day received from him. He 
 had written full of uneasiness at the political and religious 
 situation. Recently the Earl of Bath had been down in 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 187 
 
 the West of England with new cbfirters to towns in Devon 
 and Cornwall, constituting new electoral bodies, or alter- 
 ing' the former bodies, and a hurried election had ensued, 
 in which great pressure had been used to obtain the return 
 of the Court party, of Catholics and Tories, by intimidation 
 on the one side and by bribery on the other, Mr. Crj'mes, 
 however, supported by the authority of the Earl of Bed- 
 ford, had been returned for Tavistock in the Protestant in- 
 terest, and he was now in London, sitting in the first Par- 
 liament summoned by James II. 
 
 Titus Gates, whom the Protestants, or at all events the 
 more ignorant and prejudiced among them, believed in as 
 a faithful witness, had been whipped from Aldgate to New- 
 gate one day, and two days after, again from Newgate to 
 Tyburn, for having revealed the Popish Plot, which was 
 declared to be a fabrication of his own imagination. He 
 and Dangerfield, another of these witnesses, had been pil- 
 loried. The King meditated the repeal of the Habeas Cor- 
 pus and the forcible introduction of the Roman Catholic 
 religion. It was rumoured that there was a rising in Scot- 
 land, headed by the Duke of Argyle ; there was a great un- 
 easiness in London, and a disturbance of spirits throughout 
 the country. Though the Members of Parliament had 
 been elected in a questionable manner, so as to bring to- 
 gether an undue preponderance of creatures of the Court ; 
 yet it had not proved itself as submissive as the King ex- 
 pected. The letter concluded with the words : — " How 
 this will all end, God knows. For myself, I doubt whether 
 there will not be great troubles again even as there were 
 in the times of His Sacred Majesty King Charles I. For 
 mine own part, I would resist even unto blood, rather than 
 see our religion set at naught, and our liberties trampled 
 under foot by Jesuits ; and my daily prayer is that the 
 Lord will avert such things from us, and yet with such ex- 
 travagance and determination do things appear to be 
 pressed forward with this end, that I have not hope myself 
 of a peaceable issue." 
 
 Had Mr. Crymes been then beside his daughter, he 
 might have supposed that the sad political outlook had dis- 
 turbed her mind, and had brought the tears to her eyes 
 and the flush to her cheeks ; but she had read his letter 
 with indifference. His gloomy forecasts had hardly affected 
 
188 URITH: A TALE OF DAETMOOR. 
 
 her at all, for her heart was filled with its own peculiar 
 bitterness. 
 
 What prospect of happiness opened before her? She 
 cared for no one ; she could care for no one after having 
 given up her heart to Anthony. From childhood she had 
 looked up to him as her allotted husband — she had grown 
 up with a daily-increasing devotion to him. His good looks, 
 his frankness had helped to make of him an idol before 
 whom she bowed down and worshipped. He was swept out 
 of the horizon of her ambition, and it had left that prospect 
 utterly blank and colourless. She had valued her fortune, 
 her home, only as means of enriching Anthony, and giving 
 him a worthy position in the county. Her fortune was 
 now wholly without value to her. She would have been 
 contented to be a beggar with him, if she could have pos- 
 sessed him wholly as her own. 
 
 Suddenly she started, and lost her colour ; she saw An- 
 thony coming up the drive to the house. He also saw her 
 on the terrace, in her white gown under the yew-trees, and 
 he waved his hat to her. She beckoned to him ; she could 
 not help herself. She knew that it would have been right 
 for her to fly up the steps and hide in the walled garden 
 which occupied the slope of the hill above the terraces, but 
 she was powerless to move — to withhold her hand from 
 si<2:ninc>' to him to draw near. 
 
 He obeyed at once, and came up the steps to the first 
 terrace with a shouted salutation. 
 
 How handsome he was ! What dark, sparkling eyes ! 
 What wavy long hair, that fell over his brow and cheeks as 
 he took off his broad-brimmed hat, so that he was forced 
 to put his hands to his face and brush the thick curly locks 
 back. 
 
 Julian did not rise ; she sat on her bench as though 
 frozen, and her blood stood still in her arteries. She looked 
 at him with eyes large and trembling between the lashes. 
 Then he came striding towards her, with his hearty salu- 
 tation, and at once all the blood that had been arrested in 
 her veins, as Jordan when the Ark stood in its course, 
 rushed back in pent-up, burning floods, and so blinded 
 and stunned her that for a moment or two she could neither 
 see nor speak. 
 
 After a few moments, during which he stood respectfully 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 189 
 
 by her, liat in liand, slie looked up into his eyes, and asked 
 why he had come. 
 
 He was warm with walking, and the drops stood on his 
 brow, and he had a heightened glow in his face. He was 
 handsomer than ever, she exclaimed inwardly, and then 
 thought, "Oh! if he had been mine! been mine! as he 
 
 ought to have been — as he would have been but for •" 
 
 Then she checked herself, assumed a coolness she did not 
 feel, and asked, "Has anything else brought 3'ou here than 
 the desire to give us honest pleasure at seeing again an old 
 friend ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Julian," answered Anthon}^ " I have come on 
 more self-seeking purj^oses. We are behind with our hay 
 at Willsworthy. The place lies so high, and is so bleak, 
 that we are a fortnight behind you here ; and then the 
 weather has plaj^ed us tricks, so thr.t none has as yet been 
 saved. I want additional help ; there are none save our 
 two men and myself. Solomon Gibbs counts naught, and 
 I cannot ask help from Hall, as you well know. I do not 
 desire to ask a favour elsewhere, and so I have come here 
 to see Fox, and ask his help." 
 
 " Fox is away — I believe he is at Hall. But I can answer 
 your question, and grant your petition, which I do with a 
 ready heart. How many men do you want ? I will send 
 all you desire — I will come myself and help toss the hay — 
 No," she checked herself, as the thought of Urith rose with- 
 in, " no, I will not go near Willsworthy myself, but I will 
 send the workmen." 
 
 " I thank you," answered Anthony. " We do not grow rich 
 shears of hay as you do here ; but what does grow is said 
 to be sweet. I hope it may be so, for it is not over-much." 
 
 There was a tone of disparagement in reference to 
 Willsworthy that struck Julian. 
 
 " I have heard Fox comment on the place," she said, " and 
 he thinks well of it." 
 
 "A thing may look well at a distance, that won't bear 
 looking into close at hand," said Anthony. 
 
 She looked at him, and his eyes fell. He had not meant 
 more than he had said, but when she thus glanced up with 
 a query in her eyes, he thought that perhaps his words 
 might apply to other things than grass fields and tumble- 
 down farm buildings. 
 
190 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Julian took up the letter from the seat by her, and passed 
 her hand lightly over the seat, as a sign to him to take it. 
 
 He did so, without more ado. He was heated and tired 
 with his walk. 
 
 Then Julian resumed her embroidery, and bowed her 
 head over it. She waited for him to start some topic of 
 conversation. But he was silent. He who had formerly 
 been full of talk and mirth, had become reserved and 
 grave. 
 
 After a long and painful silence, Julian asked, in a low 
 voice, "What is Urith about? " 
 
 "I beg your pardon ?" asked Anthony, roused out of a 
 reverie. " Urith — what about Urith ? " 
 
 " I asked what she was about." 
 
 "I cannot tell. Nothing in particular, I suppose." 
 
 The same tone as that in which he had spoken about 
 Willsworthy. 
 
 " Your marriage does not seem to have improved your 
 spirits. I miss your olden gaiety." 
 
 " I have enough to take that out of me. There is my fa- 
 ther's continued ill-humour. What think you of that, Jul- 
 ian ? Is there any immediate prospect of his coming to a 
 better mind ? " 
 
 " My brother could answer this question better than I, 
 for I have no occasion or opportunity for speaking with 
 your father, whereas Fox is over at Hall twice or thrice in 
 the week." 
 
 "What makes him go there?" 
 
 " There you ask me what once more I cannot answer. 
 But let us say he goes in your interest. He is your friend." 
 
 "About the only friend I have left," said Anthony, with 
 bitterness. 
 
 " Fox is not the man I would choose if I had the selec- 
 tion," said Julian. "I should know him better than most, 
 as he is my brother — that is to say, my half-brother. I 
 thank God — only my half-brother. Take heed to yourself, 
 Anthony, that he does not play you a scurvy trick." 
 
 "What can he do?" 
 
 " You are generous and forgiving. Fox is neither. He 
 has not forgiven you that blow with the glove that injured 
 his eye." 
 
 "You wrong him, Julian." 
 
UEITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 191 
 
 " All I can say to you is — do not trust liim, I never — 
 never trust him. If he says one thing he means the cor/ 
 trary. Did he tell you that he went to Hall with the end 
 of persuading yonv father to forgive you ? " 
 
 "He did not even mention to me that he saw my father 
 often." 
 
 "Well," said Julian, drawing a long breath, " whilst we 
 are together, which is not often now, not as it was, let us 
 talk of matters more pleasant than the habits and ways of 
 action of Fox," 
 
 " What shall we talk about ? " 
 
 " There ! " said Julian, putting her father's letter into his 
 hand. " Read that. If you cannot lind a topic, I must help 
 you to one." 
 
 Anthony read the letter wdth an elbow on each knee and 
 his legs wide apart, so that his head was bent low. As he 
 read, Julian's eyes were on him. Involuntarily a sigh es- 
 caped her bosom. If he thought of it at all he attributed 
 it to sympathy with her father's anxiety ; had he looked 
 up and seen her face, he would have been undeceived. It 
 was well for him that he did not. 
 
 The letter interested him greatly. Like the bulk of the 
 young men of th-e West, he was keenly alive to the political 
 situation, and was a hot partisan. The gathering together 
 of the men in taverns led to eager discussion of politics ; 
 the orderly Government of the Protector, and the extrava- 
 gance and exactions of the restored Royalty, had aroused 
 comparison. Under Old Noll the name of England had 
 been respected abroad, and the English people could not 
 forget and forgive the humiliation of the Dutch fleet in 
 the Medway and the burning of Chatham. Those who had 
 no love for Puritanism were, nevertheless, ardent supporters 
 of Libert}', and tirmly resolved that their country should 
 not be brought under Roman Catholic despotism. The ill- 
 treatment of the Waldenses had roused great feeling in 
 England, collections for them had been made in every 
 parish church, the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes was 
 not forgotten, the exiled Protestants filled all England 
 "with the tale of the cruelties and oppression to which tiiey 
 had been subjected, and had helped to deepen to a dogged 
 determination in men's hearts the resolve never to suffer the 
 Roman religion to obtain the mastery again in the land. 
 
192 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Anthony's brow darkened and his lips tightened as he 
 read. AVhen he had done the letter he started to his feet, 
 planted his hat on his head, and exclaimed : 
 
 " My God ! I wi^h it would come to blows, and that I 
 could carry a pike. ' 
 
 "Pshaw ! " said Julian ; "what excitable creatures you 
 men are concerning matters that move us not a whit. I 
 have forgotten what my father wrote about. Against whom 
 would 3'ou trail a j^ike ? With whom come to blows ? " 
 
 Anthony did not answer, for it was not easy to reply to 
 these questions. He would fight for liberty and religion. 
 But against whom ? He dare not breathe even to himself 
 the thought that it would be against his King. 
 
 "And, pray, why come to blows? " 
 
 " If 3^ou had read joxxv father's letter with attention, you 
 would know. For my part, I should hail war, if there were 
 a chance of it, that I might have some occuj^ation for my 
 hands." 
 
 " You have the hay," said Julian, ironically. 
 
 "I want space to move, air to breathe. I am cramped. 
 I — I do not know what I want," he said, and dashed his 
 hat on the ground again, and threw himself into the seat 
 by Julian. 
 
 " How would Urith relish you taking the pike for any 
 cause ? " 
 
 Anthony did not answer. He was looking sullenly, mu- 
 singly before him. He had found out what troubled him — 
 what took the brightness out of his life. The circle in 
 which he moved, in which his energies were expended, was 
 too cramped. To make hay ! Was that a fitting work to 
 occupy his mind and powers of body ? His world — was 
 that to be the little two-hundred-acre estate of Wills- 
 worthy ? 
 
 "You have not been married above two months, and 
 you are already sighing with impatience to be away in a 
 battle-field — anywhere iDut at home, poor Anthony ! " Her 
 face was turned from him that he might not see how her 
 cheeks flamed. 
 
 He said nothing. He did not even bid her a good-by ; 
 but he rose, resumed his hat, and walked away, with hig 
 head down, absorbed in his thoughts. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XX\TI. 
 
 imatri:monial plans. 
 
 Squire Cleyerdon did not often visit his sister. She was 
 vastly proud when he did. What she would have liked 
 would have been for him to drive up to her door in a 
 coach and four, the driver cracking his whip on the box ; 
 but Squire Cleverdon did not keep a coach. Why should 
 he ? He had no womankind to consider in his household. 
 Of the fair and inferior sex there was but Bessie, and Bes- 
 sie never counted in old Anthony Cleverdon's calculations. 
 Had his wife lived, he probably would have had his coach, 
 like other gentlemen, not to please and accommodate her, 
 but out of ostentation. But as his wife had departed to 
 another world, and Bessie was too inconsiderable a person 
 to be reckoned, he was glad to be able to spare his purse 
 the cost of a coach, which he could hardly have purchased 
 under a hundred pounds. As Magdalen Cleverdon could 
 not see her brother drive up in a coach, she was forced to 
 be satisfied to see him come as he would, on horseback, 
 foUow^ed by two serving-men in his liver}', and to be content 
 that her neighbours should observe that the Cleverdons 
 maintained so much state as to have men in livery to at- 
 tend on the head of the house. 
 
 She was much surprised one day to see him come on foot 
 without attendants. He was not a man to show his 
 thoughts in his face, which was hard and wooden, but his 
 eyes expressed his feelings when the rest of his face was 
 under control— that is, when he did not screw down the 
 lids and conceal them. 
 
 Accordingly jMagdalen could not gather from her bro- 
 ther's countenance the purport of his visit, though she 
 scrutinised it curiously. 
 
 He seated himself in one of her chairs, near the table, 
 and laid his stick across his knees ; Magdalen waited with 
 the deference she usually paid him till he began the conver- 
 sation ; but he also, wdth unwonted hesitation, deferred his 
 communication to allow her to open the ball. 
 
 The silence became irksome to her, and she was the first 
 
 13 
 
194 UIUTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 to interrupt it, and then -with the remark that she was sur- 
 prised to see him arrive alone, and on foot. 
 
 *' One does not require to have all the town know I am 
 here, and know how many minutes I remain," said he rudel}', 
 in reply. 
 
 Then again silence fell on both. 
 
 After another painful pause, Magdalen began : " Really, 
 brother, I should like to know for what reason you have 
 come to do me the honour, and afford me the^j-Zeasz^'e of your 
 company. The white witch has a crystal into which he 
 looks, and in which he reads what he desires to know ; but 
 you veil your eyes, and I cannot discover, or attempt to 
 discover, thence' what your purport might be in coming 
 hither." 
 
 Old Cleverdon fidgeted in his chair, dropped his stick, 
 picked it up again, and blurted forth : '' I suppose you get 
 that disobedient son of mine tumbling in here every few 
 days." 
 
 "Indeed, I do not, brother. Do you su^^pose that I 
 countenance such rebellious conduct?" 
 
 "I did not know. I considered, as he might not show 
 his face in Hall, that he came here for news about the 
 place and me." 
 
 " I do not deny that I have seen him ; but only rarely. 
 He never did affect my company greatly, and I cannot say 
 that he visits me more frequently since his marriage than 
 he did before." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. How is he getting on in his pig- 
 stye." 
 
 "I have not been there to see. He and she are content 
 with it for a while, and make no doubt that in the end you 
 will forgive them, and be the best of fathers." 
 
 "Dothey?" exclaimed the Squire, with a harsh laugh 
 and a flame on his cheek. " Do they think that I have a 
 head of dough, to be moulded into what shape they list ? " 
 He struck the table with his stick, so as to startle his sis- 
 ter and make her jump in her chair. 
 
 " Good heavens, brother ! How excitable you are," said 
 Magdalen ; " and I dare be bound you do not know that 
 Mistress Penwarne is taken into the Rectory at Peter Tavy, 
 as housekeeper to your most dutiful and respectful nephew 
 Luke — an ancient harridan w^ho, having set her daughter 
 
URITIT: A TALfd OF DARTMOOR, 195 
 
 against you , now does her utmost to make wildfire between 
 your son and you." 
 
 " What wildfire burns atwixt us is of his own kindling," 
 said Squire Cleverdon. " And does she reckon on setting 
 herself in my armchair, and ruling in my house, indeed ! 
 My son I might forgive had he married any other, but not 
 for having taken Urith." 
 
 " One beggarly marriage is enough in the family," said 
 Magdalen. The expression had slipped her tongue with- 
 out consideration. She saw at once, by the twitching of 
 her brother's muscles, that she had stung and enraged him. 
 She hastened to amend her error by saying, " Yes, you 
 were drawn in by their designing ways. You had not then 
 the knowledge of the world that 3'ou now have. Having 
 been entangled by unscrupulous and poor wretches your- 
 self, you would not have your son fall a prey to the like — 
 but he would sow his wild oats, and now must reap his 
 crop." 
 
 " Yes," said old Anthony, " he must reap his crop, 
 which will not grow one of oats, but of thistles and nettles. 
 'Tis a cruel shame that Kilworthy should go from the fam- 
 ily." 
 
 '' It has never been in it." 
 
 " That is true — never in actual possession, but so long in 
 prospect as to almost constitute a claim." 
 
 " But gone it is. Gone past the possibility of your get- 
 ting it." 
 
 " I am not so confident of that as you seem to be," said 
 Old Cleverdon, snappishly. "In faith, sister Magdalen, 
 you appear w^ondrous blind. Is there no w^ay of it coming, 
 nevertheless, to be joined to Hall?" 
 
 " None that I can see. If Fox took Bessie to wife, he 
 could not bring Kilworthy with him, for that goes wdth 
 Julian." 
 
 " Exactly. It goes with Julian ; but who will take 
 her?" 
 
 *' You have no second son." 
 
 "No, I have not." 
 
 " Surely you do not dream of making Luke yoi.r heir, 
 and marrying him to Julian Crj'-mes ? " 
 
 " Luke ! — who defied me by marrying Anthony to that 
 hussy ? " 
 
196 tlRITII: A TALE OF DAIiT^IOOIl 
 
 " I thought not, brother, but — as the Lord is my helper 
 — I see no other way of compassing it." 
 
 "It has never hglitened on your mind that I might take 
 a second wife." 
 
 " You ! " — Magdalen fell back in her chair, and raised 
 her hands in amazement. "You, brother Anthony! 
 You ! " 
 
 " Even so," he answered, grimly. " I am not young, 
 but I am lusty ; I am a man of substance, and I reckon 
 that Mistress Julian is not so besotted as was my son. 
 She, I presume, has had a desire like to mine, that the two 
 estates should be united, so as to make a large domain, and 
 as she cannot effect this by marrying an unripe fool, she 
 can gain the same end by taking me, a wise and mellow 
 man of the world. The end is the same. The two prop- 
 erties are united, and Julian Crymes has ever struck me 
 as having a clear and healthy mind. So — I doubt not — 
 she Avill be as content to have me as that Merry Andrew 
 and Jack o' the Green, wlio has thrown himself away at 
 Willsworthy." 
 
 Magdalen's astonishment held her speechless for some 
 time ; at last, seeing that her brother was offended at the 
 astonishment she exhibited, she said, " But, brother ! has 
 she given you any — hopes ? " 
 
 " She has not. I have not approached her on the sub- 
 ject, but I thought that you, as a woman, might sound her. 
 Yet, I am not without my reasons for believing that my 
 suit would be accepted — though not immediately. Fox 
 Crymes has given me reason to hope." 
 
 *' Fox !— But what " 
 
 " If you will have patience, Magdalen, and will allow me 
 to conclude what I was saying, your mind will be more en- 
 lightened, and you will cease to express so unbecoming, 
 such indecorous, so gross iucredulit}^ You forget my 
 position and my wealth. I am not, indeed, a Member of 
 Parliament, as is my friend Crymes, but I might have been 
 had my views been more favourable to the Catholic party. 
 I have seen a good deal of Master Anthony Crymes, my 
 godson, of late ; ho has been to Hall several times in the 
 week, and then I threw out — in an uncertain way, and as 
 if in sport — the notion that, as Anthony had proved false, 
 and had disappointed Julian of her ambition to have the 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 107 
 
 two estates united, that I would consider about it, and 
 might persuade myself to accommodate her vie^YS by step- 
 ping- into the position thrown up by my son." 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 *' He did not open his mouth and eyes into a stare un- 
 becoming to the face, and impertinent to me. He accepted 
 the proposition cordially. He saw nothing strange, pre- 
 posterous, ridiculous in it. I should like to see," said the 
 squire, working himself up into a white heat, ''I should 
 like to see anyone, you, sister Magdalen, excepted, who 
 would dare to find anything strange, preposterous, ridicul- 
 ous in me, or in any proposition that I make." 
 
 " I tender ten thousand excuses," said Magdalen, humbly. 
 *' But, brother, you entirely misunderstand me. If I gaped — " 
 
 "You did gape." 
 
 *' I know I gaped and stared. I admit I opened my eyes 
 wide, it was v/ith astonishment at yo\xv genius, at the clever 
 and unexpected way in which you overcame a great difii- 
 culty, and rallied after a great disappointment." 
 
 " Oh ! It was that, was it ? " asked the Squire, relaxing 
 some of his severity and cooling. 
 
 " On my word as a gentlewoman. I never employed 
 those words you attribute to me. Indeed I did not. The 
 only expletives becoming are of a very different quality. 
 So Fox agreed to the proposal ? " 
 
 " Most heartily and warmly." 
 
 "But, brother, I misdoubt me if Fox has much influence 
 wdth his sister. They are ever spitting and clawing at 
 each other, and it hath appeared to me — and yet I may be 
 wrong — that whatsoever the one suggests the other rejects ; 
 the}- make a point of conscience of differing from each other." 
 
 " All that," said the squire, " all that have I foreseen, and 
 I have provided against it. The proposal shall not be 
 covertly favoured by Fox. He shall, indeed, appear to set 
 his face against it, but we shall make Bessie our means of 
 breaking the ice, and drawing us together. I have some 
 notion of letting Fox become Bessie's suitor — now, when 
 he is accepted, and has " 
 
 " But— brother ! " 
 
 *' What in the name of the seven stars do you mean by 
 your buts thrown in whenever I speak ? It is indecorous, 
 it is insulting, Magdalen," 
 
198 URITII: A TALK OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "I meant no harm, brother — all I ask is, has Bessie 
 given her consent ? " 
 
 "Bessie is not Anthony. What her father chooses, that 
 she is ready to submit to. I have always insisted on her 
 obedience in all things, and without questioning, to my 
 will, and I have no reason to suppose that in this matter 
 she will go against m}'" interests." 
 
 "But— brother!" 
 
 Master Cleverdon impatiently struck the table. " Did I 
 not tell you, sister Magdalen, that your huis were an of- 
 fence to me ? Will you join with Anthony in resistance and 
 rebellion against me — me, the head of the house ? I have 
 not come here, pray understand, to discuss this matter 
 with you, as though it needed to be considered and deter- 
 mined upon conjointly between us, but to tell you what I 
 have decided upon, and to require you, as you value my 
 regard, and look for any advantages to be gotten from your 
 connection with Hall, to support me, and to exercise all 
 your influence for me, and not against mo." 
 
 " You cannot suppose for one moment, brother, that I 
 would do anything against you." 
 
 " I cannot say. Since Anthony revolted I have lost all 
 confidence in everyone. But I have no time to squander. 
 Understand me. Persuade Bessie, should she show tokens 
 of disobedience — which is catching as the plague— a dis- 
 like to submit herself in all things to my wishes, then you 
 may hold up Anthony as a w^arning to her, and let her un- 
 derstand that as I have dealt by him, so I will deal by her 
 if she resists me. Now you Avill see what is my intention. 
 AVhen Bessie is married to Anthony Orymes, they will live 
 with me, for Anthony and Julian will be nuich forward and 
 backward between the two houses, as Bessie is her best of 
 friends ; and thus she will come to see much of me and of 
 Hall, and w^ill be the more ready insensibly, so to speak, 
 to slide into my arms, and into the union of the two estates. 
 Not that I suppose at present she has any objection to me, 
 but, as Fox says, she will require some justification before 
 the world for taking the father after having been rejected 
 by the son. If she is often over at Hall, why — all wonder 
 will cease, and it will come about with the smoothness of 
 an oiled wheel." 
 
 *' I suppose so, brothei' — but -" 
 
URIT3: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 100 
 
 The Squire started np with an oath. '' I shall regard 
 you as an opponent." he said, "with your eternal obj-ec- 
 tions. Consider what I have said, act on it, and so alone 
 will you maintain your j^lace in my regard." 
 
 Then he left the house, grumbling, and slammed the 
 door behind him, to impress on his sister how ill-pleased 
 he was with her conduct. 
 
 Time had not filled the cleft between Anthony and his 
 father ; and Fox Crymes had done his best to prevent its 
 being filled or being bridged over ; for he now saw a good 
 deal of the old Squire Cleverdon, and he took opportunity 
 to drop a corrosive remark occasionally into the open and 
 rankling wound, so as to inflame and anger it. 2<ow it 
 was a reported speech of Anthony, showing how he calcu- 
 lated on his father's forgiveness ; or a statement of what he 
 would do to the house, or with the trees, when his father 
 died and he succeeded to Hall ; or else Fox told of some 
 slighting remark on the beggary of everything at Wills- 
 worthy, made by a villager, or imagined for the occasion 
 by himself. 
 
 The old man, without suspecting it, was being turned 
 about the finger of the cunning young Crymes, who had 
 made up his mind to obtain the hand of Elizabeth and with 
 it Hall. So could he satisfy his ow^n ambition, and best re- 
 venge himself on Anthony and Urith. 
 
 The wit and malice of Fox acted as a grinding-stone on 
 which the anger of the Squire was being constantly whet- 
 ted, as if it had not at the fii*st been sharp enough. 
 
 The old man could not endure the idea of his property 
 ever fallino: to tbe daughter of Ricbard Malvine — of Mai- 
 vine blood ever reigning within the walls of his mansion. 
 
 He had not yet altered his will, and he could not resolve 
 how to do this. He did not desire to constitute Bessie Jvis 
 heiress. He could not reconcile himself to the thought of 
 Hall passing out of the direct line, of another than a Clev- 
 erdon owning the estate where his ancestors had sat for 
 centuries, and which he had made into his own freehold. 
 All the disgust he had felt when Elizabeth was born, and 
 he found himself father of a daughter as his first-born, woke 
 up again, and he could not bring himself to constitute her 
 his heiress. Yet, on the other hand, it was equally, if not 
 more, against his will that it should pass to his revolted son 
 
200 JJBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 find the daiigliter of his mortal enemy. As he was thus 
 tossing between two odious alternatives, the idea of marrj^- 
 ing Julian himself lightened on his mind, and he seized it 
 with desperate avidity ; yet not without a doubt he refused 
 to give utterance to, or permit in another. In a vague 
 manner he ho^^ed that the union of Fox and Bessie might 
 pave the way to his own marriage with Julian. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXlll. 
 
 A WIDENING OF THE RIFT. 
 
 *'XJrith," said Anthony, "we are to go together to the 
 dance at the Cakes ; I have said we would."' 
 
 " The dance, Anthony 1 It cannot be." 
 
 " Why not ? Because I particularly desire it ? " 
 
 " Nay — not so, assuredly ; but the time is so short since 
 my mother's death." 
 
 *' But our marriage makes that as nought. It has turned 
 the house of mourning into one of merriment — or — it 
 should have done so. It suffices I intend to go, and I will 
 take you with me." 
 
 " Nay — Anthony, I would not cross you " 
 
 " You do — you object." He spoke with irritation. " Do 
 you not see, Urith, that this life of seclusion is intolerable 
 to me ? I have been unaccustomed to the existence which 
 befits a hermit. I have been wont to attend every meny- 
 making that took place — to laugh and dance and sing there, 
 and eat and drink and l)e liappy. I protest that it is to me 
 as displeasing to be without my amusement as it would be 
 to a kingfisher to be without his brook, or a peewhit to be 
 condemned to a ca«"e." 
 
 " But cannot you go without me ? " asked Urith, discon- 
 certed. 
 
 " No ; it will be noted and remarked on. You are my 
 w^fe — you are a bride. You ought to, you must, appear 
 where others are. Why should you spend all your life in 
 the loneliness of this — this "W'illswort hv? Do von not feel 
 as cramped by it as must have felt Xoah in the Ark ? " 
 
 "I do not, Anthony." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 201 
 
 *' You do uot, because you have never been out of the 
 Ark ; bred in it, you are accustomed to its confined atmos- 
 phere. I am not. I love to meet with and be merry with 
 my fellows, and I cannot go alone. Why, Urith, on the 
 fair day I went to Kil worthy, and there was Bessie. What 
 did she say to me, but — * You should not be here, be at any 
 entertainment in a neighbour's house without Urith ? ' " 
 
 ''Did Bessie say that?" 
 
 " Yes, she did." 
 
 " Then I will go with you to the Cakes, Anthony." 
 
 It was customary in former times for the gentlefolks of 
 a neighbourhood to meet at each other's houses, at inter- 
 vals, for dances and carouses — the 3'oung folks for dances, 
 their elders for carouses. On such occasions the burden 
 of entertainment did not fall wholly, or to any serious ex- 
 tent, on the host in whose house the assembly took place. 
 Each guest brought with him or her a contribution to the 
 feast — ducks, geese, capons, eggs, cheese, bottles of wines, 
 pasties, honey, fruit, candles, flowers — very much as at a 
 ])iciiic nowadays, each party invited contributes something. 
 The host actually furnished little more than the use of his 
 house. Even the servants of the guests were expected to 
 assist, and generally attended on their own masters and 
 mistresses, behind whose chairs they stationed themselves. 
 
 The Cakes occupied a quaint old barton, named Wring- 
 w^orthy, in a central position for the neighbourhood ; and 
 they had an excellent hall for a dance, well appreciated by 
 the young gentlefolks of the neighbourhood. 
 
 The evening for the dance arrived. Folk went early to a 
 dance in those days, before the darkness had set in. Many 
 were on the road ; none in coaches ; all on horseback — the 
 young ladies seated on pads behind their grooms. 
 
 Clattering aLjng at a good pace came Fox, riding along- 
 side of Elizabeth Cleverdon. He had gone to Hall to fetch 
 her. She was annoj'ed : she did not understand the atten- 
 tion, in her simple mind. The idea never entered that he 
 had designs on her hand. She did not wish to feel pre- 
 judiced against him ; at the same time she did not like 
 him, and was unable to account to herself for this dislike. 
 
 Her father made much of him. Fox was now constantly 
 at Hall, and he made himself companionable to the old 
 man. Bessie wdth pain contrasted his conduct with that 
 
202 VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 of licr brother, who had never put himself out of the way 
 to be agreeable to his father — had not courted his society 
 and sought to be a companion to him. She was grateful to 
 Fox for his efforts to relieve the old Squire of his desola- 
 tion by gi^'ing him so much of his society. 
 
 Fox was her brother's friend, and she had no doubt that 
 he was at Hall with the purpose of doing his utmost to 
 further a reconciliation between Anthony and his father. 
 For this she thanked him in her heart, vet she could not 
 stifle the dislike that would spring up and assert itself not- 
 withstanding. Nor did she like the look that Fox cast at 
 her occasionally. He meant no harm, doubtless ; he was 
 but showing her that he was acting as her coufederate in 
 the cause wliich, as she trusted, both had at heart. Never- 
 theless, she wished he would not look at her with that cun- 
 ning, wounding twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 Presently Fox and Bessie oaught up Anthony riding with 
 Urith on pillion behind him. Fox greeted them boister- 
 ously, and Bessie threw him and Frith a kiss. Anthony 
 acknowledo-ed Fox's qreetino;' with warmth, but that of his 
 sister with a httle coldness. He was annoyed with her for 
 her tameness in submittino: to her father. There was no 
 opportunity for more than a word, as Fox urged on his 
 horse and that of Elizabeth Cleverdon, with his whip, to a 
 pace with which Anthony was unable to keep up. The old 
 "NVillsworthy mare was a clumsy piece of horseflesh, not 
 comparable in any way with the beasts from Hall and Kil- 
 worthy stables. Anthony was aware of this, and somewhat 
 ashamed. 
 
 On reaching the house of the Cakes, the sound of music 
 was audible — a couple of fiddles, a bass, and a clarionette ; 
 but, in the noise of voices, salutatious, and laughter, the 
 melody was drowned ; only occasionally the deep grunt of 
 the bass, and the shrill wail of the clarionette, Uke that of 
 a teething babe, were audible. 
 
 The hall was fulk It was not lart^'e, as we nowadavs 
 reckon size ; but it was of sufficient size to accommodate a 
 good many, and not so large as to mal^e them feel chilled 
 by the vastness of the space. From the hall opened a par- 
 lour, in which were set out card-tables for the elders. 
 
 Directly Anthony and his wife entered, Bessie signed to 
 Urith to bit by her. She was uneasy at the pointed way 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. ' 203 
 
 in wliich Fox paid her attention, kept near lier, and talked 
 "svitli her. She could see that his conduct had attracted 
 notice, and that she wp.s the subject of a good deal of 
 remark. She was sad at heart — little inclined for merri- 
 ment ; but she had come as her father desired it ; and al- 
 ways conscientious, and desirous to sink her own feelings 
 so as not to disturb and distress others, she concealed her 
 inner sadness, assumed a gentle, pleased manner natural 
 to her when in company. She had been wont from early 
 childhood to shut up her troubles within her heart from 
 every eye, and to wear a composed exterior ; consequently 
 this was less difficult to her now than it might have been to 
 others less self-disciplined. 
 
 Urith, moreover, was not best satisfied to find lierself at 
 a merrymaking so shortly after her mother's death ; and, 
 besides, was so wholly unaccustomed to one, that she felt 
 frightened and bewildered. She snatched at once at the 
 chance of sitting by Bessie, as a relief to the 2)ainful sense 
 of loneliness and confusion in which she was, confused by 
 the crowd that whirled about her — lonely in the midst of 
 it, because strange to most of those composing it. Anthony 
 was among friends. He knew every one, and was greeted 
 heartily by all the young people, male and female ; but she 
 was thrust aside by them as they pushed forward to wel- 
 come him, and she was jostled outside the throng which 
 had compacted itself around him. 
 
 At the most favourable time she would have felt strange 
 there, for her mother had never taken her to any rout at a 
 neighbour's house ; she had been to no dances, no dinners — 
 had been kept entirely aloof from all the whirl of bright and 
 butterfly life that had made country life so enjoyable ; and 
 now she was opjjressed with the inner consciousness of the 
 impropriety of appearing at a dance at such a brief inter- 
 val after the earth had closed over her mother. At once, 
 with nervous self-consciousness, Urith rushed into self-ex- 
 culpation. 
 
 "I would not have come — indeed, I did not wish to 
 come ; but Anthony insisted. He said he would not come 
 without me ; you had toid him that, and — I did not wish to 
 stand in the way of his pleasures. He has worked very 
 hard ; he has been cut off from his usual associates ; he has 
 had no holiday — so I thought it well to come." 
 
204 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 a 
 
 Yes, you did right. You will find«Antliony exacting. 
 That he always was, but good at heart," said Bessie. 
 
 "I do not dance myself — I cannot dance," said Urith, in 
 farther self-excuse ; "so that it will not seem so very 
 strange my being here, if I simply look on." 
 
 " You will have to dance — to open the ball with Anthony, 
 I su^opose, as you are the bride." 
 
 " I ! Oh, but I do not know how to dance. I never have 
 danced. I do not understand the figures. I do not dis- 
 tinguish between a brawl, a rant, and a jig." 
 
 *'That is unfortunate — but it will serve to excuse you ; 
 yet I think you must essay to foot it once with Anthony. 
 He is certain to insist on it." 
 
 *'But I do not know " Urith flushed. "How can 
 
 I dance when I have never practised the measures and the 
 jDaces ? " 
 
 At that moment Anthony came up. 
 
 " Come, Urith," said he ; "we must open the balk All 
 are waitim? for vou." 
 
 "But I cannot, Anthonv." 
 
 He made a movement of impatience. ' ' Nonsense, you 
 must ! " That was in his old im2>erious manner, which 
 Bessie knew so well. 
 
 Bessie said aside to Urith, *' Make the attempt. You 
 cannot well c^o wroni2\" 
 
 Urith stood up — neiwous, trembling, turning white and 
 red, and with the tears very near the surface. 
 
 " Look here," said Anthony. " Father thinks, because I 
 am thrust out of Hall, that everyone may kick at me — that 
 I am of no account any more. Let us show that it is other- 
 wise. Let them see that I am something still, and that 
 mv wife is not a nobodv. Come ! " He whisked her to 
 her place at the head of the room. 
 
 Urith saw that all eyes were on her, and this increased 
 her nervousness. As she passed Fox she caught his mali- 
 cious eye, and saw the twirl of laughter and cruel jest on 
 his lip. 
 
 "I cannot — and let me alone, Anthony," escaped her 
 again. She was frightened. 
 
 " Have done. I do not want you here to make a fool of 
 yourself and me ; and that you will do if you slink back to 
 your iDlace." 
 
mUTi£: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 205 
 
 " But I cannot dance, Antliony." 
 
 " Folly ! I will put you to-rights. With half a pinch of 
 wit you cannot go wrong." 
 
 The music struck up, the clarionotte squealed, the vio- 
 lins sawed, and the bass grunted. In a moment Uritli 
 was caught away — felt herself swung, flying, she knew not 
 where. She knew not what she was doing. She could 
 neither keep step with the music, nor discover the direc- 
 tion in which she had to go. She saw faces — faces on 
 every side— full of laughter, amusement, mockery. She 
 was thrown adrift from Anthon}', was groping for his hand ; 
 could not tell where he was, what she had to do ; got in 
 the way of other dancers, was knocked across the floor, 
 knocked back again ; ran between couples — then, all at 
 once, she was aware of Anthon}^ pushing his way to her, 
 with an angry face, and an exclamation of, " You are no 
 good at all ; get back to your chair. I won't dance with 
 you again and be made a laughing-stock of." 
 
 He left her, where he had thrust her out of the dance, 
 to find her way back to Bessie, and strode off to Julian, 
 caught her by the hand, and in a moment was fully en- 
 gaged. 
 
 He was maddened with vexation. It was unendurable 
 to him that he had been the occasion of laughter. Every 
 other girl and woman in the room, however plain, could 
 dance — only his wife not. She alone must sit against the 
 wall ! That it was his fault in forcing her to come against 
 her wishes — his fault in making her attempt to do what 
 she had protested her ignorance of — he did not recognise. 
 The wife of Anthony Cleverdon ought to take a prominent 
 place — ought to be able to dance, and dance well — ought 
 to be handsomer, better dressed, more able to make her- 
 self agreeable, than any other woman ! And there she was 
 — helpless ! Handsome, indeed ; but with her beauty dis- 
 guised by an unbecoming dress ; silent, sulky, on the verge 
 of tears. It was enough to make his heart fill with gall ! 
 
 On the other hand, here was Julian Crymes in charming 
 costume, bright of eye, fresh of colour, full of wit and ban- 
 ter, moving easily in the dance, light, confident, graceful. 
 Julian was glowing with pleasure ; her dark eyes flashed 
 with the fire that burned in her soul, and the hot blood 
 rolled boiling through her veins. 
 
206 TjniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 For some moments after slie had taken her seat Urith 
 was unable to see anything. The tears of shame and dis- 
 appointment filled her eyes, and she was afraid of being 
 observed to wipe them away. 
 
 But Bessie took her hand, and pressed it, and said, " No 
 wonder you were agitated at this first appearance in com- 
 pany. No one will think anything of it, no doubt they will 
 say you are a young and modest bride. There, do not be 
 discouraged ; the same would have happened to me in 
 your circumstances. ^Yhat — must I ? " 
 
 The last words were addressed to Fox, who came up to 
 ask her to dance with him. She would gladly have ex- 
 cused herself, but that she thought a dance was owing to 
 him for his courtesy in coming to Hall to accompany her.^ 
 
 " I am not inclined for more than one or two turns this 
 evening," she said to Fox ; '' for there are many here 
 younger than I, and I would not take from them the dances 
 they enjoy so much more than myself." 
 
 As the" tears dried without falling in Urith's eyes, and 
 her heart beat less tumultuously, she was able to look 
 about her, and seek and find Anthony. 
 
 It was with a stab of pain in her heart that she saw him 
 with Juhan. They were talking together with animation, 
 her great eyes were fixed on him, and he bent his head 
 over her. Urith knew the heart of Julian — knew the dis- 
 appointed love, the rage that consumed it ; and she won- 
 dered at her husband for singling this girl out as his 
 partner. Then she reproached herself ; for, she argued, 
 that this heart, with its boihng sea of passion, had been re- 
 vealed to her, not to him. He was unconscious of it. 
 
 Urith followed him and Julian everywhere; noted ^ the 
 changes in his countenance when she spoke ; felt a twinge 
 of anguish when, for a moment, both their eyes met hers, 
 and they said something to each other and laughed. Had 
 they laughed at her awkwardness in the opening dance ? 
 
 Elizabeth passed before her on Fox's arm, and, as they 
 did so, she heard Fox say, " Yes, your brother is content 
 now that he is with Juhan. You can't root old love out 
 with a word." 
 
 Bessie winced, turned sharply round, and looked at 
 Urith, in the hope that this ill-considered speech had not 
 been heard by her. But a glance showed that Urith had 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 207 
 
 not been deaf : her colour had faded to an ashen white, 
 and a dead film had formed over her sombre eyes, like cat- 
 ice on a pool. 
 
 Bessie drew her x^artner away, and said, with agitated 
 voice, "You should not have si^oken thus— within earshot 
 
 of TJrith." 
 
 "Why not? Sooner or later she must know it — the 
 
 sooner the better." 
 
 Bessie loosened herself from him, augry and hurt. " I 
 will dance with you no more," she said. " You have a 
 strange way of speaking words that are like burrs — they 
 stick and annoy, and are hard to tear away." 
 
 She went back to take her x^lace by Urith, but found it 
 occupied. She was therefore unable at once to use her 
 best efforts to neutrahse the effect produced by what Fox 
 
 had said. 
 
 Urith's face had become grave and colourless, the dark 
 brows were drawn together, and the gloomy eyes had re- 
 covered some life or light ; but it was that of a Jack-o'- 
 Lantern — a wild fire playing over them. 
 
 Anthony danced repeatedly with Julian. The delight of 
 being with him again, of having him as her partner — wholly 
 to herself— if only for a few minutes, filled her with intoxi- 
 cation of pleasure, and disregard of who saw her, and what 
 was said concerning her. Her heart was like a flaming 
 tuft of gorsc, blazing fiercely, brightly, with intense heat 
 for a brief space, to leave immediately after a blank spot of 
 black ash and a few glowing sparks ; and Anthony stooped 
 over her enveloped in this flame, accepting the flattering 
 homage, forgetful of his responsibilities, regardless of the 
 future, without a thought as to the consequences. Her 
 bosom heaved, her breath came hot and fast, her full lips 
 trembled. 
 
 Urith's eyes were never off them, and ever darker grew 
 her brow, more sinister the light in her eyes, and the more 
 colourless her cheek. 
 
 Suddenly she sprang up. The room was swimming 
 around her ; she needed air, and she ran forth into the 
 night. The sky was full of twilight, and there was a ris- 
 ing moon. Though it was night, it was not dark. 
 
 She stood in the road, gasping for air, holding the gate. 
 Thou she saw coming along the road a dark object, and 
 
208 UniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 heard the measured tramp of horses' hoofs. It was a car- 
 riage. Along that road, at midnight, so it was said, trav- 
 elled nightly a death-coach, in which sat a wan lady, drawn 
 by headless horses, with on the box a headless driver. 
 
 For a moment Urith was alarmed, but only for a mo- 
 ment. The spectral coach travelled noiselessly ; of this 
 that approaclied the sound of the horse-hoofs, of the 
 wheels, and the crack of the whip of the driver were audi- 
 ble. 
 
 The carriage drew up before the entrance-gates of the 
 house, and a gentleman thrust forth his head, 
 
 " Ho ! there ! Do you belong to the house ? Run in, 
 summon Anthony Crymes. Tell him his father wants him 
 — immediately. " 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 CAUTIONS. 
 
 IJrith entered the hall again, and told Fox that his father 
 was without, and wanted him. 
 
 "My father!" exclaimed young Crymes. ''Oh! he is 
 home from the Session of Parliament, where they and 
 the King have been engaged in ofternig each other humble 
 pie, for which neither party has a taste. \Yhat does he 
 want with me ? " 
 
 "I did not inquire," answered Urith, haughtily. 
 
 jNIr. Crymes had not known her in the road, when he 
 called out to her to send his son to him. 
 
 Fox was annoyed to have to leave the dance, but he could 
 not disobey his father, so he took his hat and coat, and 
 went forth. 
 
 Mr. Crymes was waiting for him, in the coach. 
 
 '•' I heard you w^ere here, on my wa}-. Stirring times, 
 my boy, when we must be up and doing." 
 
 "So am I, father ; you took me off from a saraband." 
 
 " Fie on it ! I don't mean dancing. Come into the coach, 
 and sit with me. I have much to say." 
 
 "Am I to desert my.i)artners? " 
 
 "In faith! I reckon the maids will be content to find 
 another better favoured than thee, Tonie." 
 
URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR/ 209 
 
 Fox reluctantly entered the carriage, but not till he had 
 
 made another effort to be excused. 
 
 '* Juhan is here, is she to be left without an escort?" 
 *' Julian hasher attendants, and will be rejoiced to be 
 
 free from your company, as when together ye mostly 
 
 spar." 
 
 When the coach was in movement, Mr. Crymes said, "I 
 have come back into the country, for, indeed, it is time 
 that they who love the Constitution of their country and 
 their rehgion should be preparing for that struggle which 
 is imminent." 
 
 " I thought, father, " said Fox, " you were sent up 
 to Westminster to fight the battle there. It is news 
 to me that warfare is to be carried on by Cut and 
 Run. I suppose you were in risk of being sent to the 
 Tower? " 
 
 The old man was offended. 
 
 "It will oblige me if you reserve your sarcasms for others 
 than vour own father. I come home, and you sneer at 
 
 me." 
 
 "Not at all; you mistake. I wondered how the Con- 
 stitution was to be preserved here, when the great place 
 of doctoring and drenching the patient, of bleeding and 
 cupping, is at Westminster, and you were sent thither to 
 tender your advice as to how that same Constitution was to 
 
 be dealt with." 
 
 "The battle is not to be fought there," said Mr. 
 Crymes, "nor with tongues. The field of conflict will 
 be elsewhere, and the weapons keener and harder than 
 
 words." 
 
 "The field of conflict is, I trust, not to be here, re- 
 marked Fox ; " your sagacity, father, has assuredly taken 
 you to the furthest possible distance from it. As soon 
 as these weapons stronger than tongues are^brandished, I 
 shall betake me to Luudy or the Scilly Isles." 
 
 "You are a coward, I believe," said Mr. Crymes, m a 
 tone of annoyance. " I expect to find in you— or, rather, 
 but for my experience of you, I might have reckoned on 
 finding in my son— a nobler temper than that of a run- 
 away." ,, 
 
 " But, my good father, what other are you ? 
 
 ^'If you will know," said Mr. Crymes, petulantly, "I 
 
 14 
 
210 TJRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 have come into the country — here into the West — to rouse 
 it." 
 
 *'^ What for?" 
 
 "For the cause of the Constitution and Beligion." 
 
 " And Avhen the West is roused, ^vhat is it to do ? Stretch 
 itself, and he down to sleep again ? " 
 
 '• Nothing of the kind, Tonie. I do not mind confiding 
 to you that we expect a revolution. It is not possible to 
 endure what is threatened. The country will — it must — 
 rise, or will lose its right to be considered a free and Prot- 
 estant country." jMr. Crymes waited, but, as his son said 
 nothing, he continued. "The Duke of Monmouth is in 
 the Low Countries, and is meditating an invasion. The 
 Dutch will assist ; he is coming with a fleet, and several 
 companies levied in Holland, and we must be organised 
 and ready with our bands to rise as soon as he sets foot in 
 England." 
 
 "Not I," said Fox. "If you, father, venture your neck 
 and bowels for Monmouth and the Protestant cause, I con- 
 tent mj'self with tossing up my cap for King James. Mon- 
 mouth's name is James as well as his Majesty's, so my 
 c:ip will not compromise me with either ; and, father, I only 
 toss \x\y my cap — I will not risk my neck or bowels for 
 either by drawing sword." 
 
 "You are a selfish, unprincipled rogue," said Mr. 
 Crymes. " You have neither regard for your country nor 
 ambition for yourself." 
 
 " As for my country, I can best care for it by protecting 
 such a worthy member of it as myself, and my ambition 
 lies in other lines than political disturbance. I have not 
 heard that either side got much, but rather lost, by taking 
 parts in the Great Rebellion, whether for the Parliament 
 or for the King. The only folk who gained were such as 
 put their hands in their pockets and looked on." 
 
 " By the Lord!" exclaimed the old gentleman, "lam 
 sorry that I have such a son, without enthusiasm, and care 
 for aught save himself. I tell 3'ou the Earl of Bedford 
 secretly inchnes to the cause of Monmouth, and has urged 
 me to come down here and stir thepeojple up. Now, when 
 his Lordship '' 
 
 " Exactly," scoffed Fox. " Exactly as I thought, he keeps 
 safe and throws all the risk on vou. Nothing could so in- 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 211 
 
 duce me to caution as the example of the Earl of Bed- 
 ford." 
 
 In the meantime, Bessie, at the dance, ^vas in some 
 ni] easiness. She had missed Urith when she went out of 
 the house, and, after her return, noticed that her face was 
 clouded, and that she was short of speech. Bessie took 
 Urith's hand in her lap and caressed it. She did not fully 
 understand what was distressing her sister-in-law. At first 
 she supposed it was annoyance at her failure in dancing, 
 but soon perceived that the cause was other. Urith no 
 longer responded to her caresses, and Bessie, looking anx- 
 iously into her dark face and following the direction of her 
 e^-es, discovered that the conduct of Anthony was the occa- 
 sion of Urith's displeasure. Anthony was not engaged to 
 Julian for every dance, but he singled her out and got her 
 as his partner whenever he could, and it was apparent that 
 she took no pleasure in dancing witii anyone else ; she 
 either feigned weariness to excuse her accejDtance of another 
 partner, or danced with him without zest, and with an 
 abstracted mind that left her s^oeechless, 
 
 Bessie Cleverdon, the last person in the room to thmk 
 hardly of another, the most ready to excuse the conduct 
 of another, w^as hard put to it to justify her brother's 
 conduct. He did not come to his wife between the dances, 
 treating her with indiiference equal to a slight, and he lav- 
 ished his attentions on Julian Crymes in a manner that pro- 
 voked comment. 
 
 " The}' ai'e old friends, have known each other since they 
 were children, have been like cousins, almost as brother 
 and sister," said Bessie, when she felt Urith's hand clench 
 and harden within her own as Anthony and Julian passed 
 them by without notice, engi'ossed in each other. 
 
 "You must think nothing of it — indeed you must not. 
 Anthony is pleased to meet an old acquaintance and talk 
 over old times. It is nothing other," again she protested, 
 as Urith started and quivered. The bride had encountered 
 Julian's eye, and Julian had flashed at her a look of scorn 
 and gratified revenge. She was fulfilling lier thi'eat, she 
 was plucking the rose out of Urith's bosom. 
 
 Presentlv, Julian came across the room to Bessie with 
 eyes averted from Urith. 
 
 " Come with me," said she to Bessie Cleverdon, " I want 
 
212 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 a word with you. I am hot with dancing. Come outside 
 the porch." She put her arm within that of Anthony's sis- 
 ter, and drew her forth on the drive, outside. 
 
 "When there, JuHan said, " Bessie, what is this I hear on 
 all sides. Are you engaged?" 
 
 " Engaged ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 *' Engaged to Fox. I am told of it by first one and then 
 another ; moreover, his attentions to you were marked, and 
 all noticed them ; that has given strength to the general be- 
 lief." 
 
 "It is not true. It is not true !" exclaimed Bessie, be- 
 coming crimson with shame and annoyance ; " who can 
 have set such a wicked storj' afloat ? " 
 
 " Nay, I cannot tell that. "Who can trace a piece of gos- 
 sip ? But the talk is about, in the air, everywhere. There 
 must be some foundation for it." 
 
 " None at all, I assure thee — most seriously, and most 
 honestly, none at all. You jDain me inexpressibly, Julian. 
 Deny it whenever you hear it. Contradict it, as you love 
 me." 
 
 "I do love thee," answered Julian, "and for that reason 
 I have hoped it was false, for I jDity the maid that listens 
 to Fox's tongue and believes his words. If it be 
 true " 
 
 "It is not true ; it has not a barleycorn of truth in it." 
 
 " But he has been much at Hall, every week, almost 
 every other day." 
 
 " Because he is Anthony's friend, and he is doing what 
 he can for him with my father." 
 
 Julian laughed. "Nay, never, never reckon on that. 
 Fox will do no good turn to anyone, leastwise to Anthon}'. 
 He go twice or thrice a week to Hall on other concern 
 than his own ! As well might the hills dance. Trust me, 
 if he has been to Hall so oft, it has been that he sought 
 ends and advantages of his own. I never knew Fox hold 
 out the end of his riding- whip to help a friend." 
 
 " That may be," said Bessie Cleverdou. " But he has not 
 come for me. I pray let my name be set aside. I have 
 nothing to do with him. He has not so much as breathed 
 a word touching such a matter to me. I j)ray you deny 
 this whenever you hear it, and to whomsoever you speak 
 concerning it." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DAHTMOOB. 213 
 
 Julian laughed. 
 
 " I am glad I have thy word that there is naught in it, 
 as far as thou art concerned. I sx^oke of it to Anthonj^ 
 and he also laughed me out of countenance thereat. But 
 he trusts Fox. I would not trust him save to trip up or 
 stab in the back, an enem3^ Do'st know, Bess, what no- 
 tion came on me ? I fancied that Fox was seeking thee, be- 
 cause he reckoned that the strife between Anthony and his 
 father would never skin over, and that the old man would 
 make thee his heir." 
 
 " No ! no ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, in distress. *' Do not 
 say such things, do not think such things. I am certain 
 that you mistake Fox. He is not so bad as you paint 
 him." 
 
 " What ! you take up the single-stick to fight in his de- 
 
 fence?" 
 
 " I will fight in defence of any man who is maligned. 
 I cannot think of Fox what you say. I pray say no more 
 hereon. You pain me past words to express, and there 
 really is no ground for what you do say." 
 
 ''Take care ! take care ! Bess. I know Fox better than 
 do you, better than does anyone else, and he may yet play 
 you such a move as will checkmate you." 
 
 Elizabeth did not answer. The two girls took a turn on 
 the lawn together, and Bessie drew Julian's arm tighter 
 to her side ; she even laid her disengaged hand on her 
 shoulder, clinging to her as a supplicant. 
 
 The attitude, her manner was so full of entreaty, that 
 Juhan halted in her walk, turned to her, and asked, " What 
 is it that you want, Bess ? " 
 
 " My dear — dear Julian," Elizabeth stroked Julian's arm 
 with her gentle hand, " O Julian ! Do, I pray thee, not 
 dance any more with Anthony." 
 
 "Why not, Bess?" 
 
 Elizabeth hesitated. She was unwilling, almost unable 
 to express her reasons. An unrest was in her bosom, a 
 fear in her heart, but nothing had taken distinct shape. 
 
 '* My dear, dear Julian, I entreat you not. You should 
 feel that it were fit that my brother should dance this 
 evening with his wife — with Urith." 
 
 "She can no more dance than a goose," answered Julian, 
 bluntly. 
 
214 UBITH: A TALE OF DAHTMOOll. 
 
 " That is true — I mean slie cannot dance very "^-ell ; but 
 it is not seemly that she be left out altogether, and that he 
 should be so much with 3'ou." 
 
 *' Why not ? We are old friends." 
 
 '' Do you not feel, Julian, that it is unfitting ? She — I 
 mean Uritli — must feel hurt." 
 
 " She is hurt ! " repeated Julian, "^ith a thrill of triumph 
 in her voice ; but this Bessie did not notice. It never for 
 a moment occurred to her that it could give exultation to 
 Julian to know that she had pained another. 
 
 "Indeed, you must consider," pursued Bessie. "The 
 poor young thing has not had the chance of learning to 
 dance, and Anthony is without much thought ; he seeks 
 his pleasure. Young men do not think, or do not under- 
 stand the hearts of girls. I watched Urith, and I bclievo 
 that every step you took trod on her heart." 
 
 "It did ! " Her tone shocked Bessie, who for a moment 
 released her arm and looked in her face, but in the dark- 
 ness could not see the expression. 
 
 *' Indeed it did," she continued ; " for, as she could not 
 dance, it seemed a slight to and forgetfulness of her 
 that she W8<s left to sit out, and Anthony amused himself 
 with you and with others. He meant no harm, I know that 
 very well ; but, nevertheless, he hurt her much, and she 
 bled with inward pain. She was shamed, and should not 
 have been shamed before a great many peo^^le on her first 
 aj^pearance after her marriage, at a rout." 
 
 *' You should administer 3'our exhortations, Bess, to 
 Anlhony. I have not the custod}^ and responsibility of that 
 wild, vixenish colt, Urith." 
 
 " I cannot get a word with Anthony, and you, Julian, are 
 dancing with him three times to any other partner's one." 
 
 " W^ould you have him sit down at her side and twiddle 
 his thumbs, like a disgraced child in a corner ? " 
 
 "I would have him and you think of the feelings of a 
 young girl who is sad at heart," said Bessie, gravely. 
 Julian's tone distressed her ; a glimmer of the true condi- 
 tion of aifairs entered her mind and filled it with horror 
 and indiq-nation. 
 
 "Julian," she said, in a firmer tone, with less of ajDpeal 
 in it and more of command, "at one time I used to think 
 that we were like to become sisters ■-" 
 
UlUTH: A TAL/jJ OF DAIITMOOU. 215 
 
 '• "What, by your taking Fox? It is not too lato." 
 
 " Do not — do not banter on that subject. You know my 
 meaning. I did suppose lliat Anthony would have souglit 
 his happiness in you. But it has pleased God to order it 
 otherwise. Now he must findjiis happiness — not at Kil- 
 worthy, nor at Hall, but at poor little Willsworthy, that 
 bleak moor farm, and not with you, but with Urith. He 
 has sacrificed a great deal for her — lost his home, lost his 
 father, almost lost me, has given up wealths and position, 
 and he must bo compensated for these losses in his own 
 new home. It is not right that you— that anyone should 
 do anything to spoil this chance, to rob him of his com- 
 pensation in full. Anthony can be nothing to you for the 
 future. Leave him alone. Do not play with him, do not 
 draw him away from Urith. He has now already mighty 
 odds against him ; do not, for God's sake, do anything that 
 may make the odds overwhelming, and blight and ruin his 
 happiness here and for ever. For, Julian, it is now, in the 
 first months of marriage, that his state will be determined 
 one way or the other. Mar the concord between him and 
 his wife now, and it may never again be found ; and that 
 concord lost, with it to wreck goes the whole life of my 
 brother. If ever, Julian, vou had any love for Anthony, 
 if now 3'ou have any kindly feeling towards him, let him 
 alone." 
 
 She paused and waited for an answer. None came, 
 Julian walked faster, dragged her up and down the lawn 
 as she cluni]f to her. 
 
 "It was Anthony's doin^^ that Urith came to-night ; she 
 was averse to appear, but he insisted on it. She told him 
 she could not dance ; he forced her to take her place with 
 him at the head of the room for a measure. Did she ever 
 seek him out ? Never. He thrust himself upon her. When 
 her mother died, she had no desire to be hurried into mar- 
 riage, but he overruled all her objections. He, ever 
 thoughtless, inconsiderate of others, has taken her up out 
 of her old course of life " 
 
 " Enough, enough about her," said Julian, '"'when you 
 speak of her my anger foams. Speak of him, of his happi- 
 ness jeopardised, and I cool. What ! Has it come to this, 
 that I — I in my gloveless hands hold the fortunes, hold the 
 hearts of these two, to beat and batter them together, and 
 
216 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 crush aud break them both? What if I threaten to 
 do it ? " 
 
 '' You are too good at heart to make the threat, or, if 
 made, to make it good." 
 
 Juhan was silent again. She took several turns in front 
 of the house. The sounds of revelry streamed out to them. 
 Through the open porch door, along with the light, and 
 occasionally in the porch itself, came a flash of colour as 
 a girl stood there in her bright-tinted dress with the blaze 
 of the candles upon her. Bats were wheeling, and their 
 shrill scream pierced the ear. 
 
 " Let m& alone, Bess," said Julian. " I cannot breathe, 
 I cannot think when you are by me ; my head is like a 
 weir, and all my thoughts tumble, boiling, spattering over, 
 beaten to foam." 
 
 Elizabeth withdrew to the porch, where she seated her- 
 self, and watched the excited girl on the lawn. She had 
 put her hands to her head and was still pacing up and 
 down, now fast, then slowly, according as her passion or 
 her good nature prevailed. 
 
 Then out at the door came Anthony, shouting, '' Where 
 is Julian ? She promised to dance the Mallard with me ! 
 Bessie, have you seen her? I claim her for the Mal- 
 lard." 
 
 Julian heard his voice, and stepped back under the shade 
 of a bank of yews. There was before her gravel, and in 
 that gravel a piece of white spar that shone like a flake of 
 snow in the dark. If she stepped out to that piece of sjDar 
 he would see her, claim her, and — her evil nature would 
 have got the upper hand. Whither would it lead her ? 
 She did not ask that. She saw before her now only the 
 alternative of a half-hour's mad pleasure on the arm of An- 
 thony, of cruel triumph over his already humiliated wife, 
 and abandonment of the contest. 
 
 The struggle was over with unexpected brevity. The tune 
 of the Mallard struck up, and Anthony went back into the 
 hall without her, to seek for her there, or to find there an- 
 other partner. 
 
 Then Julian heard the burst of voices in song, for the 
 Mallard was a country dance led by two, with chorus by 
 all the performers as they turned their partners, and went 
 in chain with linked, reversed arms, down the room. 
 
URITB: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 211 
 
 She : When lambkins skip, and apples are growing. 
 Grass is green, and roses ablow, 
 When pigeons coo, and cattle are lowing. 
 Mist lies white in the vale as snow. 
 
 Chorus : Why should we be all the day toiling ? 
 Lads and lasses along with me ! 
 Done with drudgery, dust, and moiling. 
 Come along to the greenwood tree. 
 
 He : The cows are milked, the teams are a-stable. 
 Work is over with set of sun. 
 Ye farmer lads, all lusty and able, 
 Ere the moon rises begins our fun. 
 
 Chorus : Why should we, etc. 
 
 Julian came to the porcli to Elizabeth. 
 
 "Go," said she, "tell my servants to make ready. I 
 will return home. I will not go indoors again, till the 
 horses are at the door. My father has returned, and Fox 
 is with him. Be that my excuse." 
 
 Bessie put up both her hands to the face of Julian, drew 
 down her head to her, and kissed her. Then she disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Julian remained without, listening to the ballet. 
 
 She : O sweet it is to foot on the clover, 
 Ended work, and revel begun, 
 Aloft the planets never give over, 
 Dancing, circling round of the sun. 
 
 Chorus : Why should we, etc. 
 
 He : So Ralph and Phil, and Robin and Willie, 
 Kiss your partners, each of you now ; 
 Bet and Prue, and Dolly and Celie, 
 
 Make your curtsey ; lads ! make a bow. 
 
 Chorus : Why should we be all the day toiling ? 
 Lads and lasses along with me ! 
 Done with drudgery, dust, and moiling, 
 Come along to the greenwood tree. 
 
218 URITII : A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE EIDE HOME. 
 
 When Julian Crymes had departed, it appeared to An- 
 thony that the dance had lost its principal charm, and he 
 wearied of it. 
 
 " Come, Urith," said he ; " I think we will go. It \^ late." 
 This was almost the only time he had spoken to her since 
 the opening dance. 
 
 "I am ready," she answered; "have been for two 
 hours." 
 
 He went forth to see after the horse, and had it brought 
 round to the door. He took his place in the saddle, and 
 Urith sat behind him. They rode forth from the grounds 
 into the high road, along which their course lay for a mile 
 and a half, after which it diverged over moor. Anthony 
 did not speak, and Urith remained equally silent. She had 
 her hand on his belt, and he felt the pressure. He was 
 vexed with her ; she had not done him credit that evening. 
 She was uncouth, and unfit to associate with peoj^le accus- 
 tomed to social intercourse — unable to take a part in the 
 amusements such as is expected of every young person. 
 She was decently dressed, but without richness and refine- 
 ment of taste, and in an old-fashioned gown that had been 
 her mother's. The blood rushed into his head as he 
 thought of how folks must have laughed at him and her 
 when she failed in the opening dance. She was the bride 
 of the evening ; every one was prepared to concede to her 
 the place of pre-eminence, but she had shown herself 
 wholly incapable of occupying the place offered her. Then 
 how uninteresting she had appeared beside the other girls 
 present I Their fcices had been radiant with mirth, hers 
 dull with discontent and ill-humour. 
 
 What if he had appeared there with Julian as his bride ? 
 How different all would have been ! She would have been 
 well, handsomely dressed, ami in ail the inherited jewelry 
 of the Glanvilles. She would not have sat a whole even- 
 ing mum against the wall. She would have shown herself 
 queen of the revel. A warm breath, sweet as if laden with 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DABTMOOB. 219 
 
 gorse essence, fanned liis face at the thouglit, and was fol- 
 lowed at once by a sharp and icy blast. Julian had been 
 refused by him with all her wealth, her rank, her accom- 
 plishments, her beauty, and what had he acquired instead? 
 
 How could he have supposed that Urith was devoid of 
 all those feminine dehcacies of manner which enable a 
 woman to place herself at ease in all society ? She had 
 thrown a cold, wet blanket over his joy on this first com- 
 ing forth into the world from his seclusion at Willsworthy. 
 Then Anthony went on spinning at the same dark thread 
 of ideas. He asked himself what there was in Urith that 
 had attracted him, why it was that he had been so infatu- 
 ated as to throw his luck to the winds so as to possess her. 
 When the head begins to reckon, then the heart is on the 
 way to bankruptcy. 
 
 He counted over the advantages he had rejected, meas- 
 ured the sacrifices he had made for Uiith's love, and he 
 asked what she could throw into the scale to outweigh all 
 
 this ? \ , X 
 
 His hand twitched the bridle, and made the horse toss 
 
 his head and plunge. 
 
 Urith also was occupied with her own thoughts. It had 
 been a relief to her to get away from the laughter and 
 music and revelry of Wringworthy ; she thought that, 
 could she be away from the heated room and swahng can- 
 dles, in the cool night air, under the stars, her tranquillity 
 of mind would return. But it was not so. Anthony's 
 silence, her sense of having ofi'ended him by her clumsi- 
 ness, her dread lest his love for her should be cooling ; 
 above all, the haunting spectre of a fear lest JuUan should 
 be fulfiUing her threat, and be weaning from her the heart 
 of her husband, followed her, and filled her blood with 
 fever. But she strove against this fear, fought it with all 
 the weapons at her command. It was impossible that his 
 love, so strong, so unselfish, which had cost him so much, 
 should evapomte, and that his heart should sway about 
 like a weathercock. The resolution wherewith he had 
 pursued his end, that proved him to have a strong charac- 
 ter, and not one that is turned about in every direction. 
 
 He had some excuse for being out of humour. He was 
 proud of her. He had desired to let all see what a woman 
 he had got as his wife. He was disappointed, and the 
 
220 VRITB: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 depth of his disappointment was the measure of his pride 
 
 in her. 
 
 But then there rose up before her mind the picture of 
 Juhan on Anthony's arm, with burning cheeks and bright 
 eyes, looking up in his face, and his eyes resting upon her 
 with a warmth that should be in them only when fixed on 
 the face of his wife. Did she not know that glow in his 
 countenance ? That fire in his eye ? Had he not looked 
 at her in the same way before they were married ? 
 
 *'Do you intend to drag me off my horse?" asked An- 
 thony, "that you pull at my belt so roughly ? " 
 
 "And you, that you draw the rein so short and make 
 the mare rear ? " 
 
 Urith knew nothing of the world. It had ever seemed 
 to her inconceivable that after the bond and seal of mar- 
 riage the thought of either should stray ; that any one 
 should dare to dream of loving a man who was pledged in 
 heart and mind and soul to another woman. Yet Julian 
 as much as told her she still loved Anthonj-, would use all 
 her fascinations to draw him to her and away from his 
 wife. Was Anthony so weak that his conscience would 
 suffer him to be thus attracted from the place of duty ? 
 No — a thousand times, no. He was not so feeble, so lack- 
 ing in moral strength as this. 
 
 They had turned oft' the high road upon the moor. 
 Here was no stoned road, no road that lay white in the 
 darkness before them, but turf, by daylight recognisable 
 as a road by hoof marks, and the fret of feet over the turf. 
 By night it could be follow^ed only by observing stones set 
 up at intervals and capped with whitewash. Stones had 
 been picked off the roadway and thrown on one side, so 
 that the turf was smooth almost as a racecourse. The head 
 of the horse was turned now somewhat easterly. The 
 sky above the rugged moor range was silvery, and from 
 behind a rocky crest rose the moon, doubled in size by the 
 haze that hung over the moor, and seemed like a mighty 
 flame of the purest white light. 
 
 "There, there ! " said Urith. '' Do you see, Anthony ; 
 the moon is up above that old Lyke Way, along which we 
 made our first journey together." 
 
 She disengaged her hand from his belt, and put it round 
 liis waist. 
 
UJRTTn: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 221 
 
 He raised his head and looked away to the east, at the 
 ridge of moor and rock, bhick against the ghttering orb. 
 He remembered tlien how he had mounted her on his 
 liorse — liow he had stood by her and looked into her eyes ! 
 He recalled the strange magic that had then come over 
 him — a longing for her, mingled with a presentiment of 
 evil — a fear lest she were drawing liim on to destruction. 
 That fear was verified — she had lured him on to his ruin. 
 He was a ruined man ; he had lost all that he valued — the 
 esteem of his fellows, the comforts and luxuries of life. 
 Then begfan a^-ain the odious and monotonous enumeration 
 of the sacrifices he had made. 
 
 Why did Urith remind him of that ride ? Did she want 
 to find occasion to reproach him? Was it not enough 
 that he was scourging himself with the whips of his own 
 thoughts for his precipitate folly in marrying her ? 
 
 But Urith was not at that moment thinking of reproach. 
 She breathed moor air, w^as beyond hedges and enclosures, 
 in the open, vast, imcultivated heather-land, and there her 
 brain had cooled, and her heart had recovered composure. 
 The atmosphere was other than that of a ball-room, which 
 had filled her with intoxication, and had bred j)hantom3 
 that had affrighted her. 
 
 As he rode on, with the light of the rising moon on his 
 face, Anthony felt the pressure of Urith's hand below his 
 heart. The pressure was slight, and yet it weighed heavy 
 on him, and interfered with his breathing ; that light hand, 
 as it rose and fell with the motion of the horse, and at 
 each inhalation, seemed to strike reproachfully against his 
 £*ide, to knock, and bid him open to better thoughts. 
 
 How was it that he was so changed — that he, who had 
 forced himself on the reluctant Urith, had not let her alone 
 till ^e had yielded to his persistency to precipitate the 
 marriage — that he should be trying to shift the blame on 
 her ? If he had made sacrifices to win her, she had not 
 invited him to do so ; he had done it with his eyes open — 
 he had done it moved by no other influence, urged by his 
 own caprice solely. 
 
 It had never occurred to him that Urith had made sacri- 
 fices on her part ; that he had demanded them of her, and 
 given her no rest till they were made. He had made her 
 marry him against her conscience and wishes, too quickly 
 
222 UlilTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 after lier mother's death, and a^^'ainst her mother's dyiiin- 
 orders. But he considered that what was done could not 
 be undone, that as he liad made his bed, so must he lie, as 
 ho had laden himself, so he must trudge. What then was 
 the use of rejoining, and fretting over the past? 
 
 '•Yet — it was the Lykc Way," he said, in a low tone, 
 " the wav of death, on which we set our feet too-ether." 
 
 '"No," she said, "not altogether." She released liei' 
 hand from liis heart, and placed it on the arm that held the 
 bridle. "Stay the mare a moment, Touie." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 ''I have something* to tell you." 
 
 '' Can you not say it as we ride on — it is late ? " 
 
 "No — stay the mare." 
 
 He drew reiu. 
 
 " Well — what is it ? " he asked, a little impatiently. 
 
 She looked round. 
 
 " We are quite alone ? " 
 
 ''Yes — of course — who else could bo here ? " 
 
 Then she put her hand on his shoulder. " Turn your 
 car to me, Tonie. I will not say it aloud." 
 
 He did as rec[uired. But she did not speak for a few 
 moments. 
 
 He showed signs of impatience. 
 
 Then she gathered resolution, and whispered something 
 into his ear ; only a word or two, but he started, and turned 
 in his saddle. 
 
 " What ! LMlh— is it true ? " 
 
 "I must not ride with 3'ou more after to-night," she said, 
 and her eyes fell. 
 
 Then he put his arm round her, and drew her to him, 
 and kissed her on one cheek, then on the other, then on her 
 mouth, and laaghed aloud. 
 
 "Hold tifrht ! " he said. "Put both arms round me, 
 both hands on my heart ! O Uritli ! Uritli ! What wall 
 my father say when he knows this ? He will relent. He 
 must." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DABT2I00B, 223 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 FAIMILY JARS. 
 
 •'What is the meaning of the strange talk that is about 
 con.?erning thee and Elizabeth Cleverdon ? " asked Julian 
 of her brother, at breakfast next morning. 
 
 '' Nay, that is putting on me more than I can do. I 
 should* be sorry to account for all the idle talk that blows 
 and drifts about on the stream of conversation, like leaves 
 of autumn on a trout pool." 
 
 "I heard it yesterday, and you certainly showed her 
 great attention so long as you were at the dance." 
 
 "Did I show her more attention than you showed 
 to one I do not name ? Faith ! if I had listened to and 
 picked up tlie scraps of scandal cast about, I might have 
 tilled an apron with what wanton words I heard concern- 
 ing thee." 
 
 He looked hard at Julian, and their eyes met. She 
 coloured, but shook off her embarrassment, and turned to 
 her father and said : " The saying is that my brother is set- 
 ting his cap to catch Bessie Cleverdon." 
 
 Mr. Crymes became grave, and looked at his son. He 
 was a stern and Puritanical man, who had kept himself 
 aloof from his children, never entering into their amuse- 
 ments, and concerning himself with what they did. Julian's 
 fortune was assured to her, and his son would inherit some- 
 thing, the relics of the paternal estate, and what he had 
 saved when managing for Julian. 
 
 " Is there anything in this, Anthony ? " he asked. " On 
 my honour, I am surprised." 
 
 " There is truth and there is falsehood in it," answered 
 Fox, carelessly. " It has come to this, that as Julian cannot 
 be Anthony Cleverdon's wife, it lies open to her to become 
 his mother. Old Master Cleverdon is nothing loth, and, if 
 she will accept him, she will have the opportunity of bring- 
 ing the father to good terms with the son, for, from what I 
 have seen, the happiness of Tonie lies very near to my 
 sister's heart. If she declines the old man, I shall try my 
 fortune with his daughter." 
 
224 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " This is absurd, Fox," said Julian, liigbly incensed. 
 
 "Absurd it may be — but the old gentleman has his head 
 full of it, and has commissioned me to sound his way with 
 you. 
 
 "Be silent," said Julian, very red, very angi'y, "I do not 
 believe one word of this ; but that you are aiming at Bes- 
 sie, that I do believe, though when I asked her about it, she 
 had no knowledge of anything of the kind." 
 
 "Before we proceed to consider my affairs, let us settle 
 yours," said Fox. " Am I to tell Squire Cleverdon of Hall 
 that you will not favour his suit, being already too deep 
 gone in attachment to the son ? " 
 
 " Silence to that slanderous tongue ! " said Mr. Crymes, 
 wrathfully. " Julian at one time was thought of in refer- 
 ence to young Tony Cleverdon, but he did not fancy her, 
 but took Urith Malviue. From that moment the name of 
 Tony Cleverdon, in connection with my daughter and your 
 sister, is not to be employed in jest or earnest, by you or 
 any other. Understand that." 
 
 " Then," said Fox, with his eye on his father, out of the 
 corner, " let her keep herself out of folks' mouths, and not 
 be like a rat I saw 'tother day, that ran into the jaws of my 
 terrier, mistaking his open mouth for a run." 
 
 " "What is he aiming at ? " inquired Mr. Crymes, turning 
 to his daughter. "I know he has a wicked tongue, but I 
 cannot think he can speak without some occasion." 
 
 "There is nothing- — that is to sav "Julian became 
 
 confused. " Why may I not speak to — why not dance with 
 an old, old friend ? " 
 
 " I have no command to lay on you not to speak to, not 
 to dance with an old friend," said her father, " but every- 
 thiuo- in moderation ; take notice from vour brother that 
 evil eves look out for occasion, therefore cive none. If Ahab 
 had no weak places in his armour, the bow drawn at a ven- 
 ture would not have sent an arrow to him with death at the 
 point. No bluebottles are bred w^here cariion is not found." 
 
 Julian looked down abashed, then, with woman's craft, 
 shifted the subject. 
 
 *'It is nonsense that Tony speaks. I do not believe for an 
 instant that jMaster Cleverdon has any suit for me in his 
 head — if he has, no marvel if folk talk, but God be wi' me, 
 it will not be I who occasion it." 
 
trmTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 225 
 
 " What do you menn by this ? " asked the father, now 
 turning to his son. *' Has my friend Cleverdon said aught 
 to justify 3'ou ? " 
 
 " My dear father, if you ^Yish it, and JuKan does not ob- 
 ject, he will step from the position of good friend into son. 
 He has cast an eje on Kilworthy, and as Kilworthy cannot 
 be had without Julian, i' faith, he will take both." 
 
 "Let him dare to offer this to me!" exclaimed Julian, 
 " and until he does, pass it over. I refuse to accept any 
 message through such a go-between." 
 
 "It is no fault of mine," said Fox, " if the father thinks 
 that some of the overspill of love and languishment for his 
 son may rebound to him. I do not see how Jule, if she de- 
 sire to chastise her faithless lover for having despised her 
 charms, can do so more effectually and more cuttingly than 
 by taking his father. Then Tony Cleverdon is in her 
 hands absolute^. She can reconcile her father to him or 
 tear them apart for ever. She can bring him, if she will, 
 to bite the dust at her feet, to fawn at her knee, and to a 
 woman such power is precious." 
 
 "That suffices," said Mr. Crymes ; "you heard what was 
 her answer. She will speak no more on this matter with 
 you. If Cleverdon comes to me with the suit, I will know 
 what reply to make ; if he goes to Julian, she can answer 
 him herself. Meanwhile do you keep silence thereon. I 
 but half trust what thou sayst. Such fancies breed in thy 
 perverse mind. Come now to the other matter. Is it true 
 that you see Elizabeth Cleverdon ? For her sake I trust 
 not, for I esteem her exceeding well, as much as I reckon 
 thee below the general level of good men. If I thought 
 there was aught mendable in thee that could be shaped by 
 the hands of a good wife, I would say God jDrosper thee. 
 But I fear me thou art over-rotten at the heart to be 
 ripened to any good, over-hard to be moulded to a vessel of 
 honoui\" 
 
 " I do not see why you should think so ill of me, father," 
 said Fox, sullenly ; " unless it be that your ear has drunk 
 in all the comj^laints Julian has ^Doured out against mc. 
 What she says you accept, what I say you cast away. Then, 
 I fancy, the time is come when you will be glad to have me 
 married and got rid of." 
 
 " You do seek marriage ? " 
 15 
 
22G URITH: A TAL^ OF DAETMOOn. 
 
 " I seek to be away from those who flout and despise me, 
 who cross me and mistrust me. At least Squire Cleverdon 
 and I understand each other, and regard each other." 
 
 "Yes," broke in Julian ; "for in each is the same yeast 
 of sourness." 
 
 " Be silent, Julian," commanded her father. ''Let mo 
 hear the boy out." 
 
 "What concern me the quirks and hints I hear concern- 
 ing Jule?" pursued Fox, unable, in spite of his father, to 
 contain himself from a stroke at his sister ; " let them fly 
 about thick as midges, they are naught to me — they do not 
 sting me. Why, father, you should grudge me Bessie 
 Cleverdon, I cannot see. If you respect her so highly — 
 think so excellent well of her — I doubt but no other maid 
 would so content you as a daughter-in-law as she." 
 
 " A better girl does not exist," answered Mr. Crymes. *' I 
 would desire her a better fate than to bo united to thee." 
 
 "She is not comely, that is a fact," continued Fox, "but 
 she will be the richest heiress in all the Tavistock district 
 — between here and Plymouth and Exeter. Now that Mas- 
 ter Cleverdon has fallen out with his son, and that there is 
 no riddance by Anthony of the wife with whom he has 
 saddled himself, not to please his father, or himself — or 
 Jule yonder " 
 
 Mr. Crymes brought his fist down on the table. 
 
 "I will drive thee out of the room at another word 
 against thy sister." 
 
 "Do yon notice, father," exclaimed Julian, with flaming 
 cheeks, "it is poor Bessie's money and the lands of Hall 
 that he covets, and he seeks this by levering out of his 
 place his best friend and old comrade." 
 
 " Did I lever him out of his place ? " retorted Fox. " Ho 
 did it himself, and never a little finger did I put to help in 
 his upsettal." 
 
 " No, but you are ready to profit by his loss ; read}', if 
 you could, to get me as your confederate in fencing every 
 inlet by which he might return to his father," said Julian, 
 vehemently. 
 
 "Because one man is a fool, is that reason why his 
 friend — as you choose to term me — should not be wise ? 
 Because one man throws away a diamond, why his comrade 
 should not pick it up and wear it on his finger ? " 
 
rniTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 227 
 
 " TliG case is not the same. It ig taking the jewel, and 
 smiting- the rightful owner in tlie face when he puts forth his 
 hand to reclaim it, and that rightful owner — your friend." 
 
 "My friend !" exclaimed Fox, angril}^ "Why should 
 you call Anthony Cleverdon *my friend'?' Was it an act 
 of a friend — a dear, considerate friend — to strike me in the 
 eye and half blind me ? Look ! '' Fox turned his left side 
 towards his sister. "Do I not carry about with me a mark 
 of friendship — a pledge to be redeemed ? Trust me, I shall 
 return that blow with usury some day, when the occasion 
 comes." 
 
 ' " And you will employ poor Bessie as your lash wlierc- 
 witli you lUip him in the face. You are a coward — a 
 mean " 
 
 " Silence ! " commanded Mr. Crymes. " There is no grain 
 of brotherly love between you two " 
 
 " Not a grain," threw in Julian, hotly. 
 
 Fox bowed sarcastically. 
 
 " You observe, father," he said, "that here I am at a dis- 
 advantage, between a sister who spars at me and a father 
 who treads me down." 
 
 "I do not tread on you save when you grovel in the 
 dirt," answered Mr. Crymes, " in base and dishonest mat- 
 ters, and I do esteem this suit of Elizabeth Cleverdon as 
 one such." 
 
 " Opinions y^vy. You make me willing to leave my 
 home, though it be not mine, nor thine neither, father, but 
 that of sister Julian, who stuffs ni}^ pillow with thorns and 
 the seats of her chairs Avith nettles. I would be away at 
 any price, and if I can go to Hall and live there with 
 Squire Cleverdon, I doubt not I shall be more content than 
 I be here." 
 
 " You will live there ? " said his father. 
 
 " No doubt. Master Cleverdon has ever had his daughter 
 Elizabeth with him. He might have sent her packing, as 
 he sent his own sister packing, when he needed her no 
 more, and that would have been when Anthony brought 
 home a wife to his taste. As he has not — if Julian still 
 persists in declining to be my mother-in-law — why, I 
 reckon that Bess will remain at Hall. A man must leave 
 father and mother and cleave to his wife — so it will be 
 scriptural, and that should content thee, father." 
 
228 UIIITH: A TALE OF DAnTMOOR. 
 
 The old man drew forth his 'kerchief and wiped his face. 
 
 "I suppose, father," continued Fox, "that you will 
 hardly let me go penniless out of the house ? That would 
 be a pretty comment on your professions. You must have 
 saved something, and there is that little scrajD of land still 
 ours in Bucklaud " 
 
 ]Mi'. Crymes again w^iped his face. He did not know 
 what answer to make. 
 
 " Or, is the fashion set by Squire Oleverdon of cutting 
 his son off without a shilling infectious, that my father has 
 taken it, and will follow suit, and sicken into the same 
 green infirmity ? " 
 
 "No," said Mr. Crymes, "I will do what is right; but 
 you spring this on me, I am taken aback " 
 
 " I did not spring it on you. That is one of the many 
 kindnesses I have received from Jule." 
 
 "I do not know what to say. You must give me time 
 to consider. This journey to London has cost me a con- 
 siderable sum of money." 
 
 "There comes the usual excuse for shirking out of a, 
 money obligation which cannot be enforced by law. Say 
 oil, father — the times have been bad, the hay was black 
 with rain, the corn did not kern well, the mottled cow 
 droi^ped her calf, the tenants have not paid, and so my 
 poor boy gets nothing but advice in bushels and exhorta- 
 tions in 3^ards." 
 
 "Having insulted your sister, now you throw your jibes 
 at me. That is not encouraging to me to deal handsomely 
 towards you." 
 
 "I did not think, father, that you needed to be coaxed 
 and caressed to do an act of justice." 
 
 "I do not ask that of thee, but I must consider. It ill 
 pleases me that you should have thought of Bessie 
 Cleverdon." 
 
 "If I had chosen some worthless wench without a penny 
 to bless herself withal, you would have shaken the head 
 and ])roken the staff over me. Now that I have chosen one 
 wdio is in all ways unexceptional, who is a wealthy heiress 
 of irreproachable manners of life, the favourite of everybody, 
 a dutiful daughter, it is all the same — ^you disapprove. Is 
 there aught I could do — any change that I could make — 
 that would give thee pleasure ? " 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 229 
 
 "None— till I saw there was an amendment in thy- 
 self." 
 
 " If I can give satisfaction in no way to thee, father, I 
 may assuredly make choice for myself. Bess may not be 
 beautiful, but she i^leases me— she has what is better than 
 beauty, all Hall estate on her back. It will be to your 
 advantage and to that of Jule that I should take her— you 
 will thus be rid of me, who content neither of you, smiply 
 because my tongue has a point to it, and I do not suffer it 
 to lie by and be blunted." 
 Then Julian laughed out. 
 
 "What avails all this reckoning and debatmg over a 
 matter that cannot be settled till the main person con- 
 cerned has been consulted? Bessie, I am very sure, has 
 not the faintest waft of a notion that such schemes are 
 beino- spun about her, or had not till I spoke with her 
 yestreen. She will never take thee, Fox. Bessie has a 
 good heart and a shrewd understanding, and neither will 
 suffer her to take thee." 
 
 " You think not ? " asked Fox, superciliously. 
 "I am sure she will not," answered Julian. 
 "We shall see," said Fox. " She is not as was her 
 brother, one to fly in the face of a father. He has set his 
 mind to it, and if Juhan will not have him, then he will 
 yet have an Anthony Cleverdon to sit on his seat, and reign 
 in his stead, when he has been gathered to his old yeoman 
 fathers." 
 
 " How mean you ? " 
 
 " Why, thus— I am Anthony. I was thus christened. And 
 if I take Bess, I will throw aside my surname of Crymes, 
 which brings me little— and take that of my father-m-law. 
 So he will'^have an Anthony Cleverdon to carry on the 
 name, and I—" his face assumed a malevolent expression— 
 "1 shall liave spoiled for ever his own son's chances. It 
 shall be down in black-and-white, and bound as fast as I 
 can bind him. See if I cannot manage for myself." 
 
 He stood up, took his hat, and set it jauntily on his 
 head, then at the door turned, and with a mocking laugh, 
 
 "There, sister Jule ! Is not that a slap in the face for 
 Anthony that will make his cheek tingle ? " 
 He left the room. 
 
230 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Mr. Cryrnes laid his brow in his hand, and his elbow on 
 the table. 
 
 " Tore heaven ! " he sighed, " I curse the day that gave 
 me such a son." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 MORE JARS. 
 
 A drizzling rainy day. A day on which nothing could 
 be seen but a waverin<j veil of minute dust of water. A 
 drizzle that was wetting, and which penetrated everywhere. 
 The air was warm, laden with moisture, oppressive, and 
 dej^ressing. From a window could be seen nothing be- 
 yond a hedge. Trees seemed to be bunches of cotton 
 wool ; the drizzle crawled or was drawn along by a damp 
 wind over the grass along the hedge, beading every blade 
 and twig with the minutest drops of moisture. The shrubs, 
 the plants stoojoed, unable to support the burden deposited 
 on them, and shot the impalpable water-dust down on the 
 soil in articulate dro2:)s. 
 
 Although the drizzle was excluded by roof and walls 
 from tlie house, the moisture-charged atmosphere could not 
 be shut out, and it made the interior only less wretched 
 than outside the house. The banisters, the jambs of the 
 door, the iron locks were bedewed, and the hand that 
 touched them left a smear and came off clogged with water. 
 The slates of the lloor turned black, and stood with drops, 
 as though the rain had splashed over them. Wherever 
 there was a stone in the wall of a slatey or impervious 
 nature, it declared itself by condensing moisture, sweating 
 through plaster and whitewash, and sending tears trickling 
 down the walls. The fireirons became suddenly tarnished 
 and rust^'. The salt in the cellar and salt-box was sodden, 
 and dripped brine upon the floor, as did the hams and 
 sides of bacon hung up in the kitchen. The table-linen 
 and that for the beds adhered to the fingers when touched. 
 
 Anthony stood at the window in the hall looking out, 
 then he went to the fire ; then took down a gun from over the 
 mantel-shelf, and looked at the lock and barrel ; stood it in 
 the corner of the fire, and resolved by and by to clean it. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 231 
 
 Then he went to the window again, and wrote his initials 
 on the window-pane, or tried to do so, and failed, for the 
 condensation of moisture was not inside but without, on 
 the glass. 
 
 He had nothing to occupy him ; no work conld be done 
 on the farm, and employment or amusement lacked in the 
 house. 
 
 Where was Urith ? She might come and talk to and 
 entertain him. 
 
 What is the good of a wife, unless she sots herself to 
 make home agreeable to her husband, when he is unable 
 to go out-of-doors ? 
 
 Where was Solomon Gibbs? He might have talked, 
 fiddled, and sung, though, indeed, Anthony had no relish 
 just then for music, and he knew pretty well all the topics 
 on which Uncle Sol had aught to say. His anecdotes had 
 often been retailed, and Anthony loathed them. He knew 
 when Sol was preparing to tell one, he knew which he wag 
 about to produce, he was acquainted with every word he 
 would use in telling his tale. 
 
 Anthony had grown irritable of late with Sol, and had 
 brushed him rudely when he began to repeat some hack- 
 nied anecdote. On such a day as this, however, even Uncle 
 Sol were better than no one. 
 
 At length, Anthony, impatient and out of humour, went 
 upstairs and called Urith. She answered him faintly from 
 a distance. 
 
 "Where are you hidden? What are you about?'" he 
 called. 
 
 " In the lumber-room," she replied. 
 
 He followed the direction of her voice, and came to a 
 sort of garret full of every kind of discarded article of 
 domestic use, old crocks that had lost a leg, broken-backed 
 chairs, a dismantled clock, corroded rushlights, bottles 
 that were cracked, a chest of drawers which had lost half 
 the brass handles by which the drawers could be pulled out. 
 
 In the obscurity, dishevelled, covered with dust, and 
 warm with her exertions, stood Urith. She put her hand 
 to her face, and pushed her strayed hair from her e^-es. 
 
 "I want thy help, Tony," she said. "I have been 
 searching, and at length, I have found it. But I cannot 
 carry it forth myself." 
 
232 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " Found what ? " 
 
 ** O — how can you ask ? Do you not see what it is ? " 
 It was an old, dusty, cobweb-covered, wooden cradle. 
 "What do you want, Urith, with this wretched bit of 
 
 rummage 
 
 9" 
 
 " "What do I want it for? O — Tony, of course you know. 
 It is true I shall not need it immediately — not for some 
 months, but I shall like to have it forth, and clean it well, 
 and polish its sides, and fit it up with little mattress and 
 pillows, and whatsoever it need, before the time comes 
 when it is required to be put in use." 
 
 "I will not have this wretched old cradle," said Anthon5\ 
 " It is not meet for my son — the heir to Hall and Wills- 
 worthy." ■ 
 
 *' You are reckoning too soon — " laughed Urith. " Per- 
 haps you may have a daughter, not a son." 
 
 "A daughter ! I do not want a maid ; no — I shall never 
 forgive you, if it be not a boy. Urith, My — everything 
 depends on that. When there is a new Anthony Cleverdon, 
 my father can hold out in his obstinacy no longer. He 
 must give way. An Anthony Cleverdon of Wills worthy, 
 and not of Hall ! It would go against all his pride, against 
 his most cherished ambition. It cannot, it shall not be. 
 Urith, a boy it must be, and what is more, he shall not lie 
 in that dusty, cobweb -clad pig-trough. It would not be- 
 come him." 
 
 *' But, Tony," laughed Urith, "it was mine, I was rocked 
 in that. It was not so bad that I could not sleep therein." 
 
 " Oh, you ! " he spoke disparagingl}' in tone. " You were 
 only heiress of Wills worth}', but my young Anthony will 
 be something much different from that." 
 
 " I want my child to lie in the same crib in which I was 
 rocked. It will be a pleasure to me." 
 
 " I will not have it. This is too mean." 
 
 " What does it signify ? " 
 
 *' If it does not signify, then let me go and buy a new 
 cradle." 
 
 " No," said Urith. " No — there I lay when a poor little 
 feeble creature ; and there, in the same, it shall lie when it 
 
 comes." 
 
 " I will go into Peter Tavy to the carpenter, and order a 
 new cradle." 
 
URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 233 
 
 " I will not use it if 3^011 do. We have not the money to 
 waste on luxuries. A child will sleep as well in this as in 
 a jDainted cradle." 
 
 All at once, Anthony flushed to the roots of his hair. A 
 thought had struck him, that if he bought a new cradle he 
 must do so with his wife's money. He had nothing of his 
 own. He was her pensioner. There stood at his side an 
 old rusty bar of iron ; in his anger and disgust he grasped 
 this, raised it, and brought it down on the cradle, breaking 
 down its side. 
 
 " Anthony ! " exclaimed Urith. " Anthony ! you would 
 not have done that had any love, any respect remained in 
 your heart for me. You would have loved the little crib 
 in which I was laid, if vou loved me." 
 
 He did not answer her. Ashamed at his ow^n conduct, 
 embittered at her opposition to his washes, discontented 
 with his lot, he left the garret and descended the stairs. 
 
 On reaching the hall, he found Solomon Gibbs there ; 
 he had been out in the rain, and had come in ver}^ wet. 
 His face was red and moist, proclaiming that he had been 
 drinking, but he was not intoxicated, only hilarious. He 
 had cast his hat on the table, a broad-brimmed felt hat 
 that had absorbed the rain like a sponge, and was now 
 giving it forth in a stream that made a puddle on the table 
 and ran over the side, dripped on to a bench, and having 
 formed a slop there fell again to the floor, there producing 
 another pool. The water ran off Uncle Sol's dress and 
 oozed from his boots that were rent, and had admitted 
 water within, which now spirited forth from the gaps at 
 every step. Solomon had taken down a single-stick, with 
 basket handle, from the wall, and was making passes, 
 wards, and blows in the air at an imaginary opponent, and, 
 as he delivered his strokes, he trilled forth snatches of 
 
 song 
 
 I'm a hearty good fellow, as luost men opine. 
 Then he whacked from ri^ht to left — 
 
 o 
 
 So fill up your bumpers, and pass rouud the wine, 
 Singing, Tol-de-rol-lol-de-rol. 
 
 He fell to the ward. 
 
231 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " Come on, Tony lad ! 'Tis cursed moist wentlier, and 
 no fun out of doors. I've been to the Hare and Hounds, 
 but no one there, and not even I can drink when there be 
 no comrades "witli whom to change a word. Come, Ton}', 
 take a stick and let us play together, perhaps it will dry 
 me, for I am damp, uncommon damp." 
 
 " Take your hat off the table," said Anthony, in ill-hu- 
 mour. He was accustomed to order and cleanliness in his 
 father's house, and the ramshackle ways of "Willsworthy 
 displeased him ; Uncle Sol was a prince of offenders in dis- 
 ordering and befouUng everything. " Take your hat off. 
 We shall have the board sjVread shortly, and how can we 
 eat oft' it when it is slopped over by the drainage of your 
 dirty beaver ? " 
 
 "Nav, Tonv, l)ov ; let it lie. See — here I be. I will 
 stand on the defence, and you take t'other stick ; and, if 
 you beat me oft', you shall remove my hat ; but, if I remain 
 master, you shall pull off my boots. Can't do it myself, by 
 heaven, thev be so sodden with water." 
 
 " I will make you both remove your hat and kick 
 off your own boots," said Anthony, angrily. "Dost think 
 because I have married the niece that I am abased to be 
 the uncle's serving-man ? 'Fore heaven, I'll teach thee the 
 contrary.'' 
 
 He went to the wall, took down a stick, and attacked 
 Solomon Gibbs with violence. 
 
 Uncle Sol, for all the liquor he had drunk, was sober 
 enough to be able to parry his blows, though handicapped 
 by his drenched garments, which weighed on his shoulders 
 and impeded rapid movement. 
 
 Anthony was not an accomplished single-stick player ; he 
 had not a quick eye, and he had never possessed that ai> 
 plication to sports which would render him a master in 
 any. Satisfied if he did fairly well, and was matched with 
 inferiors who either could not or would not defeat him, he 
 had now small chance against the old man, who had been 
 a skilful player in his youth — who, indeed, had stuck to his 
 sports when he ouglit to have held to his studies. 
 
 The old man held the stick between his hands over his 
 head jauntily — carelessly, it seemed — but with perfect as- 
 surance ; v\-liereas Anthony struck about at ramdom and 
 rarely touched his antagonist. Anthony was in a bad tern- 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DAUTMOOli. 235 
 
 per — he fuced the window ; whereas Uncle Sol stood with 
 his back to the light, and to the table, defending his soaked 
 bat. Anthony was the assailant ; whereas Sol remained on 
 the defensive, with an amused expression in his glossy 
 face, and giving vent at intervals to snatches of melod}' — 
 showing his unconcern, and heightening his opponent's 
 irritabilit}^ and causing him every moment to lose more 
 control over his hand and stick. 
 
 Once Anthony struck Uncle Sol on the side, and the 
 thud would have showed how dead with wet the old man's 
 coat was, even had not water squirted over the stick at the 
 blow. 
 
 " Well done, Tony ! One for thee ! " Then Mr. Gibbs 
 brought his stick down with a sweep, and cut Anthony on 
 the left shoulder. 
 
 The sting and numbness roused Anthony's ire, and he 
 made a furious attack on his antagonist, which was re- 
 ceived with perfect equanimity and the hardly-broken 
 
 strain of — 
 
 I sing o£ champions bold, 
 That wrestled— not for gold. 
 
 With ease, and without discontinuing his song, Sol 
 caught a blow levelled at his skull, dealt with such force 
 that Tony's hand was jarred by it. 
 
 And all the cry 
 
 Was Will Trefry, 
 That he would win the day. 
 So Will Trefry, hiizzali ! 
 The ladies clap tl)eir liands and cry — 
 Trefry ! Trefry, huzzah ! 
 
 Down came Sol's stick on his antagonist s right shoulder. 
 
 *' There, there! You are no match for me," laughed 
 the old man. "Will you give over— and pull off my 
 boots?" 
 
 " Never !" shouted Anthony, and struck at him again, 
 again ine£fectualh^ 
 
 " Look out, Tony ! save your head ! " 
 
 The old man, by a dexterous back-handed blow, struck 
 up Anthony's staff, and with a Ught stroke he touched his 
 ear. He had no intention to hurt him, he might have cut 
 open his head had he willed ; but he never lost his good- 
 
236 UBITH: A TALE OF DABTMOOB. 
 
 humor, never took full advantage of the opj^ortunities 
 given him by the maladroitness of his antagonist. 
 
 It was exasperating to the young man to be thus played 
 "with, trifled with by a man whom he despised, but who he 
 felt was, at all events at single-stick, his master. 
 
 " Hah ! " shouted Anthony, triumphantly. His stick had 
 caught in Sol's wig, and had whisked it off his skull, but 
 instantly the old man with a sweep of his staff smote his 
 stick from the hand of Anthony, leaving him totally dis- 
 armed. 
 
 "There, boy, there! Acknowledge thyself vanquished." 
 
 Then the old fellow threw himself down on the bench, 
 with his back to the table. 
 
 " Come, lad, pull oft' my boots." 
 
 "I will not," said Anthon}', savagely, "you had unfair 
 odds. You stood with your back to the window." 
 
 " I was guarding my hat. Leave it where it lies, dribble, 
 dribble — drip, and take my place on the floor, and try an- 
 other bout, if thou wilt. Come on, I am ready for thee." 
 
 Mx. Solomon Gibbs stood up, resumed his single-stick, 
 and stepped into the midst of the hall. Anthony, with 
 face on lire with anno^^ance and anger, stooped for his OAvn 
 weapon, and then took the place with the table behind 
 him, where previously Mr. Gibbs had stood. 
 
 " Eeady ! " called Sol. "Come along! so be I." 
 
 Another bout, staves whiiiing in the air, feet dancing for- 
 ward, backward, to this side, then to that. 
 
 Rej^orts as of pistols, when the sticks met. 
 
 Anthony was no match for the old gentleman even now 
 that he had the advantage of the light. Sol was without 
 his wig, he had not resumed it, and his shaven pate exhib- 
 ited many a scar, the mark of former encounters in which 
 he had got the worst, but in which also he had acquired 
 his skill. 
 
 " My foot slipped ! " said Anthony, as, having dealt an 
 ineffectual blow from which Uncle Sol drew back, Anthony 
 went forward to his knee, exposing himself completely to 
 the mercy of his antagonist. "It is that cursed wet you 
 have brought in — not fair." 
 
 "Choose a dry spot," said Sol. 
 
 "You have puddled the whole floor," answered the young 
 man. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 237 
 
 "Then it is equal for both of us. I have given thee 
 many advantages, boy." 
 
 " I want none. I will have none." 
 
 His eye was on the old man's bald head ; the sting of the 
 blows he had received had exasperated him past considera- 
 tion of what was due to an aged man, the uncle of his wife. 
 The blows had numbed in him every sense save anger. 
 He longed to be able to cut ojDen that smooth round skull, 
 and so revenge his humiliations and relieve his ill-humour. 
 But he could not reach that glossy pate, not smite which 
 way he would, so dexterous was the ward of Uncle Sol, so 
 ready was his eye, and quick his arm in responding to his 
 eye. 
 
 Not an advantage of any kind could he get over his ad- 
 versary ; he rained his blows fast, in the fury of his disaj?- 
 pointment, hoping to beat down his guard by mere weight 
 of blows ; and Uncle Sol saw that he was blinded with 
 wrath and had lost all sense of i^lay, having passed into 
 angry earnest. Then he twirled the stick from Anthony 'a 
 hand once more, so that it flew to the ceiling, struck that, 
 and fell by the hearth. 
 
 Mr. Gibbs laughed. " Mine again, Tony, boy ! " He 
 cast himself into the settle by the fire, stretched forth his 
 legs, and said, " Come, pull off my boots." 
 
 Anthony stood lowering at him, panting and hot. 
 
 " He strip't liini to tlie waist, 
 He boldly Trefrj faced, 
 111 let bini know 
 That I can throw 
 As well as he to-day I 
 So little Jan, hnzzah ! 
 And some said so — but others, No, 
 Trefry, Trefry, hnzzah ! " 
 
 Sol sang lustily, with his hands in his pockets and his legs 
 extended. 
 
 *' Come, lad, down on your knees, and off with my 
 boots." 
 
 Anthonj' did stoop, he went on one knee, not on both, 
 and not to pull otf the old man's boots, but to ]}\Qk up his 
 single-stick, whirl it round his head, and level a blow at the 
 head of the undefended Uncle Sol ; the blow would have 
 
238 VIUTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 fallen, had not Uritli, mIio had entered the room at the 
 moment, sprung forward, and caught it in her hand. 
 
 "Coward!" she exclaimed, "coward! — my uncle ! an 
 old man ! I hate you. ^yould God I had never seen 
 you ! " 
 
 He had hurt her hand, he saw it, for she caught it to her 
 bosom, then j^ut it to her mouth, but her eyes glared at 
 him over her hand like white lightning. 
 
 "A scurvy trick, lad — did not think thee capable of it," 
 said Uncle Sol. " Has he hurt thee, child "? " 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 Anthony Hung the single-stick from him with an oath, 
 put his hand to his brow, stood for a minute confronting 
 Urith, looking into her fiery eyes, without exculpation, 
 without a word. Then he turned, took up Uncle Sol's hat, 
 without observing tliat it was not his own, flung it on his 
 head, and went fortli. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXm. 
 
 INTO TEMPTATION. 
 
 Never is man so inflamed with anger, so overflowing 
 with gall against others, as when he is conscious that he 
 has laid himself open to animadversions. Anthony was 
 bitter at heart against his wife and against her uncle, be- 
 cause he was aware, Avithout being ready to acknowledge 
 it, that he had acted ill towards both. 
 
 Why should not Urith have yielded at once to his wishes 
 about the cradle ? How" obtuse to all delicate and elevated 
 feeling she was to think that such a dustv, dingv, worm- 
 eaten crib w^ould suffice for his son, the representative of 
 the house of Cleverdon — the child who w\as to be the 
 means of reconciliation between himself and his father — 
 the heir of Hall, who would open to him again the jDa- 
 ternal mansion, and enable him to return there and escape 
 from Willsworthy, a place becoming daily more distasteful, 
 and likely to become wholly insupiDortable ! That he had 
 seen the cradle under disadvantage, in its abandoned, for- 
 gotten condition, and that it could be made to look well 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 230 
 
 when a little feminine skill and taste had been expended on 
 it, did not occur to him. 
 
 Moreover, his wife had no right to resist his wishes. 
 He knew the world better than she — he knew what befitted 
 one of the station his child would assume better than she. 
 What might do for an heir to Willsworthy would be inde- 
 cent for the heir to Hall — what might have suited a girl 
 was not adapted to a boy. A wife should not question, 
 but submit ; the wish of her husband ought to be para- 
 mount to her, and she should understand that her husband 
 in requiring a thing acted on his right as master, and that 
 her place was to bow to his requisition. The old sore 
 against his father that had partially skinned over broke out 
 again, festered and hot. He was angry against his father, 
 as he was against Urith. He was angry also with Mr. 
 Gibbs for having proved a better man than himself at 
 single-stick. Of old, Anthony had shown himself a tolera- 
 ble wrestler, runner, single-stick player, thrower of quoits, 
 player at bowls, among the young men of his acquaintance, 
 and he had supposed himself a match for any one. Now 
 he was easily disarmed and defeated by a half-tipsy old 
 loafer, who had done no good to himself or any one in his 
 life. 
 
 He had gone down in j^ublic estimation since his mar- 
 riage — he who had been cock of the walk. And now he 
 was not even esteemed in his own house ; resisted by his 
 wife, who set at naught his wishes, played with and beaten 
 by that sot — her uncle. 
 
 There was no one who really admired and looked up to 
 him any longer, except Julian Crymes. 
 
 He had wandered forth in the w^et, without a purpose, 
 solely with the desire to be away from the house where he 
 had met with annoyance, w^iere ho had played — but this 
 he would not admit, though he felt it — so poor a figure. 
 He took his way to Peter Tavj', and went into the little inn 
 of the Hare and Hounds at Cudliptown, the first hamlet he 
 reached. 
 
 No one was there. Uncle Sol had sat there, and tippled 
 and smoked ; but had finally wearied of the solitariness, 
 and had gone away. Now Anthony sat down where ho 
 had been, and was glad to find no one there, for in his 
 present humour he was disinclined for company. The land- 
 
240 TJRITB: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 lord came to him and took his order for aqua vitce, brought 
 it, and seated himself on a stool near him. But Anthony 
 would not speak, or only answered his questions shortly, 
 so as to let the man understand that his society was not 
 desired. He took the hint, rose, and left the young man 
 to his own thoughts. 
 
 Anthony put his head in his hand, and looked sullenly 
 at the table. Many thoughts troubled him. Here he had 
 sat on that eventful night after his first meeting and asso- 
 ciation with Urith on the moor. Here he had sat, with 
 his heart on fire from her eyes, smouldering with love — 
 just as an optic-glass kindles tinder. Here he had drunk, 
 and, to show his courage, had gone forth to the churchyard 
 and had broken down her father's head-post. He had 
 brought it to this house, thrown it on this table — there ! 
 he doubted not, was the dint made by it when it struck 
 the board. 
 
 How long was it since that night ? Only a little over a 
 twelve-month. Did Urith's eyes burn his heart now? 
 There was a fire in them occasionally, but it did not make 
 his heart flame with love, but with anger. Formerly he 
 was the well-to-do Anthony Oleverdon, of Hall, with money 
 in his pockets, able to take his i:>leasure, whatever it cost 
 him. Now he had to reckon whether he could afford a 
 glass before he treated himself to one, was warned against 
 purchasing a new cradle as a needless expense, a bit of un- 
 pardonable extra vagan ce. 
 
 He tossed off his glass, and signed for it to be refilled. 
 Then he thought of his father, of his rebellion against 
 him, and he asked whether any good had come to him by 
 that revolt. He, himself^ was like to be a father shortty. 
 Would his son ever set him at defiance, as he had defied 
 his father ? He wondered what his father was thinking of 
 him ; whether he knew how straitened his circumstances 
 were, how clouded his happiness was, how he regretted the 
 unretraceable step he had taken, how he was weary of 
 Willsworthy, and how he hungered to hear of and to see 
 Hall once more. There was little real conscious love of 
 his father in his heart. He did not regret the breach for 
 his father's sake, think of the desolation of the old man, 
 with his broken hopes, his disappointed ambitions ; he saw 
 things only as they affected himself ; he was himself the 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 241 
 
 pivot about which all his meclitatioDS turned, and he con- 
 doled "vvitli, lamented over, himself as the worst-used of 
 men, the man most buffeted by misfortune. 
 
 Anthon}^ kicked the legs of the table impatiently. The 
 host looked at him and smirked. He had his own oj)inion 
 as to how matters stood with Anthony. He knew well 
 enough that the young man was unlike Mr. Gibbs, was no 
 toper ; he had rarely stepped within his doors since his 
 marriage. As the host observed him, he chuckled to him- 
 self and said, " That fellow will come often here now. He 
 has a worm at the heart, and that worm only ceases to 
 gnaw when given aqua vltce or punch." 
 
 What if the old Squire were to remain obdurate to the 
 end ? What if he did not yield to the glad news that he 
 was grandfather to a new Anthony Cleverdon? Anthony's 
 heart turned sick at the thought. His sou to be con- 
 demned to a toilful life at Willsworthy ! But what if Urith 
 should at some future time be given a daughter, then her 
 estate would pass away from the young Anthony, and the 
 representative of the Cleverdons would be adrift in the 
 land without an acre, with hardly a coin — and Hall would 
 be held by an alien. 
 
 He stamped with rage. 
 
 His father was possessed with madness ; the whole blame 
 fell on his father. Why was the old grudge against Rich- 
 ard Malvine to envenom the life of the sou and grand- 
 children of the Squire ? By the course he took the Squire 
 was not hurting the man whom he hated, who was in his 
 grave and insensible to injury, but his own living direct 
 descendants ! Anthony was stabbing at his own family, in 
 his insensate malice. He thought over his quarrel with 
 the old man, and he regretted that he had not spoken 
 plainer, given his father sharjDcr thrusts than he had — that 
 he had not dipped his words in pitch, and thrown them 
 blazing into his father's face. 
 
 His cheeks were burning ; he clenched his fists and 
 ground his teeth, and then bowed his hot brow upon his 
 clenched hands. No doubt his father would hear how ab- 
 surdly Urith had danced at the Cakes, and would laugh 
 over it. He held up his head and looked round him, 
 thinking he heard the cackle of his father, so vividly did 
 he portray the scene to his imagination. No one was in 
 16 
 
9A2 UIUTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 the room save the tayerner ; but Authouy caught his eye 
 fixed on him, aud he turned impatiently awa}'. 
 
 Urith was not — there was no bhnking the matter — a wife 
 suitable to him. He compared her with his sister. Bessie 
 w'as sweet, gentle, and with all her amiability dignified ; 
 Urith was rough, headstrong, aud sullen. She was uncouth, 
 unyielding — did not understand what were the tastes and 
 requirements of a man brought up on a higher plane of re- 
 finement. He was weary of her lowering brow, of her si- 
 lence, her dark eyes with a sombre, smouldering fire in 
 them. He wondered how he could ever have admired her ! 
 He never would feel content with her. He had sacrificed 
 for her the most splendid prosj^ects that any man had, and 
 she did not appreciate the sacrifice, and bow down before 
 him and worship him for it. 
 
 He knocked over his glass and broke it. By heaven ! 
 He wished he had never married Urith. 
 
 Anthony stood up, and threw down some coin to pay 
 for his brandy and for the broken glass. He had knocked 
 over the glass in the gesture and start of disgust, when 
 he had wished himself unmarried, and now — he must pay 
 for the glass with money that came to him from Urith. 
 He knew this, it made him writhe, but he quickly 
 deadened the spasm by the consideration that for every 
 groat he had of his wife, he had given up a guinea. She 
 was in debt to him, and the ridiculous little sums placed at 
 his disposal were but an inadequate acknowledgment of 
 the vast indebtedness under w^hich she lav. 
 
 He stood for a few minutes irresolute in the rain, un- 
 certain in which direction to turn. Home? — To Wills- 
 worthy ? To the reproaches of Urith, to the tedious jests 
 and drawled-out songs of Mr. Gibbs? To the sight of 
 Urith ostentatiously holding her hand in a sling to let him 
 know that he had hurt her, when she intercepted the blow 
 aimed at her uncle ? 
 
 "Pshaw ! " said Anthonv. " She is not hurt, she cannot 
 be liurt. She caught the stick in her palm. It stung her, 
 no doubt, but will pass. But what an outcry and fuss will 
 be made over it." 
 
 Yet his heart reproached him for these complaints. He 
 knew that it was not the way with Urith to make an out- 
 cry and a fuss. If he had hurt her, she would disguise 
 
URITH: A TAL/'J UF DAIITMOOR. 243 
 
 the fact. Aiiyliow, lie resolved not to go back to Wills- 
 wortliY. 
 
 Should he go on to Peter Tav}"", and visit his cousin Luke? 
 
 No — he had no desire for the society of a parson. Luke 
 had married him to Urith ; Luke was in part to blame for 
 his present condition of dissatisfaction. Luke might sure- 
 \y, if he had poked about in his books, have discovered 
 some canonical reason why the marriage could not have 
 taken place, at least as early as it did. Then — with delay 
 — his love might have abated, his head would have become 
 cooler, he would have been better able to balance loss and 
 gain. 
 
 "Loss and gain!" scoffed Anthony; "all loss and no 
 gain ! " 
 
 Luke would surmise that all was not right, he was keen- 
 sighted — he had already had the impertinence to give an 
 oblique admonition to Anthony to be tender and forbear- 
 ing to his wife. If he went to him now, Luke would nail 
 him, and hammer remonstrances into him. 
 
 By heaven ! no — he wanted no sermons preached to him 
 on week-days. 
 
 He walked to the door of Farmer Cudlip. The Cudlips 
 had been on that estate much as the Cleverdons had been 
 at Hall, for centuries, but the Cudlips had owned their own 
 land, as yeomen, whereas the Cleverdons had been tenant- 
 farmers. Now the Cleverdons had taken a vast stride up 
 the ladder, whereas the Cudlips, who had given their name 
 to the hamlet, had remained stationar}'. The Cudlips, 
 though only yeomen, were greatly respected. Some of 
 the gentle families were of mushroom growth compared 
 with them. It was surmised that the Cudlips had origin- 
 ally been Cut cliffs, and that this yeoman family had issued 
 from the ancient stock of Cutcliffe of Damage, in North 
 Devon, which had gone forth like a scriptural patriarch 
 and made itself a settlement on the verge of the moor, and 
 called the land after its own name ; but there was no evi- 
 dence to prove this. It was at one time a conjecture of a 
 Rector of Peter Tavy, who mentioned it to the Cudlip then 
 at Cudliptown, who shrugged his shoulders and said, "It 
 might be for ought he knew." In the next generation the 
 descent was talked about as all but certain, in the third it 
 was a well-established family tradition. 
 
24:4: Ulimi: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Anthony stood in the doorway of the old ancestral farm. 
 He had knocked, but received no answer ; no one had 
 come to the door in response. He knew or guessed the 
 reason, for overhead he heard Mistress Cudlip putting the 
 youngest child to bed ; he had heard the little voice of the 
 child raised in song, chanting its evening hymn : — 
 
 Matthew, IMark, Luke and Jolm, 
 Bless the bed that I Lay on. 
 Four angels to my bed, 
 Two to bottom, two to head ; 
 Two to hear me when I pray, 
 Two to bear my soul away. 
 
 Probably Farmer Cudlip was not within. Had he been, 
 the knock of Anthony would have been responded to by a 
 loud and hearty call to come in. 
 
 Anthony did not repeat the knock. It was of no use his 
 entering that house if the master were out ; he did not 
 want to pass words with women folk. But he halted 
 where he was in order to make up his mind whither he 
 should QO. He craved for — not exactly flattery, but some- 
 thing of that adulation which had been lavished on him by 
 all alike — old and young, men and maids — when he was 
 Anthony Cleverdon of Hall, and which had been denied 
 him since he had become Anthony Cleverdon of ^Yillswor- 
 thy. 
 
 Under the humiliation he had received in his own house, 
 under the sense of disgrace which he had brought on him- 
 self, first by his anger over the cradle, and the breaking it 
 down with a blow of an iron bar ; then, by his hand raised 
 over an old man, defenceless ; he felt a real need for adu- 
 lation. He could not hold up his head, recover his moral 
 elasticity till he had encountered some one who did not 
 flaunt and beat him down. Fox — should he go and see Fox 
 at Kilworthy ? Fox was his friend ; Fox had a sharp tongue 
 and could say cutting things that would make him laugh, 
 would shake the moths out of his fretted brain. Yes, he 
 would go to Kilworthy and see Fox. 
 
 As he formed this resolution he was conscious that lie 
 was false to himself. He did not want to see Fox. Fox 
 would not look up to him with eyes full of loving devotion. 
 Fox's colour would not Hush to the cheek when he entered. 
 
VRITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 245 
 
 Fox's pulses would not bound -uhen liis step ^vas heard on 
 the gravel. Fox ^vould not in words encourage him to 
 think well of himself, to esteem himself again as the old 
 cock of the walk in jolumage, instead of a wretched drag- 
 gled fowl. No — he did not want to see Fox, but Fox's 
 sister. He would go to Kilworthy to see, to hear Julian 
 Crj-mes, but he repeated to himself — " I must have a talk 
 with Fox." 
 
 Then he heard the little child's voice upstairs repeating 
 the Prayer of Prayers after its mother. 
 
 " Forgive us our trespasses," said Mistress Cudlip. 
 
 "Tespusses," said the child. 
 
 " As we forgive them that trespass against us." 
 
 "As we 'give them " a pause. The mother assisted 
 
 the little one, and it completed the sentence. 
 
 "And lead us not into temptation." 
 
 "And lead us not " 
 
 Anthony drew his cloak closer about him, shook the 
 water from Solomon's hat, that he wore, and set it again on 
 his head. 
 
 "Into temptation," said the mother. 
 
 "Lead us not into temptation," repeated the child. An- 
 thony bent his head, and went out into the rain, went heed- 
 less of the wai-ning that hammered at his heart, went wil- 
 fully — into temptation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXr^. 
 
 A COLD WOOING. 
 
 *^ Get yourself ready," ordered Squire Cleverdon, look- 
 ing at Bessie across the table. " Your aunt is unwell, and 
 I have sent word that we would come and see her. A wet 
 day, and nothing better to be done, so we can find out 
 what is the matter with her." 
 
 " Certainly, father," answered EHzabeth, w4th alacrity. 
 "I hope nothing serious is the matter with her?" 
 
 " Oh, serious, no." 
 
 The manner of the Squire was never gracious to his 
 daughter ; always imperious, but this day there was a pe- 
 
24G URITII: A TALE OF DAnTMOOR 
 
 culiarity in it that struck her. There was, she felt instinct- 
 ively, something in the background. 
 
 " What is it, father ? I pray you tell me. She is not in 
 any danger?" 
 
 " Oh, danger? No." A twitcluDg of his cheeks marked 
 inner uneasiness. 
 
 Bessie looked anxiously at him. " I am sure, father, you 
 are hiding something from me." 
 
 " Go at once and get ready ! Do not stop chattering here 
 like a parrot," he roared forth, and Bessie fled. 
 
 Elizabeth had no anxiety over the weather. That was 
 not the day of umbrellas, but then, neither was it the day of 
 fine bonnets. The skirts were worn short, and did not 
 trail in and collect the mud. A woman pinned up her gown, 
 or looped it at the girdle, exposing a bright coloured petti- 
 coat, and below that her ankles, and there were many 
 inches between the mud and the petticoat. A thick serge 
 mantle covered gown and petticoat ; it was provided with 
 a hood that was drawn over the head, and bright eyes 
 looked out of the hood and laughed at the rain and cold. 
 
 We sometimes wonder now how the world got on before 
 the introduction of the umbrella. Very well It was dryer, 
 warmer, better protected in former days. It is only since 
 the invention and the expansion of the parapluie, that those 
 marvels of millinery, the nineteenth-century bonnet, piled 
 up of feathers and flowers, and bead and lace, became pos- 
 sible. The umbrella has been a bell-shade under which it 
 has grown. 
 
 IMr. Cleverdon was not connnunicative on the ride to 
 Tavistock. Now and then he growled forth a curse on tho 
 w-eather, but said nothing against Magdalen. This sur- 
 prised his daughter, who was accustomed to hear him grum- 
 ble at his sister if she occasioned him any inconvenience ; 
 but she charitably set it down to real concern for Magdalen, 
 and this increased her fear that more was the matter with 
 her aunt than her father chose to admit. 
 
 Aunt Magdalen really was indisposed ; but the indispo- 
 sition was partly, if not chiefly, due to her distress of mind 
 about her niece. She knew that her brother had resolved 
 to act upon her own to marry Bess to young Crymes, and 
 that he expected his sister to help him to overcome any op- 
 position tliat might be encountered from Bessie. Poor 
 
VRITII: A TALE OF DAllTMOOn. 247 
 
 Elizabeth had as Utile suspicion, as she accompanied her 
 father to Tavistock, that he ^vas about to sacrifice her, as 
 had Isaac Avhen he ascended Moriah at the side of Abraham. 
 
 When Mr. Cleverdon and Bessie arrived at the house of 
 Miss Magdalen, near the Abbey Bridge, they observed a 
 man's hat and cloak hung up in the hall. 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Elizabeth, '•' the doctor is here ! I am 
 sure my aunt is really very ilk" 
 
 At the same moment the side door opened, and the old 
 lady appeared, and caught her niece in her arms. 
 
 "He is here," said Magdalen — ''arrived only a minute 
 before you." 
 
 " Who is here ? " asked Bessie. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Come aside with me into my snuggery," said her aunt. 
 " I have a word with you before I speak with 3'our father, 
 and in the parlour he will find Anthony." 
 
 " Anthony ! My brother ! " with a joyful flash from 
 Bessie ; and she flung her arms round her aunt. " Oh, 
 you dear — you good Aunt Magdalen ! You have " 
 
 "Have done with this folly," said the Squire, angrily. 
 " Are you still such a fool as to think that when I say a 
 thing I shall change about ? No — youi- brother is not in 
 there, but j'our bridegroom." 
 
 Miss Cleverdon put up her hand entreatingly to stop her 
 brother, and hastily brought her niece into the adjoining 
 room and shut the door. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? " asked Bessie, with some 
 composure. She had now a suspicion that the visit con- 
 cerned herself, and not her aunt. 
 
 "My dear," said Magdalen, "do seat yourself — no, not 
 in that chair ; it is hard, and there is something wrong 
 with the back — the bar comes exactly where it ought not, 
 and hurts the spine — at least, I find it so. I never sit in it 
 myself, never. Take that seat by the fireplace. I am so 
 sorry there is nothing burning on the hearth, but, on my 
 word, I did not expect to have you in here. I thought I 
 might have spoken a word with you in the parlour before 
 he came, or — but, bless my heart, Bess ! I am so distracted 
 I hardly know what I thought." 
 
 Bessie shook down her skirt over her dark-blue petti- 
 coat, and seated herself where her aunt desired, then laid 
 lier hands in her lap, and looked steadily at Miss Cleverdon. 
 
248 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "You are not ill, then ? " she said. 
 
 •* Oh, my dear, ill ! I have not slept a wink, nor had a 
 stomach for aught. I should think I was indeed ill, but 
 all about you. You must remember that the command- 
 ment with promise is that which refers to the submission 
 of a child to the parent ; but, Lord ! Bess, I would not 
 have you forced against your wishes. Your father's mind 
 is made uj^, and he has met with a sore disappointment in 
 the case of Anthony. I do think it will be a comfort 
 to him, and heal over that trouble somewhat, if he finds 
 you more pliant than was Anthon5\ But, Lord ! Bess, noth- 
 ing, I trust, hinders you — no previous attachment. Lord ! I 
 did at one time think that your heart was gone a-hankering 
 after Luke." 
 
 Bessie, who had become very pale, flushed, and said, " I 
 entreat thee, aunt, not to have any fancies concerning me. 
 I never gave thee grounds for any such opinion." 
 
 " I know that, I know that, child. Bat, Lord ! an old 
 woman like me must have her thoughts about those she 
 loves and wishes well for." 
 
 "Aunt," said Bessie, "I think I can understand that my 
 father desires to have me married, and has asked you to 
 see me thereon. I have had some notions thereupon my- 
 self, but I would gladly hear from you whom he has fixed 
 on, though, indeed, I think I can guess." 
 
 *' It is Fox," answered Miss Cleverdon, and looked down 
 on the floor, and arranged her stool, which was slipping 
 from under her feet. " There, there, I have told thee ; 
 thy father put it on me. And I can only say to thee that 
 which thou knowest well thyself. He belongs to an an- 
 cient family, once well estated, but now sadly come down ; 
 nevertheless, there is something of the old patrimony re- 
 maining. He is thy father's friend's son ; and as it has come 
 about that the families that were to be united by my nephew 
 have not been thus joined, it is not wonderful that your 
 father would see them clipped together by thee," 
 
 " I cannot indeed take Fox," said Bessie, gravely. 
 
 " Well — well — the final choosing must be with thee, 
 wench. All that thy father can do is to say he desires it, 
 and all I can do is to support (him. God forbid that wo 
 should constrain thee unwilling, and yet a blessing does 
 rain down from above the clouds on the heads of such chil- 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DAUTMOOR. 249 
 
 dren as be obedient. Now look to Anthony, find see if he 
 be happy, having gone against his father's wishes." 
 
 " Is he unhappy ? " asked Bessie. 
 
 " I do not think him the same at all. He is restless, and 
 his mood has lost all brightness. I have not seen much 
 of him, but what I have seen has made me uneasy concern- 
 ino- him, and what Fox tells me still further disconcerts 
 me." 
 
 " I may not go to Willsworthy. I may not see my 
 brother nor Urith — except by very chance I meet them," 
 said Bessie, heaving a sigh, and her eyes filling. " My 
 father seems no nearer forgiving than he was at first." 
 
 "I do not think that aught will move him to forgive- 
 ness save, perchance, the finding of ready obedience in 
 thee." 
 
 "I cannot — indeed I cannot, in this," said Bess. 
 
 " Lord ! I would not counsel thee against thy happi- 
 ness," pursued Magdalen. " But see how ill it has worked 
 with Anthonv. He followed his own will, and went 
 against tlie commandment of his father, and it eats as a 
 canker into his heart, I can see that ; now if then " 
 
 Then the door was thrown open, and the Squire ap- 
 peared in it, vdtli Fox behind his back in the passage. 
 
 "Sister," said old Cleverdon, "time enough has been 
 spent over preparing Bess for what must be. As you have 
 not brought her unto us, to the parlour, we've come in 
 here to you. Come in, Tony ! Come in ! Look at her 
 — there she sits ; kiss her, lad ! She is thine ! " 
 
 But Fox did not offer to do what he was required ; Bes- 
 sie started and drew back, fearing lest he should, but Avas 
 at once reassured by his deprecatory look and uplifted 
 hand. 
 
 " May I enter? " asked Fox. 
 
 " Come in, boy, come in ! " said the old man, answering 
 for his sister, as though the house were his own ; and his 
 own it might be considered, for it was paid for and fur- 
 nished out of Hall ; the maintenance of Miss Cleverdon fell 
 on him and his estate. 
 
 "Come!" said the Squire, roughly, "shut the door be- 
 hind you3 boy. Go over beside her. Take her hand. 
 Hold out yours, Bess. Doy' hear? It is all settled be- 
 tween us." 
 
250 U III Til : A TALI-: OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Fox entered the room, fastened the door, and remained 
 fumbling at the lock, with his face to it, afiecting great 
 diffidence. Mr. Cleverdou took him bv the arm and thrust 
 him away, and pointed imperiously to where Bess sat, near 
 the fireplace, on which burnt no spark ; her hands lay in 
 her lap folded, and her eyes on the hearth. The window 
 was behind her. The httle room was panelled with dark oak 
 that was polished. There were no j^ictures, no ornaments 
 on the wail — only one oval pastel over the mantelshelf of 
 Magdalen when she was a girl. The colour had faded from 
 this, the pink gone wholly — it was a poor bleached picture 
 of a plain maiden ; and now beneath it sat one as blanched, 
 for all the colour had gone out of Bessie's face, and she had 
 assumed the same stiif attitude that her aunt had main- 
 tained when drawn by the artist. 
 
 Fox, with ajoparent reluctance, went over to the fireplace ; 
 Elizabeth looked at her father with great drops formed on 
 her brow, as though the damp of the atmosphere had con- 
 densed on that surface of white alabaster. 
 
 '•'Give him your hand. Are you deaf?" 
 
 Elizabeth remained with her hands folded as before, her 
 e^'es wide ojoen, fixed reproachfully on her father. She 
 had given her young life to him, borne his roughness, ex- 
 perienced from him no love, no consideration — in every 
 way sacrificed herself to make his home happy, and now he 
 cast her happiness from him, gave her up io a man for 
 whom she had no regard, without considering her feelings 
 in the smallest degree. Then Magdalen looked at the 
 
 o o 
 
 crayon drawing of herself and down at Bessie, and some 
 rerainiscence at once painful and yet sweet in its bitterness 
 came back to her — a remembrance, may be, of some sacri- 
 fice she had been called to make when about Bessie's age, 
 and the tears came into her eves. 
 
 "Brother,"' she said, "you are too hasty. The poor 
 child is overcome vrith surprise. You handle her too 
 roughly. Tell her that her well-being is dear to you, tell 
 her that this plan of yours hafi been considered by you as 
 the best for her, but do not attempt to drive her, as you 
 might a sheep into the fold to be shorn, with a crack of 
 whip and bark." 
 
 "You keep silence, Magd;ilen," said the Squire. "You 
 Lave had time to say what you had, and have, it seems. 
 
URITJl: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 251 
 
 wofully mismanaged the task set tbee. I ought to know 
 liow to denl with my children." 
 
 "Nay, brother, I cannot be sure of that, after what has 
 fallen out with Anthony." 
 
 Magdalen regretted having made this sharp replj' when 
 it was too late to recall it. 
 
 " You understand me, Bess," said the old man ; "I have 
 let 3^ou see by the way in whicli I have treated that rebel- 
 lious son of mine, that my wishes are not to be slighted, 
 my commands not to be disobeyed. You do as I tell you. 
 Give your hand to Tony Crymes, or else " 
 
 Bessie's calm, steadfast eyes were on him. He did not 
 finish his sentence. 
 
 '•'Or else, what, father?" she asked. 
 
 He did not answer her ; he put out one hand to the table, 
 leaned on it, and thrust the other behind him under the 
 coat-tails. His brows were knit, and his eyes glittered into 
 stony hardness and cruel resolve. 
 
 "I cannot obey you, father," said Bessie. 
 
 "You will not ! " shouted the old man. 
 
 " Father, I neith.er will, nor can obey, you. I have known 
 Fox, I mean Anthony Crymes, ever since I have been a 
 child, but I have never cared for him." She turned to Fox 
 apologetically ; even then, in that moment of trial and pain 
 to herself, she could not endure to say a word that might 
 seem to slight and give a pang to another. ''I beg your 
 pardon, Fox, I mean that I have never cared for you more 
 than, in any other way than, as a friend, and as Julian's 
 brother." 
 
 " Pshaw ! What of that? " asked the old man, somewhat 
 lowering his voice, and attempting to keep his temper un- 
 der control. **Love comes after marriage where it did not 
 precede it. See what love comes to when it is out of place 
 before it, in your brother's case." 
 
 *' I cannot promise Anthony Crymes m}' love, for I know 
 it never will come. I am glad he is the friend of my 
 brother, and as such I regard him, but I esteem him only 
 for what merits he has in him. I never can love him — 
 never — never ! " 
 
 " Disobedient hussy ! " exclaimed the old man, losing the 
 slight control he had exerted momentarily over himself. 
 "Am I to be set at defiance by you as well as by Anthony ? 
 
252 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 By heaven, I did not think there was such folly in the fam- 
 ily. It did not come from me — not from my side. I will 
 be obeyed. I will not have it said in the town that I can- 
 not have my own way with my children." 
 
 He looked so angry, so threatening, that Fox interfered. 
 He slipped between 13essie and her fatlier, and said : 
 
 "Master Cleverdon, I will have no constraint used. If 
 you attempt to coerce Bessie, then I withdraw at once. I 
 ifiave known and loved her for many years, and would now 
 have hardly dared to offer myself, but that you cast out 
 the suggestion to me. I saw that Bessie did not love me, 
 and I held back, hoping the time might come when she 
 would, perhaps, be guided less by the feelings of the heart 
 and more by the cool reason of the brain. If she refuses 
 me, it shall be a refusal to me, to an offer made in my own 
 way, with delicacy and consideration for her feelings, not 
 with threat and bluster. Excuse plain speaking. Squire, 
 but snch are my views on this matter, and this is a matter 
 that concerns Bessie and me first, and you, Master Clever- 
 don, afterwards." 
 
 "Yes," said Magdalen, "your violence, brother, will ef- 
 fect nothing. You will only drive your remaining child 
 from under your roof, as you drove Anthony." 
 
 " Be silent, you magpie ! " shouted old Cleverdon, but he 
 looked alarmed. 
 
 "Now," said Fox, "you have frightened and offended 
 Bessie, and effected no good. Let her walk home, although 
 it is raining, and I will accompany her j^art of the way, if 
 not the whole, and speak to her in my own manner, and 
 hear her decision from her own lips." 
 
 Bessie stood up. 
 
 "lam content," she said; "but do not for a moment 
 think that my determination is to be changed. Have with 
 you. Fox. Father, you will follow when your business in 
 the town is over, and will catch me up. You said, I think, 
 that you were going up to Kilworthy to see Mr. Crymes." 
 
UEITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 253 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A WET WOOING. 
 
 Bessie and Fox walked side by side, but w^ithout speaking, 
 as long as they were in the street of Tavistock, wdth houses 
 on both sides. Here there were, perhaps, more mud, more 
 numerous puddles, than outside the town. Moreover, the 
 w'ater that fell on the roofs dripped or shot in streams 
 down on the heads of such as ventured to w^alk near the 
 walls, and the onl}^ escape from these cataracts and douches 
 was in the well-worn midst of the street where the dirt 
 was deepest because the roadway w^as there most trampled. 
 The douching from the descending shoots of w^ater, the 
 circumventing of the pools, caused the walk of the two to 
 be no more than approximately side b}" side. No walk 
 could be direct, but must consist of a series of festoons 
 and loops ; but on passing the last house, Fox came bold- 
 ly ujD to the side of Elizabeth Cleverdon, and said : 
 
 *' Bessie, I am at a disadvantage ; who can be the lover 
 in such weather, and how can I lay myself at thy feet when 
 the road is ankle-deep in mire ? I should sink into the 
 slough of despond and the mud close over my head and 
 back or ever I had an answer from thee." 
 
 " There can and will be no romance in the mattei'," an- 
 swered Elizabeth. " It is to me a sad and serious business, 
 for if there be truth in what you say — that you have cared 
 for me, then I am sorry to disappoint you ; but, on my 
 honour as a maid. Fox, I never suspected it." 
 
 *' That may well be, for thou art so modest," replied Fox 
 Crymes. "Yet I do assure thee the attachment has been 
 of a long time, and has thrown its roots through my heart. 
 Even now — or now least of all, would I have held my 
 tongue had not th}' father encouraged me to speak." 
 
 " Why least of all now ? " 
 
 " Because now, Bessie, that thy brother Anthony is out 
 of favour thou art an heiress with great prospects ; and 
 neither would I seem to make my suit to thee because of 
 these prospects, nor to step into the place and profits that 
 should have belonged to Anthony." 
 
25 J: URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Bessie looked round at him gratefully. 
 
 " I am glad you think of Anthony," she said. 
 
 " Of course I think of him. He is my friend. None 
 have mourned more than I at his estrangement from his 
 father. It has affected him in many ways. Not only is he 
 cut off from Hall and his father, but disappointment has 
 soured him, and I do not believe he is happy with his wife." 
 
 " What ! — Anthony not happy with his wife ! " Bessie 
 sighed and hung her head. She remembered the dance at 
 the Cakes, Anthony's neglect of Urith, and the attention 
 he paid to Julian. No doubt this had occasioned a quarrel 
 when he reached his homo. Poor Anthony! Poor An- 
 thony ! 
 
 "And now," said Bessie, gently — "now that we are 
 quite alone together, let me assure you that, though I am 
 thankful to you for the honour you have done me by ask- 
 ing for me, that yet T must beg you to desist from press- 
 ing a suit that must be unsuccessfuL I can — after what 
 you have said, and after the good feeling you have shown 
 — I will, respect you. I can do no more." 
 
 "You have given your heart to another?" half-asked 
 Fox, with a leer that she did not notice. 
 
 "No — no one has my heart, for no one has thought it 
 worth his while to ask for it, except you ; and, alas ! to 
 you I cannot give it." 
 
 "But, if it is still free, may I not put in a claim for it ? " 
 
 "No — it can never be 3'ours." 
 
 "I will not take such a refusal. At bob-apple any boy 
 may jump for the fruit, till it is carried away. Your heart 
 is hung up to be jumped for, and I will not be thrust aside, 
 and refused permission to try my luck along with the rest." 
 
 "No one else will think of coming forward." 
 
 "There you are mistaken, Bess. Consider what you are 
 now — at all events what you are esteemed to be. You will 
 inherit Hall and all j^our father's savings. Your father has 
 made no secret of his determination to disinherit Anthony. 
 He has told several joersons that he has made his will anew, 
 and constituted you his heiress, your husband to take the 
 name of Cleverdon. This is known and talked about every- 
 where. Do you suppose that witli such a prospect there will 
 not be a score of aspirants ready to cast off their names 
 and become at once the husband of the most charming girl 
 
UniTH: A TALI'] 01^ DAnTJIOOJi. 255 
 
 anywhere in South Devon, and a rich Squire Cleverdon of 
 Hall?" 
 
 Bessie ^Yas infinitely liurt and shocked. She to rob her 
 brother of his birthright ! God forbid ! 
 
 "Fox," she said, " this can never be. If I should at any 
 time become owner of Hall, I would give it up immediately 
 to dear Anthonv." 
 
 "But," said Fox, with a mocking laugh on his face, "is 
 it not likely that your father knows what 3'ou would do, 
 and will take precautions against it, by settling the estate 
 throuo-h your husband on your eldest son ? You could 
 not, were the estate so settled, do as you propose," 
 
 Bessie Vas silent, looking down into the mud, and for- 
 getting to pick her way among the puddles. The rain had 
 formed drops along the eave of her hood, and there were 
 drops within on the fringes of her e^'es. 
 
 " You will be persecuted by suitors," Fox continued, 
 "and I ask you is there any you know about here whom 
 you would ])refer to me ?" 
 
 She did not answer him, she was thinking, with her 
 hood drawn by one hand very close about her face, that 
 no one approaching, nor Fox, should see her distress. 
 
 "Do not speak of others," said Bessie, at length ; "suffi- 
 cient to let things be till the}'- come. I am, and you need 
 not pretend it is not so — I am but a x^lain homely girl, and 
 that will dampen the ardour of most young men who sigh 
 for pretty faces." 
 
 "You do yourself injustice, Bessie. For my part I 
 look to the qualities of the heart and understanding, and 
 you have a generous and noble heart, and a clear and 
 sound understanding. Beauty withers, such qualities 
 ripen. I never was one to be taken with the glitter of 
 tinsel. I look to and love sterling metal. It was your 
 good qualities which attracted my admiration, and, 'fore 
 Heaven, Bess, I think you uncommon comel3^" 
 
 " I pray you," urged Bessie, "desist from your suit. I 
 have told thee it is fruitless." 
 
 " But I will not desist without a reason. Give me a 
 reason, and I am silent. "Without one, I will x:»ress on. I 
 have a better right than any of the unknown who will 
 come about thee like horseflies after awhile." 
 
 " I do not love thee. Is not that a reason ? " 
 
256 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " None at all. I do not see wliy thou mayest not come 
 to like me." 
 
 Bessie "svalked on some way in silence. 
 
 Presently she said, in a plaintive, low voice : ''I will give 
 thee, thcD, a reason ; and, after that, turn on thy heel and 
 
 leave me in peace. I have " Her voice failed her, and 
 
 she stepped on some paces before she could recover it. 
 " I tell thee this. Fox, only because thou hast been frank 
 with me, and hast shown me a generous heart. My reason 
 is this — and, Fox, there must, I reckon, be some confi- 
 dence between two situated as we are — it is this, that long, 
 long ago I did dearly love another, and I love him still." 
 
 " Now, Bessie ! " exclaimed Fox, standing still in the 
 road, and she halted also, " you assured me that you had 
 given your heart to none." 
 
 ^'I have given it to none, for none asked it of me." 
 
 *' I do not understand. You speak riddles." 
 
 *' Not at all. Cannot a poor, ugly girl love a man — 
 noble, wise and good — and never let him know it, and 
 never expect that it will be returned? I have heard a 
 tale of a Catholic saint, that he wore a chain of barbed 
 iron about his body, under his clothing, where it ate into 
 his flesh and cankered his blood ; but none suspected it. 
 He went about his daily tasks, and laughed with the merry- 
 makers ; yet all the while the barbs were working deeper 
 into him, and he suffered. There may be many poor, ill- 
 favoured — ay, and well-favoured — wenches like that saint. 
 They have their thorny braids about their hearts, and hide 
 them under gay bodices, that none suspect aught. But — 
 God forgive me," said Bessie, humbly, with soft, faltering 
 voice — "God pardon me that I spoke of this as a chain of 
 iron barbs, festering the blood. It is not so. There is no 
 iron there at all, and no fester whatsoever — only very long- 
 drawn pains, and now and then, a little pure, honest blood 
 runs from the wound. There, Fox, I have shown this only 
 to thee. No one else knows thereof, and I have shown it 
 thee only as a reason why I cannot love thee." 
 
 Fox Crymes made a grimace. 
 
 Bessie stepped along her way. Fox followed. 
 
 Presently she turned, hearing his steps, with a gesture 
 of surprise, and said, "What, not gone yet?" 
 
 " No, Bessie, I admire thee the more, and I do not even 
 
XTRITH: A TALlH OF DARTMOOR, 257 
 
 now give over tlie pursuit. I would yet learn, liast^ thou 
 any thought that he whom thou lovest will be thine." 
 '"No ! no ! never ; I do not desire it." 
 "Not desire it?" 
 
 ''Nay, for he has loved another ; he has never given me 
 a thought. I must not say that. Kind and good he has 
 ever been— a friend ; but he can and will be nothing more." 
 "There you mistake, Bessie. When he learns that you 
 are the heiress to Hall his eyes will be wonderfully opened 
 to your charms, and he will come and profess he ever loved 
 thee." He spoke bitterly, laying bare his own base mo- 
 tives in so doing. But Bessie was too guileless to suspect 
 him. She reared herself up ; his words conveyed such a 
 slight on the honor of Luke that she could not endure it. 
 
 " Never ! never ! " she said, and her eyes flashed through 
 her tears. " Oh, Fox ! if you knew who he was you would 
 never have said that." 
 
 "But if he should come and solicit thy hand? " 
 "He cannot. He has told me that he loved another." 
 She resumed her walk. 
 
 Fox continued to attend her, in silence. He was puzzled 
 what line to adopt. What she had told him had surprised 
 and discomfited him. That Bessie— the ordinary, plam- 
 faced, methodical Bessie— should have had her romance 
 was to him a surx3rise. 
 
 How little do we know of w4iat passes under our very 
 feet. Who dreamed of magnetic currents till the mag- 
 netometer registered their movements? Waves roll 
 through the solid crust of earth without making it tremble 
 at all ° magnetic storms rage around us without causing a 
 disturbance in the heavens, and but for the unclosing of 
 our eyes through the scientific instrument we should know 
 nothing about them— have laughed at the thought of their 
 
 existence. 
 
 " I must needs walk on with thee," said Fox ; " for I can- 
 not leave thee till thy father come and overtake thee. And 
 if I walk at thy side, well— we must talk, at all events I 
 must, for my tongue has not the knack of lying still behind 
 
 my teeth." 
 
 Fox was at heart angry at his ill-success ; he had hoped 
 to have made a great impression on Bessie by the declara- 
 tion of his love. She was but an ordinarily-favoured girl, ae 
 17 
 
258 VRITH : A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 he knew -well enough had never been sought b> ^oung 
 men, always thrust aside, accustomed to see others pre- 
 ferred to herself — at a dance to be left against the wall 
 without a partner, after church to be allowed to accompany 
 her father home, without any lad seeking to attach himself 
 to her and disengage her from the old man. To a girl so 
 generally disregarded his addresses ought to have come as 
 a surprise, and have been accepted with eagerness. He 
 was in a rage with her for the emphatic and resolute man- 
 ner in which she refused him. 
 
 "Let us talk of Anthonv," said he. 
 
 *' "With all my heart," she replied, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "Do you see any way in which your brother can be re- 
 ceived again into favour?" he iDC[uired. 
 
 She shook her head. " Nothing that I can say has any 
 effect on my father. He will not permit me to go near Wills- 
 worthy." 
 
 " Then I can say what is the only way in which peace 
 and good will may be brought back into the family. It 
 lies in your hands to build a bridge between your father 
 and Tony. I am certain that in his heart the old Squire is 
 discontented that things should remain as thev are, but he 
 has spoken the word, and he is too proud to withdraw it. 
 If it could have come to pass that you took my hand, then 
 I do not believe that your father would resist our united 
 persuasion. See how much weight we could have brought 
 to bear on him, how we could have watched our opportu- 
 nities, how — if it should happen at any time that Tony 
 should have a child, we might have brought it to the old 
 man, set it on his knees, and then together liave taken the 
 right moment to plead for Anthonj'." 
 
 Bessie drew a long breath. 
 
 " I would do a great deal, almost anything, to bring about 
 what you speak of, but this means is beyond my power. 
 It cannot be. I know now how good and faithful a friend 
 you are to my dear, dear brother Anthony. I must again 
 speak very plainly. I do desire, Fox, in all ways to spare 
 you a wound, but you will take no refusal. You said, 'Let 
 us talk of Anthonv,' and vou work it round to the same 
 point. I shall never marry ; I cannot marry you ; I shall 
 take no one else. I pray j'ou desist from your pursuit. 
 You heard what Aunt Magdalen said, that my father, if he^ 
 
UniTJI: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 259 
 
 persisted, would drive mo to run away, as did Anthonj^ 
 It will be so. If my father will not accei:>t my refusal, then 
 I must g-o. I shall go to Anthony and his wife, or to my 
 aunt. I could not swear what is false to you or to any one 
 else. Before the minister of God I would not promise 
 love, and love to my husband only, knowing that I could 
 not love, for my love was elsewhere. No," added Bessie, 
 shaking her head, " I must be true, always true, to myself, 
 and before God." 
 
 As she spoke, both heard the clatter of horse's hoofs. 
 They halted, parted, one on each side of the road, and 
 looked back. A man was galloping along with his head 
 down against the rain, he did not look up, but remained 
 bowed as he approached. 
 
 " Father ! " called Bessie, for she recognised both the 
 horse and the rider. He did not draw rein, apparently he 
 did not hear her. Certainly he saw neither her nor Fox. 
 Wrapped in his own thoughts, forgetful of his daughter, 
 of his jn-omise to take her up, he galloped past, and sent 
 the mud Hying from his horse's hoofs, bespattering her as 
 he passed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 IN TEIVIPTATION. 
 
 Anthony entered the little parlour, or bower, of Kil- 
 worthy. It looked comfortable and bright. A fire of logs 
 burnt on the hearth, with turf thrust into the interstices 
 between the logs, and the pleasant fragrance of the peat 
 filled the room, without being strong enough to be offen- 
 Bive. Outside, evei-ything was grey and moist and dull, 
 within a red and yellow sparkle, and a sense of dryness. 
 The walls were hung with good paintings, in silvered 
 frames, richly carved. A crimson mat was on the polished 
 floor and embroidered crimson curtains hung by the 
 window. 
 
 Julian was doing no work. She was sitting by the fire 
 in a day-dream, in much the attitude that was assumed b^ 
 Bessie at that very time in the little i3arlour of Aunt Mag- 
 dalen's house, beside her cold, cheerless hearth. 
 
260 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 
 
 Anthony had thrown off his wet cloak and sopped hat; 
 and was fairly dr}" beneath them, he wore high and strong 
 boots, and these he had made as clean as was possible on 
 the mats before entering. 
 
 " How are you, Julian ? Where is Fox ? " 
 
 Julian started as he sjDoke. Her mind had been engaged 
 on him, and the sound of his voice came on her unwelcome 
 at that moment. 
 
 Sitting over her fire she had been considering her con- 
 duct, asking herself whither she was going, what was to be 
 the end of her encouragement of Anthony. 
 
 She repeated to herself as excuse, that she had thrown 
 the glove at Urith, and that the challenge had been ac- 
 cepted. The contest was a fair and open one ; each used 
 what weapons she had. If men might call each other out 
 and tight, why not women also contend on their own special 
 ground, in their own manner ? 
 
 Urith had won in the first round, had carried off the 
 prize, but in this second round, she — Julian — was beating 
 her adversar}'. She could not take the prize over to her- 
 self, and wear it as her ow^n ; that she knew w'ell enough ; 
 but she could render it worthless in the eyes of Urith — 
 spoil irretrievably her pleasure in it. 
 
 Was she justified in pursuing her advantage ? Was the 
 result she would arrive at one to fill her with content ? 
 She would destroy the happiness of Urith, perhaps that also 
 of Anthony, break in pieces all domestic concord for ever 
 in Willsworthy, to satisfy her own pride and revenge. 
 She loved Anthony, always had loved him, but had suffi- 
 cient cool resolution not to go a step with him beyond what 
 she would allow herself, to establish the completeness 
 of her triumph over Urith. She loved him out of pure 
 selfishness, without the smallest regard for his w^ell-being, 
 hardly more compunction for the torture she was adminis- 
 tering than kas the child that inlays with a cockchafer by 
 thrusting a pin through it, attaching a thread to the pin, 
 and whirling the insect round his head. But Julian was 
 not suffered to proceed without some qualms of conscience, 
 some warnings given by her better nature, and when An- 
 thony entered it was at a moment w^hen she had almost 
 resolved to give up the contest, satisfied with what she had 
 gained. 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF BABTMOOR. 261 
 
 Fox was out, answered Julian to Anthony's inquiry, he 
 had gone into the town. Then she was silent. 
 
 Anthony went into the window, where was a box seat, 
 and planted himself there, not looking at her, but looking 
 away, at the door ; and he took his knee between his 
 hands. Both remained silent. He was weary, not with the 
 length of his walk, but with walking wrapped in a cloak 
 that had become heavy with moisture, and with the close- 
 ness of the day. He was, moreover, in no good mood, dis- 
 satisfied with himself, discontented with the world, and at 
 a loss what to sa}^ now that he found himself in the com- 
 pany of the girl he had con:ie to see. 
 
 Julian pouted, and looked at the fire. The day, with its 
 continuous drizzle, had been one of tedium to her. She was 
 not accustomed to work, like Bessie, wliose hands were 
 never idle. She took up some embroidery, tried to paint, 
 attempted knitting, and threw all aside, after ten minutes, 
 with restless impatience. She had taken a book in the 
 afternoon, read a chapter, remembered that she had read 
 the same book before, and cast it into the window seat. 
 She did not even replace it on its proper shelf. Then she 
 had fallen to her desultory musings, to listening languidly 
 to her conscience, and answering its remonstrances eva- 
 sively. She had, as already said, ahnost resolved to leave 
 Anthony alone, and to be content with what mischief she 
 had already done. But the resolution was no more than 
 almost arrived at ; for she had not the moral courage to 
 make a final resolution to which she would force herself 
 to adhere. 
 
 Anthony, on his side, had been spoiled, so, oii her side, 
 had Julian. He had been flattered and made much of as 
 the heir to Hall ; she had been treated in a similar manner 
 as heiress to Kilworthy. Her mother had died early, her 
 father was an unpractical political and religious dreamer, 
 v/ho had exercised no control over her ; and she had been 
 brought up chiefly by servants, who had fawned on her, 
 and given her whatever she wanted. She was therefore 
 wayward, wilful, and selfish, with no fixed principles, and 
 no power of self-control — a feminine reflex of Anthony, 
 but with more passion and latent force of character than 
 he. 
 
 The two sat silent for full ten minutes, each looking in 
 
262 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 
 
 an opposite direction, and each with a shoulder turned to 
 the other. Antlioiiy had come Loping to be received with 
 pleasure ; but Julian showed no alacrity in receiving his 
 visit, and this helloed to depress him. 
 
 Presently Julian turned her face over her shoulder, and 
 said, *' I suppose you do not know where Fox is, or you 
 w^ould not have come to his lair." 
 
 " Certainly I do not know." 
 
 Anthony looked at the window-glass. Either the fire 
 had considerably heated the atmosphere of the room, or 
 the wind without had veered northward and made the air 
 colder, for breath had condensed on the glass. He put up 
 his finger, and wrote on a j^ane ''A. C." 
 
 " I know, for he was too full of his plans to keep them 
 from bursting forth at his mouth," said Julian. 
 
 *'I dare be bound it was so," answered Anthony, list- 
 lessly ; then on another pane he wrote "J. C." 
 
 *'^ And you are not interested to know whither he has 
 gone and what he seeks ? " 
 
 " No," said Anthony, " I came here to see him. I 
 found no one at Cudliptowu, and Bol Gibbs is dull com- 
 pany at Wills worthy." 
 
 "You have other company there than Sol Gibbs." 
 
 "Whom do you mean ?" 
 
 " There is IJrith — your wife," with a sharj:* flash of her 
 eye out of the corner ; and insensibly she put one knee up 
 and hugged it as did Anthony. 
 
 " Oh ! Urith," he repeated, in a tone in which she dis- 
 cerned something like a sneer. 
 
 " Your wife." 
 
 "One cannot be talking to a wife all day," he said, peev- 
 ishl}^ and let fall his leg and loosened his plaited fingers. 
 She instinctively did the same. 
 
 " Can you not ? Oh, indeed, that is news to me. I 
 should have thought that jow would never ha/e lacked 
 material for talk. Flames, darts — hymeneal altars smok- 
 ing. " 
 
 He looked sullenly out of the window, turning his back 
 to her, and made no reply. She waited for a response, 
 then said, 
 
 "If not these subjects, then chickens and goslings. " 
 
 He turned his head impatiently, and said, 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 263 
 
 " You are mocking me. You ! — and I came here for 
 comfort from you — you, Julian ! " 
 
 Tiiere was pain in his manner and expression, and she 
 was somewhat touched. 
 
 " Oh, Anthony, you said you had come here after Fox, 
 and now you say you came to see me. " 
 
 He passed his hand over his forehead to wipe away the 
 drops formed there. He did not answer her, to correct 
 the effect of his words, but put up his hand to the glass, 
 and with a shaking finger drew on the diamond pane, 
 between the initials, a lover's knot. 
 
 "Anthony, " she said, after a pause, "I suppose I must 
 tell you why Fox has gone into Tavistock, for it concerns 
 you mightily, and you should not be kept in the dark 
 concerning him. Do you recall what I said w4ien we were 
 dancing together at Wringworthy ? " 
 
 '*No, Julian, nothing. That was a bright and delightful 
 dream. I have awaked out of it, and remember nothing." 
 
 " I told you that Fox had set his mind on Bessie — your 
 Bessie. You scouted the notion, but I spoke the truth. 
 And he has been as open to his father and me thereon as 
 is possible for him. You, Anthon}', have a good and kind 
 nature — you are too ready to trust any one. Always up- 
 right and straightforward yourself, never thinking evil in 
 your heart, never putting forth a foot to trip up an en- 
 emy — certainly never a friend." 
 
 Anthonv's head was raised. This was what he wanted — 
 a few words of commendation came down as warm rays of 
 sunshine on his depressed and drooping heart. 
 
 " You, Tony, have never mistrusted Fox, for it was not 
 in you to mistrust any one. But I know his real nature. 
 He is seeking his own ends. He has been over at Hall 
 
 two and three times a week, and " she laughed, " will 
 
 you believe it ? has been cajoling the old man, your father, 
 into the belief that it is possible he maj^ win and wear me, 
 as — as — " she hesitated. *' As he was disappointed " 
 
 Anthony turned and looked at her, and their eyes met. 
 Hers fell, and he looked again hastily at the window-pane — 
 at the initials, and the lover's knot between tliem. The 
 moisture had collected in the figures he had described, 
 and had formed drops at the bottom of each downstroke. 
 
 " That is not all. Whether your father builds greatly on 
 
264: UBITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 this or not I cannot say ; but Fox has dangled the pros- 
 pect before him, whilst he snatched at something for him- 
 self — even at Bessie, the heiress of Hall, now that you are 
 thrown out into the wet and cold. " 
 
 Anthony sighed involuntarily. Yes, he was out, indeed, 
 in the wet and cold at Wills worthy — not metaphorically 
 only, but actuall}' as well. 
 
 "Now," continued Julian, ''you shall hear the whole 
 plan as worked out. Fox has gone in to-day to meet 
 Bessie and your father at your Aunt Magdalen's house, 
 and your aunt has been inveigled into uniting her persua- 
 sion to the commands of your father to induce Bessie to 
 
 c' 
 
 jump down the Fox's throat. " 
 
 " It cannot be," said Anthony. "Bess will never — and 
 she does not care for Fox. " 
 
 " She may not have the power to resist. Girls have not 
 the daring and independence of you men. AYhen Fox has 
 got his way, then he intends to change his name, and live 
 at Hall with your father, who will re-settle the property on 
 him and his heirs, that so there may still be an Anthony 
 Cleverdon of Hall. " 
 
 " Never ! No — never ! " exclaimed Anthony, springing 
 to his feet. " He cannot — he shall not do that. Fox will 
 never play me such a base trick as that ! Bessie never will 
 lend herself to be made a tool of like that ! " 
 
 "Bessie is true to you — that never doubt; but do not 
 lean on my brother : he is false to every one." 
 
 " He never shall become a Cleverdon. What ! Good 
 heavens ! He take my name, my place, my rights, my in- 
 heritance, my everything?" 
 
 " Not everything," said Julian, maliciously. " He does 
 not stretch a hand for your Urith and for Willsworthy — 
 onl}^ for whatj'ou tossed away as valueless." 
 
 Anthony uttered an oath, and cast himself back where 
 he had been before, in the seat in the window, and put his 
 hands to his brow and clasped them there, leaning Ins head 
 against the window sill. 
 
 Then, for some while, both remained silent, but Julian 
 turned herself about in her seat to look at him. 
 
 Was that the same Anthony she had loved and admired? 
 This dejected, sad man, with his head bowed, his face 
 pale, and lined with trouble ? it was certain that he was 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 265 
 
 vastly altered. Her woman's eye detects a difference in hia 
 clothing. Formerly he had been ever dapper ; without 
 foppishness, his dress always of the best and well cared 
 for ; now it was old and worn, in places threadbare. Nor 
 was' it, though poor, yet with the merit of being attended 
 to. Timely stitches had not been given where they had 
 been needed, nor tags and buttons added that had fallen 
 off. His boots were shabby and trodden down at the heel. 
 The wet and dirt undoubtedly gave to them a special 
 shabbiness on that day, but Julian could see that they 
 were out of shape and past their best days. The trim- 
 ness and gloss had gone out of Anthony's outer case and 
 his spirit within had lost as much, if not more. There 
 was none of the ancient merrhnent, none of the self-con- 
 scious swagger, none of the old assurance of manner in 
 him. He had become morose, peevish ; he showed a dif- 
 fidence which was the reverse of his former self. It was a 
 diffidence mingled with resentment, the i^roduct of his con- 
 sciousness that the world was turned against him, and of 
 his bitterness at knowing this. Anthony's nature was one 
 that required sunshine, as a peacock demands it that its 
 beauty and splendour may appear. Come rain, and how 
 the feathers clog and droop and draggle— how squalid a 
 fowl it appears ! So was Anthony now~a faded discon- 
 solate shadow of his old self, without the nerve to bear up 
 against what depressed him, the adaptability to shape 
 himself to his new surroundings. 
 
 As Julian looked at him she pitied him. Her love for 
 him warmed her, and made her forget the cruelty of the part 
 she was playing. The child of impulse, feeUng this qualm 
 of compassion, she rose and gently came across the room 
 
 to him. 
 
 He heard! her not, coming in her light slippers on the 
 carpet, so engrossed was he in his wretched thoughts. 
 Every one had turned against him— every one in whom he 
 had trusted. His friend Fox, the only man who had 
 seemed not to be affected by the general adverse tone of 
 opinion, he had given him the most stinging blow of all. 
 He was now at variance with his father, with his friend — 
 if Bessie consented to take Fox, he could never regard her 
 with esteem again ; at home he had quarrelled with Uncle 
 Solomon, and raised his hand against him ; he had alien- 
 
266 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 ated from Lim Lis wife ; liis aunt was Id league against 
 lii.m ; the servants at Willsworthy "^-ould take sides with 
 their mistress. What wretchedness ! what hopelessness was 
 his ! There was no one — no one but Julian who had a word 
 of kindness, a spark of feeling for hira. He heard the 
 rustle of her gown and looked up. 
 
 She was standing by him, looking down on his ruffled 
 hair, that hung over his hands, clasped upon his forehead. 
 He hastily brushed away the scattered locks. 
 
 "Oh, Anthony! " she said, "what have you been doing 
 here? AYhat drawn on the glass?" 
 
 He slightly coloured, put his hand to the panes and cov- 
 ered them. 
 
 "Nay," she said, taking hold of his hand, and drawing 
 it away, "nay, let me read it." 
 
 "I have writ," said he, bitterly, "what might have been, 
 
 and then " he gulped down his rising emotion, " then I 
 
 had been " 
 
 She stooped and kissed him on the brow, " Poor boy ! " 
 
 Instantly he threw his arms round her neck and drew 
 her face to his, and kissed her cheeks and lips, passionately. 
 She — she alone remained to him — and yet — how far apart 
 they were. 
 
 She sprang away with a cry. 
 
 The door was open, and in it stood oM Anthony Clever- 
 don. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX\TL 
 
 ANOTHER TE:\rPTATION. 
 
 Anthony rose, when he saw his father, with instinctive 
 filial respect, but he did not look him in the face. He 
 could not do this. 
 
 " Hah ! " said the old man, entering the room, and clos- 
 ing the door behind him. " I had come here with an in- 
 tent that is now set aside. I had come, Julian, to tell thee 
 that it was yet in thy power to weld together the estates 
 of Hall and Kilworthy, notwithstanding what has occurred 
 — that is, if thou wouldst overlook a certain disparity in 
 years, and keep thine eye fixed on the main advantage. 
 
UniTJI: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 267 
 
 But that is over. I am glad I came when I chanced, and in 
 time to save me from running a great risk. Thou art too 
 free with thy kisses, too lavish in thy love to please mc." 
 
 He spoke as though what he said must wither Julian, 
 crush her under the sense of her great loss. His assurance 
 that she must be attracted by the same ambition as him- 
 self was so grotesque that Julian at once rallied from the 
 confusion that had covered her, laughed, and said : 
 
 " You do me a mighty honour." 
 
 *' Not at all — I decline to show j^ou the honour." 
 
 *' So much the better. When I walk through a wood I 
 do not not like to have the bramble claw at me. If it does, 
 then I must turn and put my foot on it. Let the bramble 
 hug the nettle, and not aim at the lady." 
 
 Her impudence staggered him. 
 
 " It is mighty sport," she continued, " to hear that little 
 Hall desired to hitch itself on to the skirts of Kilworth}'. 
 But Master Cleverdon, if thou art in a marrying mooci, 
 prithee go to the next gigiet fair, and choose thee there a 
 wench." 
 
 Her insolence had its effect ; the effect designed. In- 
 stead of being attacked by the old Squire, she was the as- 
 sailant, and she hit him where she knew she could keenly 
 wound him, so as to draw off his thoughts from what he 
 had just seen. He was offended and angry. 
 
 " There," said she — " sit down in my scat by the 
 fire. I meant no harm ; but as you were absurd on your 
 side, I made grimaces on mine. I am glad you are here, 
 and face to face with Anthony, for, mayhap, I ciui persuade 
 you to that Avhich, un persuaded, you were loth to do." 
 
 The old man was so angry that he did not answer her. 
 He remained near the door, doubtful whether to retire or 
 to come forward. He had not expected to meet his son 
 there, and was unprepared for an interview ; though hard- 
 ly regretting it, for, in his bitter and resentful spirit he 
 was willing that Anthony should hear from his own lips 
 what he designed — learn to the full the completeness of 
 the severance between them. 
 
 " Whatever persuasion you may attempt," said he, look- 
 ing at Julian. " comes at a wrong time, after you have 
 shown me that you are a person who, not respecting her- 
 self, deserves no respect from another, and after you have 
 
268 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 grosslj" in suited me. But I will listen to 3'on, though, I tell 
 you, what you say will not w^eigh with me as a feather." j 
 
 " If that be so," laughed Julian, " I will spare myself the 
 trouble. But look at 3'our son ; look at him calmly, and 
 tell me w^hether I was wrong in pitying him, ay, and if, in 
 consideration of old, tried friendship, that has been almost 
 cousinship — so well have we known each other since child- 
 hood — w^as I so very wrong in lightly touching his brow 
 with my lips, for from my heart I w^as sorry for him. 
 Think what it would have been for you, when you married, 
 had your father lived and treated you as you have treated 
 Anthony ! Is a man to be cast out of everj- home because 
 he has committed one folly ? I dare stake my word that 
 Anthony has rued his act almost daily ; and is all his 
 reo-ret to count for nothing ? " 
 
 *'A man must take the consequences of what he has 
 done." 
 
 " Julian, I do not wish you to plead my cause," said An- 
 thony, coming before his father; "I will speak to him 
 myself. I want to ask of him a question or two." 
 
 *' I will answer them," said the old man. " Say on." 
 
 " I desire to know for certain whether you intend to give 
 Bessie to Fox Crymes V " 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " And she consents ? " 
 
 " All are not so disobedient as yourself." 
 
 " And if she refuses ? " 
 
 " She will not refuse. I can but let her go, as I let you 
 go. But she will not refuse ; I have that to say to her 
 which will make her give way." 
 
 " Then if she takes Fox, do you intend to take him into 
 Hall ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " And under my name? " 
 
 " Certainlv. He chancfes his name of Crvmes to that of 
 Cleverdon when he becomes my son." 
 
 "Then I tell you it shall not be. There shall not be an- 
 other Anthony Cleverdon in HaU. I give you and Fox 
 fair warning. There cannot — there shall not — be a sup- 
 planter in Hall bearing my name." 
 
 "AVe shall see." 
 
 " Yes vou shall see. Tell Fox what I have said." 
 
URITII: A TAL?'. OF DARTMOOR. 209 
 
 " Tell him yourself. I will be no bearer of messages 
 between you." 
 
 " Mr. Cleverdon," said Julian, " I cannot let you meet 
 and i^art in my presence, spoiling all my pleasure in this 
 little room forever with the remembrance of this scene, 
 without one more effort to bring you to agreement. Come, 
 now — what if Anthony returns to you ? " 
 
 " Returns to me ? " 
 
 " Yes, what if he throws up all connection with Wills- 
 worthy ? He is wretched there — poverty-stricken. He is 
 unhappy in a hundred ways. Look at his face. Where is 
 the old brightness — where the old pride ? He has lost all 
 the ancient meriy Anthony, and now is a sad one. Let 
 him come back to Hall, and leave Urith to manage^ with 
 her uncle — to manage, or mismanage — as before, till all 
 goes there to pieces. He has committed a boyish folly, 
 and he knows it. He has thrown away gold for dross, and 
 he has found it out. He will now be twice the Tony to 
 you that he was. Then he was thoughtless, careless, de\dl- 
 may-care ; now he has learned a lesson, and learned it so 
 sharply that he will never forget it again. He has learned 
 what disobedience costs — what it is to go against a father 
 — what boy's fancies are compared with matured x:)lans in 
 the head of a man. Give him that chance. Come, you do 
 not know Fox as I know him. Take him into your house, 
 and he will not be more dutiful to you than has been your 
 own Tony. He will make you unhappy, and your Bessie 
 wretched. I saw by Tony's face, when he came here, that 
 he had quarrelled with his wife. He came here because 
 his home was hateful to him — because it was unendurable 
 to him to be there any more. We cannot retain him here. 
 Let him go to thee, and there will be an end to Fox and 
 his story with Bessie. Anthony will be dutiful and loving 
 henceforth, and cling to thee, and esteem thee, as he never 
 clung to thee and esteemed thee heretofore." 
 
 Anthony was speechless. The blood rushed into his 
 face. Everything might be as it was— or almost every- 
 thing. 
 
 Old Anthony Cleverdon stood irresolute. 
 
 He had misgivings relative to Fox. One crafty malevo- 
 lent nature mistrtists another of the same quality. His 
 daughter's peace of mind troubled him little, but he was by 
 
270 rniTii: a tale of dartmoor. 
 
 no means certain that Fox, once in the liouse, might not 
 j)resume, and that there would not be sharp contests be- 
 tween them. Moreover, when Fox was there, married to 
 his daughter, his place would be assured, and the old man 
 could not well drive him from it. There were other reasons 
 which made the old Squire feel that, to some extent, Fox 
 would be unassailable, and might be eminently disagree- 
 able. 
 
 The suggestion made by Julian was inviting. In the 
 depths of his heart lurked love for his only son ; his old 
 pride in him was there, and was wounded and sore with 
 the spectacle of the lad humbled, sinking out of men's fa- 
 vour, and out of his old dignity. He looked at him, and 
 saw what an alteration had taken place in him — how oldened 
 and worn in face he was, how shabby in his clothing. 
 
 "Do you know, Mr. Cleverdon," pursued Juhan, "why 
 it was that poor Tony caught me by the neck and kissed 
 me ? It was because he was so utterly forlorn and discon- 
 solate ; he had lost all his friends, his heart was void 
 through bereavement from his father ; he was estranged 
 from that Jacob, that sup planter. Fox ; he saw his own sis- 
 ter turning against him, and — I doubt not he has not found 
 that solace and sufficiency in his own home that would 
 make up for tiiese mighty losses. He held me, because he 
 had none other. I do not want him, I have no right to 
 him — let me cast him off— but only on to his father's bosom, 
 into his father's arms." 
 
 The old man went to the window and looked forth. His 
 face was agitated. He must have time to consider. 
 
 Anthony, moreover, remained mute, and his face was 
 troubled. A terrible temptation was presented to him. He 
 believed that now, were he to throw himself at his father's 
 feet, take his hand, and ask his forgiveness, the old man 
 would receive him back at once into favour on the terms 
 proposed by Juhan. That he would forgive him on any 
 other, he might not expect. That he knew full well. 
 
 And the old man saw that an opportunity was offered to 
 deal the most insulting and cruel stroke to the daughter of 
 the man who had incurred his undying hatred. He could 
 by a word rob her of her husband, of the prize she had la- 
 boured to win, but which he could prevent her from retain- 
 ing. 
 
URITIT: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 271 
 
 To Julian was offered the most complete and open tri- 
 umph over her enemy. A triumph more complete than she 
 could have hoped to gain. Anthony could be nothing to 
 her, he would remain as a friend, that was all ; but she 
 would see, and show to Urith, her threat made good to 
 wrench Anthony away from her. 
 
 Anthony stood with downcast eyes. The temptation was 
 a strong one — strong, to a young man who had been hu- 
 moured and allowed to have his own way uncontrolled, al- 
 lowed to follow his i^leasure or whim without hindrance. 
 He could not return home without having to face his wife, 
 angered and resentful, without having to acknowledge him- 
 self to have been in the wrong. Anthony Crymes was play- 
 ing him a treacherous and cruel trick, and here was a chance 
 offered him of at once recovering his old position, wiping 
 out his past mistake, and discomfiting Fox when on the eve 
 of success. Was he sure that he could ever be on the same 
 terms as before with Urith ? Had she not been gradually 
 estranged from him, till she had declared to him that she 
 hated him, that she wished she had never seen him? 
 Would it not be a relief to be rid of him, to be spared any 
 more domestic broils ? 
 
 Old Anthony Cleverdon was at the window, and as he 
 stood there he marked the initials drawn on the fogged 
 glass, and turned and looked at his son. Young Anthony 
 noticed the look, and observed what had attracted his 
 father's attention. He moved hastily to the window, and 
 his father drew away, went to the fireplace, and rested his 
 elbow against the mantel-shelf and fixed his eyes intently 
 on his son. So also did Julian. Both saw that the mo- 
 ment was a crucial one. The young man was forced to make 
 up his mind on a point which would determine his whole 
 after-life. It was more than that, it was a crucial moment 
 in his moral life. He must now take a step upward or down- 
 ward, in the path of right or that of wrong. This neither 
 Julian nor his father considered, intent only on their selfish 
 ends. But this appeared clearly to Anthony. His inner 
 consciousness spoke out and told him plainly where went 
 the path of duty and where lay the deflexion from it. But 
 the path of duty was a painful one full of humiliations, prom- 
 ising no happiness, only a repetition of contests with a sulky 
 wife, and jars with the foolish Solomon Gibbs, of struggle 
 
272 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 against poverty, of labour like a common hired workman, 
 of loss for ever of his old position, and deprivation of all the 
 amusements that had filled his former life. 
 
 He and Uritli did not suit each other. His temperament 
 was sanguine, his spirit mirthful ; he was sociable, and full 
 of the sparkle of youth ; whereas she was moody, almost 
 morose, had no humour and laughter in her soul, brooded 
 over imagined wrongs as well as those that were real, and 
 could as little accommodate herself to his mood as could he 
 to hers. Surely it were best, under these circumstances, 
 that they should part. 
 
 Now Anthony was standing at the window where he had 
 stood before when he drew those initials on the panes, in 
 the place occupied recently by his father. So full was he 
 of his thoughts, of the rolling of conflicting waves of feeling, 
 that he forgot where he was, forgot the presence of his fa- 
 ther and of Julian — the very sense of the lapse of time was 
 gone from him. Though he looked through the window, he 
 saw nothing. 
 
 Then, all at once, uncalled for, there broke and oozed 
 forth in his heart the old vein of love which had been 
 filled with so hot and full a flood when he was Urith's 
 suitor ; he saw her with the old eyes once more, and looked 
 in mental vision once more into the sombre eyes, as he had 
 on the moor, when he lifted her into his saddle, and there 
 came over him that sensation of mingled love and fear. It 
 seemed to him that now only did he understand the cause 
 of that fear ; it was fear lest he himself should prove a 
 wreck through lack of love and devotion to her. He 
 thought now of how, after their wedding, on his coming 
 to Willsworthy, he had taken her in his arms, how her 
 dark head had lain on his bosom, and he had stooped and 
 kissed her brow, and she had looked up into his face with 
 eyes expressive of perfect confidence, of intensest love. He 
 thought now how he had forced her against her will, against 
 her conscience, to marry him prematurely^ after her 
 mother's death, and against the dying command of that 
 mother. He thought how that he had lived on her estate, 
 had been, as it were, her pensioner. He thought also of 
 the efforts she had made, efforts he had perceived, to ac- 
 commodate herself to him, to meet his humour, to over- 
 come her own gloom, to struggle against the bad habits of 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR 273 
 
 slovenliness into which the household had fallen, and to 
 correct her own want of order, because she saw it pained 
 her husband. She had done a great deal for him, and 
 what had he done for her? Grumbled, been peevish, dis- 
 ajDpointed her. He recalled that evening at the Cakes, 
 where he had slighted her. He thought of how he had 
 trifled with his old regard for Julian, allowed her to lure 
 him away from his wife, and had let her see that he was no 
 more at one with Urith, and that he wished he could have 
 undone the marriage and re-tied the old threads that had 
 bound him to Julian. She — this Julian, had been playing 
 with him — she, for her own ends, had been making mis- 
 chief between him and his wife — and what had he done ? 
 
 His eyes were opened, and he saw the initials on the 
 glass, and the love-knot between them. 
 
 With the blood surging to his brow and cheeks, and a 
 fire in his eye, he raised his hand, and angrily brushed 
 his palm over the three panes, effacing utterly the charac- 
 ters there inscribed, then he remained wdth uplifted hand 
 and forefinger extended, still, as in dream, unconscious 
 that he was being watched. 
 
 A new thousfht had occurred to him — that he was about 
 to become a father. 
 
 A father ! and he away at Hall, while the deserted 
 Urith sat at Willsworthy — wan, with tears on her cheek, 
 drip, drip, over the cradle he had treated so insultingly — 
 her cradle, which he had deemed unworthy of his child, 
 and which, for all that, with his child in it, he was in- 
 clined to abandon ! 
 
 Then the blood went out of Anthony's face, went back 
 to his heart, as he grew pale and still with the thought of 
 the infamy of theconduct that had been his, had he yielded 
 to the temptation. 
 
 And tears, tears of shame at himself, of love for Urith, 
 of infinite longing for that little child that was to be his, 
 and to nestle in his arms, filled his throat and choked 
 him. "With a trembling finger on another clouded pane 
 he drew an U and interlaced with it an A, twisting and 
 turning the initials about, weaving them inextricably to- 
 gether, till the U was lost in the A, and the A confounded 
 with the U. 
 
 He could not speak. He did not look round. With hia 
 18 
 
274 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 eyes fixed before him, and his mind full of the thoughts 
 that opened to him, he went out of the room, out of the 
 house, and spoke to no one. 
 
 But old Anthony and Julian knew his decision — knew 
 it from his fing^er-writing on the little diamond pane. 
 
 Yet the old man would not accept it — he called after his 
 son. 
 
 **I give thee three days. I will do no more for three 
 daj'S in the matter." 
 
 But Anthony did not turn his head or answer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVin. 
 
 ON THE ROAD. 
 
 Fox Crymes walked on toward Hall with Bessie. He 
 could not well leave her to take the rest of her course 
 alone, after the old man, her father, had ridden jDast, for- 
 getting her, and leaving her to make her way home with- 
 out him. They therefore walked on together, speaking at 
 intervals and disconnectedly' to each other. Bessie feeling 
 the irksomeness of her position, and he unwilling further 
 to jeopardize his suit by ]n-essing it on her an}^ more. He 
 had said what was sufficient and he left the father to use 
 pressure to force her to comply with his wishes. 
 
 The two had not, however, proceeded more than a mile 
 before they saw Squire Cleverdon riding back to meet 
 them. He had recalled his promise before he reached 
 home, and then remembered having passed two persons 
 whom he did not particularly observe, but whom he con- 
 cluded were his daughter and Fox. 
 
 The first impression he had received from Anthony's 
 conduct was that he put the offer from him altogether ; 
 and yet, on further consideration, he persuaded himself 
 that he had been mistaken. Had Anthony finally decided 
 to reject his offer, w^liy had he not said so in words ? The 
 old man's nature was coarse — he could not understand the 
 struggles of a generous mind and resistance to mean mo- 
 tives. Anthony had not spoken, because he did not choose 
 to speak before Julian, because he thought it seemly to 
 
UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 275 
 
 affect difficulty of persuasion, beccause lie waiilod time in 
 which to consider it, because — because — the father could 
 find many reasons why Anthony should not immediately 
 close with the proposal. 
 
 The more the old Squire turned the matter over, the 
 more obvious it became to him that Anthony would do as 
 he wished. It was inconceivable to him that he should 
 persist in a course of opposition to his best interests. The 
 boy was proud ; but he had learned, by sore experience, 
 that pride brought to misery. He had tried his strength 
 against his father's — had shown what he could do ; and 
 now, if he gave way, he was not humiliated. Why, in the 
 Civil Wars, when Salcombe Castle was held by Sir Edmund 
 Fortescue for five months against the Roundheads, and 
 held after every other fort in the country had been taken 
 or had surrendered ; and then, when starved into yielding, 
 it was on the most honourable terms, and Sir Edmund 
 marched forth with all the honours of war, bearing away 
 with him the key of the castle he had so gallantly defended. 
 Tills was no disgrace to him, it w^as a proud act of which 
 all Devon men would speak with elation. Why then should 
 not Anthony surrender ? He should march forth with flying 
 colours, and it would be no blow to his self-respect, no jar to 
 his pride. The old man, having worked himself into the 
 conviction that his case was won, was full of elation, and, 
 with the petty spite of a mean mind, he resolved at once to 
 show Fox he had no longer need of him. Then it was 
 that he remembered that Fox and Bessie were to w^alk 
 towards Hall till he caught them up, and he turned his 
 horse's head and rode back till he met them. 
 
 " Heigh, there ! " shouted the old man ; " how goes the 
 suit, Tony Crymes ? Hast thou won her consent ? " He 
 paused for an answer. 
 
 " Her mother brought her naught, " he continued, when 
 Fox remained silent, not well knowing w^hat answer to make. 
 
 ''That I know," said Fox; "but he who wins Bessie 
 Cleverdon wins a treasure." 
 
 "I am glad thou thiiikest so. I hope that will satisfy 
 thee. Come, Tony, lend a hand to the maid's foot, and 
 help her up on the pillion behind me. " 
 
 Fox obeyed ; the dirty road had soiled Bessie's boot so 
 that he could not preserve a clean hand. 
 
276 VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "Find her heavy, eh?" asked the Squire, in a mocHng 
 tone. 
 
 "Much gold and many acres stick to thy hand when 
 thou puttest it forth to her, eh ? " 
 
 Fox looked questioningly at the old man. His tone 
 ■\A-as changed. 
 
 "Bessie will bring kick that will adhere to whatever 
 hand holds her, " said the young man. 
 
 "No doubt — no doubt," said the Squire. "You may 
 walk at our side, and I will have a word with thee. Come 
 on to Hall if it give thee pleasure. The road is well known 
 to thee, thou hast trod it many a time of late. I doubt 
 but soon thou thiukest to set up thy home there, and not 
 to have to run to and fro as heretofore. " 
 
 Fox looked again inquiringly and uneasily at the old 
 man. He did not understand this new style of banter. 
 
 "Thou hast helped Bessie now into pillion, and I sup- 
 pose thou art reckoning on the stuffing of the pad on to 
 which thou thinkest her hand will help thee up, eh ? " 
 
 Fox, usually ready with a word, was uncertain how to 
 meet these sallies, and still remained silent. 
 
 The old man rode on, casting an occasional glance, full 
 of cyninism, at young Crymes, who walked at the side of 
 the horse. 
 
 Fox would not return till he was enhghtened on this 
 change in his manner ; nor would he say much, resolving 
 on silence as the best method of forcing old Cleverdon to 
 show what was in his mind. 
 
 " "What dost say to Anthony coming home ? " asked the 
 Squire of his daughter, turning his head over his shoulder. 
 
 " Anthony — is he really coming to Hall ? " gasped Bessie, 
 her heart leaping with gladness. 
 
 "It will be a pleasure to thee to be able to retain the 
 name of Crymes," sneered the Squire, turning to the 
 walker. " A fine, ancient, gentle name ; thou did'st doubt 
 about exchanoins;' it for one less venerable — that of Clever- 
 don, though of better sound, and the name thnt goes up, 
 whilst Crymes goes down ? " 
 
 Anthony Crvmes's colour chancfed : " I do not under- 
 stand what you aim at," he said, in uncertain tone. 
 
 " Nay, there is naught hard to be understood in what 
 I say. If Anthony should come back to me, then there 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 277 
 
 will be no need for Tony Crymcs to spend some forty 
 guineas to obtain license to call himself Cleverdon." 
 
 " Then Anthony is coming back ! Oh, father ! " exclaimed 
 Bessie, "this is glad tidings." She disregarded all his 
 hints and allusions to her marriage "with Fox. 
 
 "This it is — you, Bess, say you are pleased to hear it, 
 and I am very sure it will delight Tony Crymes. This it 
 is — my Anthony has had the oifer made him by me that ho 
 shall return to Hall, and all be forgiven and forgot that 
 was between us. " 
 
 " Oh, father, and you will receive Urith ! " 
 
 "Not so fast, Bess. Anthony comes back, but never, 
 never, will I suffer that hussy to cross my threshold. I 
 swore that when he married her, and I will not go from my 
 oath. No — Anthony returns, but not with that creature — 
 that beggar wench. He comes himself. He comes alone. " 
 
 "He cannot, father ; he cannot — she is his wife." 
 
 " She is, as his madness made it to be — slie is his wife. 
 But he is tired of the folly ; he repents it. He will be glad 
 to be quit of her. He comes back to me, and she remains 
 in her beggary at Wills worth}'." 
 
 " Never, father ! never. Anthony could not have agreed 
 to that." 
 
 " I tell thee he did ; that is, he has almost agreed to it. 
 He did not close with the offer I made at once, but, for 
 appearance sake, made some difficulty — yet only for ap- 
 pearance sake. I have given him three days, and in that 
 time he will have let the matter be noised abroad, have 
 broken his intention to the girl, and have made himself 
 ready to return to me." 
 
 " Father ! " said Bessie, in a voice choked with agitation, 
 *'I can never regard — never think of Anthony again, in the 
 old way, if he do this. He must not leave his wife. He 
 swore before God to hold to her in poverty or in wealth 
 till death, and thou wilt make him forswear himself ? " 
 
 " His first duty he owes to me — nay, he owes it to him- 
 self, to return from the evil ways in which he has gone. 
 Heaven set him in Hall, and he went against Heaven when 
 he left it ; now he is the prodigal that has been among 
 swine, but comes back to his father. That is Scripture — 
 that is the Word of God, and stands before all foolish 
 words said in oath, without weighing what they meant." 
 
278 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Fox Crymes caught the bridle, and stayed the horse. 
 
 "■ Is this jest, or is it earnest ? " he asked, huskily. 
 
 "It is most serious and solemn earnest," answered the 
 Squire. 
 
 "Then I insist on a word with thee, and I will hold the 
 bridle till thou dismount. I will not let thee go on till I 
 have spoken alone with thee. Let Bessie go forward, we 
 must say somewhat together." 
 
 Squire Cleverdon had no whip, but he struck spurs into 
 the flanks of his horse ; but Fox held the rein, and, though 
 the beast plunged and kicked out, he would not let it 
 break away. Bessie was almost thrown off, and in her 
 danger threatened to drag her father with her. 
 
 " Nay, thou shalt not escape me," said Fox. " Dismount, 
 Master Cleverdon, and tell me x^lainly w4iat this new mat- 
 ter is between thee and thy graceless fool of a son, or I 
 will make the horse fling thee into the mud, and perhaps 
 break thy neck." 
 
 The old man thought best to comply, and, growling, 
 he dismounted. Then Fox let go his hold of the rein, and 
 bade Bessie ride forward beyond earshot. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" asked Fox, who was 
 livid with rage and mortification, so livid, that the freckles 
 on his face stood out as black spots on the hide of a coach- 
 dog. "It is ill to trifle with me. You arranged all with 
 me. I was to have your daughter, and succeed to Hall, 
 I was to take your name, and step into all the rights for- 
 feited by Anthony. You brought me face to face with 
 Bessie at her aunt's, and then sent me walking back to- 
 ward Hall with her, to press my case. When all is nearly 
 over, then you turn round, cast me over, and reinstate that 
 son who has maltreated and half-blinded me, and make a 
 mock of me for my pains? " 
 
 "It is you who have trifled with me," retorted the 
 Squire, with less heat, but more bitterness. " You told me 
 that you would urge my suit with jouv sister ; you l)rought 
 -^ae weekly accounts of how she was becoming more dis- 
 posed to think of me, you flattered and encouraged me, 
 and all the while you knew " 
 
 "I knew what? T knew nothing, save that you are 
 old, and she young." 
 
 "That is not it," said the Squire, peevishly, "that is 
 
FRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 2Y9 
 
 not what I refer to. You knew that she was encourag- 
 ing my sonrand that the ohl attachment that subsisted 
 before this hateful aliair with Urith Malvine had reasserted 
 itself." 
 
 '"It is false," answered Fox, furiously, "not content 
 with making your sport with me, you insult my sister." 
 
 *' I suppose you will not dispute the testimony of my 
 own ej^es," sneered old Cleverdou. 
 
 " And to what do they bear testimony ? " 
 
 " To what I said. I entered the parlour where they 
 were, she standing over him, at the window ; he seated, 
 with his arms thrown about her neck, kissing her, and 
 above them on the glass, scrawled by his linger, their 
 initials woven together, with a true lover's knot." 
 
 Fox glared at him, in speechless wrath. 
 
 ** Now — what say you to that ? " asked the old man. 
 ""With such proceedings, allowed, connived at in your 
 house, I am to be lured on to offer myself to your precious 
 sister, and then to be laughed at, and scouted for my folly 
 — a folly into which you were drawing me." 
 
 " It is false " — that was all Fox could say, so disconcert- 
 ed, so choked was he with rage. 
 
 " It is not false. I have but just come from your house, 
 and saw that, and because I saw it, I made overtures to 
 Anthony to return. It was clear to me that all the fever 
 of fancy for that hussy at Willsworthy was dead as ashes. 
 That the reputation of Julian will need looking to, should 
 he return to me, and be separate from Urith, is naught to 
 
 me. 
 
 " He has enough to answer to me without this," gasped 
 Fox. Then, bv an eftbrt, he steadied his voice and resumed 
 his usual manner. "Now," said he, "let us have all 
 brounfht into measure and rhyme between us. You tell me 
 that Anthony comes back to Hall and abandons his wife." 
 
 " Aye ! That is my otfer to him. Let him leave Wills- 
 worthy and return to me, and all shall be forgiven. 'Tis a 
 misfortune that he cannot be rid of his wife, but the tie by 
 law alone will remain. She shall never be mentioned be- 
 tween us." 
 
 " And he agrees to this ? " 
 
 " I have granted him three days to consider. In three 
 days he gives me his answer, but who can doubt what that 
 
280 TTRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 answer will l3e ? Is be not wearied with his toy ? Has 
 he had good cheer at Willsworthy ? Has he aught there 
 now to retain him ? " 
 
 " And what about Bessie ? " 
 
 *' Oh ! you are welcome to her, as I said before ; but after 
 my death Hall will go to Anthony, only the reversion to 
 thee and any child thou hast by Bess. Should my Anthony 
 survive Urith and marry again, then to his son by his sec- 
 ond wife, never — that I have ever maintained — never to any 
 child of his by Urith Malvine." 
 
 Fox laughed contemptuously. 
 
 "A poor prospect for Bess and her husband." 
 
 *' A poor prospect, mayhap, but the onl}' one on which 
 they can look through their windows when they set up 
 house together." 
 
 "And what allowance will you make Bessie when she 
 marries ? " 
 
 *'But a trifle — I cannot more." 
 
 *' So her husl^and and she are to live on the expectation 
 of succession should they survive Anthony, and should 
 Anthony not be remarried." 
 
 "That is all." 
 
 "But what if Anthony refuses your offer? " 
 
 "Then all remains as before. He will not refuse." 
 
 "I will hear that from his own mouth. Where is he?" 
 
 "I did not overtake him on the road. He had not yet 
 left the town. I doubt not he has gone to his Aunt Mag- 
 dalen." 
 
 " One word more. Hold up your hand to Heaven and 
 swear that he dared — dared to put his arms round and kiss 
 my sister ! He — he — Anthony Cleverdon ! " 
 
 " I will do it ! It is true ! " 
 
 Fox remained in the midst of the road, and his hand con- 
 Tulsively caught and played with his hunting-knife that 
 hung to his belt. His red, thick brows were knitted. 
 
 As old Cleverdon looked at his mottled face, he allowed 
 to himself that Bess would have bad taste to choose such 
 an one wittingly ; and that, unwilling, it would take some 
 compulsion to drive her to accept him. 
 
 " And, if Anthony does not come within three days, all 
 remains as heretofore? " again asked Fox, looking furtively 
 up at the father, and then letting his eyes fall again. 
 
URITH: A TALE OP DARTMOOR. 281 
 
 "Yes, all as heretofore. Should he dare to disappoint 
 me in this, not a thread from my coat, nor a grass-blade 
 from my land, shall fall to him." 
 
 Fox waved his hand. *' That will do," he said, and 
 turned away. 
 
 He was at the junction of the road or track that led from 
 Willsworthy with the main highway along which Squire 
 Cleverdon had been riding. He remained at this point, 
 waiting till the old man had remounted, and had trotted 
 away, with Bessie behind him. There he stood, still play- 
 ing with the handle of his hunting-knife, his red, lowering 
 brows contracted over his small eyes, w^atching till the 
 riders disappeared over the hill. Then he turned along the 
 track-way that led to Willsworthy, with his head down 
 against the drizzling rain, which had come on again, after 
 having ceased for an hour ; which came on again thick, 
 blotting out the scenery — all prospect within a hundred 
 feet — as effectually as though veils of white gauze had been 
 let down out of the heavens, one behind another. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 TWO PARTS OF A TOKEN. 
 
 Anthony had, as his father surmised, gone to see his 
 Aunt Magdalen. His heart was soft within him — softened 
 at the sense of his own unworthiness, and with the return 
 flow of his old love to Urith. And as he did not desire at 
 once to go back to Willsworthy, and at the same time re- 
 membered that some time had elapsed since he had seen 
 his aunt, he went to her house. There he found his grand- 
 mother, Mistress Penwarne. Some of the bitterness of 
 the old woman seemed to be rubbed away. Perhaps daily 
 association with the gentleness of Luke Cleverdon had done 
 this. 
 
 She was in tears when Anthony entered. Magdalen had 
 been talking with her over the plan mapped out for Bessie, 
 to the complete, final exclusion of Anthony from return to 
 his father's house. 
 
 "Now — now does the righteous God pay back to old 
 
2S2 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Anthony Cleverclon all tbe wrong- lie did ray daugliter," 
 she said. " See— drop for drop of gall. ^Yllere there fell 
 one on my child's heart, his own son spirts a drop on to 
 his father's lieart. There is retribution in this world." 
 
 "Oh, Mistress Penwarne," remonstrates Magdalen. 
 "How can you take delight in this?" 
 
 " I delight only in seeing justice done," answered the 
 old woman. " You hold witli your brother — -naturally — to 
 some extent ; but you never loved my daughter. You never 
 showed her kindness " 
 
 "Indeed, now," interrupted Magdalen, "there you do me 
 a wrong. It was Margaret who would not suffer me to 
 enter the house and be of any consequence more in Hall, 
 who withstood me when I would draw near to my brother." 
 
 "She had no power to withstand any one. That you 
 know full well. She weighed naught with her husband. 
 But let that be. If you sinned against her, God is bringing 
 the whip down on your shoulders as well, for I know that 
 what is now falling out is to you great pain and affliction." 
 
 " That it is indeed," sighed Magdalen. 
 
 " Anthony is used by the hand of Providence as its rod 
 with the father ; Heaven rewards on the proud Squire of 
 Hall every heartache, every humiliation to which he sub- 
 jected my child. You know not how I have prayed that I 
 might be suiliered to see the day when the rod should fall 
 and beat and bruise the back of the offender." 
 
 "You do not reckon," said Magdalen, "that the chief 
 suffering falls, not on my brother, but on your daughter's 
 son. Is not Anthony the very image of his mother ? Has 
 he not her eyes and hair — all the upper part of his coun- 
 tenance ? Does not her blood run in his veins ? You have 
 desired revenge on my brother, and you have got it through 
 the breaking to pieces of your own grandson." 
 
 Mistress Penwarne was silent. It was as Magdalen said. 
 
 "Yes, and whom does Bessie resemble most? She has 
 none of the handsomeness of your Margaret. It is true that 
 she is her child, but she has inherited the plain homeliness 
 of the Cleverdons. Look at yonder picture over the mantel- 
 shelf. That was drawn of me when about her age. Does 
 she not so resemble me at that time that you would say she 
 had taken nothing of the Penwarnes, that she was altogether 
 and only Cleverdon ? Yet to her will come Hall. She will 
 
UniTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOIi. 283 
 
 be mistress there, find to lier cliikl it will descend, to the 
 utter exclusion of Anthon}'. Na}^ I cannot think that the 
 judgment of God, to which thou appealest ever, is falling 
 all to thy side in its weighted scale." 
 
 The old woman was about to answer when Anthony en- 
 tered. He was pale, and his pallor reminded her of her 
 daughter as the w^an picture recalled Bessie. Mrs. Pen- 
 warne rose from her chair and stepped up to him, took 
 him by both his hands, and looked him steadily in the face. 
 As she did so great tears formed in her eyes and rolled 
 down her wrinkled cheeks. 
 
 " Ah ! " said she, seeing in him her dead daughter, and 
 her voice quivered, " how hardly did the Master of Hall 
 treat her, but Magdalen — aye, and Bessie — know that bet- 
 ter than thou. He was rough and cruel, and now thou 
 hast felt what his roughness and cruelty be — now thou 
 canst understand how he behaved to thy poor mother ; but 
 thou art a man and able to go where thou wilt, fight thine 
 own way through the world, carve for thyself thine own 
 future. It was not so with my poor Margaret. She was 
 linked to him — she could not escape, and he used his 
 strength and authority and wealth to beat and to torment 
 and break her. And Margaret had a spirit. Have 3'ou 
 seen how a little dog is mended of lamb w^orrj'ing? It is 
 attached to an old ram — linked to it past escape, and at 
 every moment the ram lets drive at the little creature with 
 his horns, gets him under his feet and tramples him, 
 kneels on him and kneads him with his knees, ripping at 
 him all the while with his horns. Then, finally, the little 
 dof:»' is detached and taken awav, covered with wounds and 
 bruises, before the ram kills it. It was so wdth my Mar- 
 garet, but she was no lamb-killer — only had a high spirit 
 — and she was tied to that man, vour father. He rent her 
 away from Richard Malvine, whom she loved, just because 
 it was his pleasure, and he broke her heart. Look here." 
 
 The old grandmother drew from her bosom a token, a 
 silver crown-piece of Charles I., on which the King was 
 figured mounted on horseback ; but the coin was broken, 
 and to her neck hung but one half. 
 
 "Look at this," said Mrs. Penwarne. " Here is the half- 
 token that Pichard Malvine gave to my daughter, and the 
 other half he kept himself. That was the j)ledge that they 
 
284 VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 belonged to eacli other. Yet Anthony Cleverdon of Hall 
 would not have it so. He took her nwav, and on her mar- 
 riage day she gave nie the broken half-token. She had no 
 risfht to retain that ; but with her broken heart she could 
 not part so readily. As if it were not enough that he had 
 torn her away from the man she loved, your father left 
 not a day to pass without ill-treating her in some way. He 
 was jealous, because he thought her heart still hung to 
 Richard Malvine ; though, as God in heaven knows, she 
 never failed in her duty to him, and strove faithfully to 
 cast out from her heart every thought of the man slie had 
 loved, and to whom the Squire of Hall had made her un- 
 faithful. As he could not win her love, he sought to crush 
 her by ill-treatment. Now, O my Lord ! how it must re- 
 joice my poor Margaret, and Richard also, in Paradise, to 
 think that their children should come together and be one 
 — be one as they themselves never could be." 
 
 She ceased and sobbed. Then with shaking hands, she 
 put the ribbon to which the broken token depended round 
 Anthony's neck. 
 
 " Take this," she said. " I never thought to part with 
 it ; but it of right belongs now to thee. Take it as a 
 pledge of thy mother's love, that her broken heart goes 
 with thee to Willsworthy, and finds its rest there ; and with 
 it take my blessing." 
 
 Anthony bowed his head, and looked at the silver coin, 
 rubbed very much, and placed it on his breast, inside his 
 coat. 
 
 "Thank thee, grandmother," he said. "I wdll cherish 
 it as a remembrance of my mother." 
 
 "And tell me," said she, *' is it so, that thou art forever 
 driven away from Hall, that thy father will take thy name, 
 even, and give it to another, and that thou and thy chil- 
 dren are forever to be shut off and cast away from all lot 
 and inheritance in the place where thy forefathers have 
 been ? " 
 
 *'It is even so," answered Anthony. " But hark ! " 
 
 A horn was being blown in the street, and tliere was a 
 tramp of running feet, and voices many in excitement. 
 
 "What can be the matter?" exclaimed Magdalen, go- 
 ing to the window. " Mercy on us ! What must have 
 taken place ? " 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 285 
 
 Anthony ran out of the house. The street had filled ; 
 there were people of all sorts coming out of their houses, 
 asking news, pressing inward toward the man with the 
 horn. Anthony elbowed his way through the throng. 
 
 " What is this about? " he inquired of a man he knew. 
 
 *' The Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme in Dor- 
 setshire. Hey! wave your hat for Protestantism ! Who'll 
 draw the sword against Popery and Jesuitism ? " 
 ^ More news was not to be got. The substance of the 
 tidings that had just come in was contained in the few 
 words — the Duke has landed at Lyme ; with how many 
 men was not known. What reception he had met with 
 was as 3'et unknown. No one could say whether the coun- 
 try gentry had rallied to him — whether the militia which 
 had been called out in expectation of his arrival had de- 
 serted to his standard. 
 
 Anthony remained some time in the street and market- 
 place discussing the news. His spirits rose, his heartbeat 
 high ; he longed to fly to Lyme, and offer himself to the 
 Duke. His excitement over, the tidings dispelled his con- 
 cern about his own future and gloomy thoughts about his 
 troubled home. In that home there was at the time much 
 unrest. After he had departed from Willsworthy, Uncle 
 Sol Gibbs had burst into laughter. 
 
 "Ah, Urith !" said he, "I hope, maid, thy hand is not 
 hurt. It was not a fair hit. The lad was nettled ; he 
 thought himself first in everything, and all at once discov- 
 ered that an old fool like me, with one hand behind my 
 back, could beat him at every point. Your j^oung cocker- 
 ells think that because they crow loud they are masters in 
 the cockpit. It disconcerts them to find themselves 
 worsted by such as they have despised. There, I shall 
 bear him no grudge. I forgive him, and he will be ashamed 
 of himself ere ten minutes are past in which his blood lias 
 cooled. None of us are masters of ourselves when the 
 juices hre in ferment." 
 
 He took his niece's hand and looked at the palm ; it was 
 darkened across it, by the stroke of the stick. 
 
 " So ! he has bruised thee, Urith ! That would have 
 cracked my old skull had it fallen athwart it, by heaven ! 
 Never mind, I kiss thee, wench, for having saved me, and I 
 forgive him for thy sake. Look here, Urith, don't thou go 
 
28G URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 taking it into thy noddle that all married folks agree like 
 turtle-doves. Did'st ever hear me sing the song about 
 Trinity Sunday ? 
 
 When bites the frost and winds are a blowing, 
 
 I do not heed and I do not care. 
 "When 'Tony's by me — why let it be snowing, 
 
 'Tis summer time with me all the year. 
 Tho icicles they may hang on the fountain, 
 
 And frozen over the farmyard pool, 
 The east wind whistle upon the mountain, 
 
 No wintry gusts our love will cool. 
 
 That is courtship, Urith — summer in the midst of winter. 
 Now listen to matrimony — what that is : — 
 
 I shall be Aved a' Trinity Sunday, 
 
 And then — adieu to my holiday ! 
 Come frost, come snow on Trinity Monday, 
 
 Why then beginneth my winter day. 
 If drudge and smudge on Trinity Monday, 
 
 If wind and weather — I do not care ! 
 If winter follows Trinity Sunday, 
 
 It can't be summer-time all the year. 
 
 That's the proper way to regard it. After marriage storms 
 alwaj's come ; after matrimony nipping frosts and wintry 
 gales. It can't be summer-time all the year. Now just 
 see," continued Uncle Sol, climbing upon the table and 
 seating himself thereon, and then fumbling in his pocket. 
 " Dos't fancy it w^as ever summer-time with thy father and 
 mother after they were Aved ? Not a bit, wench — not a bit. 
 They had their cpiarrels. I don't say that they were 
 exactly of the same sort as be yours, but they were every 
 whit as bad — ave ! and worse, and all about this." He 
 opened his hand and showed a broken silver crown piece 
 of Charles I, perforated, and with a ribbon holding it. 
 "I'll tell thee all about it. Afore thy father was like to be 
 married to my sister, he was mighty taken in love with 
 someone else. Well, Urith, I Avon't conceal it from thee — 
 it was with Margaret Penwarne, that afterward married 
 old Squire Cleverdon, and became the mother of thy An- 
 thony. Everyone said they w^ould make a pair, but he was 
 poor and she had naught, and none can build their nest 
 out of love ; so it was put off. But I suppose ihej had 
 
UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 287 
 
 passed their word to each other, aud in token of good faith 
 had broken a silver crown and parted it between them. 
 This half," said Uncle Sol, " belonged to thy father. Well, 
 I reckon he ought, when he married thy mother, to have 
 put away from his thoughts the very memory of Margaret 
 Cleverdon. I could not see into his heart — I cannot say 
 what was there. Maybe he had ceased to think of her 
 after she was wed to Anthony Cleverdon, and he had taken 
 thy mother ; maybe he had not. All men have their little 
 failings — someone way, some another. Mine is — well, you 
 know it, niece, so let it pass. I hurt none but myself. But 
 thy father never parted with the broken half-token, but 
 would keep it. Many words passed between them over it, 
 and the more angry thy mother was, the more obstinate 
 became thy father. One day they were terrible bad — a 
 regular storm it was, Urith. Then I took down my single- 
 stick, and I went up to Richard, and said I to him, ' Dick, 
 thou art in the wrong. Give me up the half-token, or, by 
 the Lord, I'll lay thy head open for thee ! ' He knew me, 
 and that I was a man of my word. He considered a mo- 
 ment, and then he put it into my hand — on one condition, 
 that I should never give it to my sister. I swore to that, 
 and we shook hands, and so peace was made for the time. 
 
 There " said the old man, descending from the table. 
 
 *' I will give thee the half- token, maid, for my oath does 
 not hold me now. Thine it shall be ; and when thou wear- 
 est it, or boldest it, think on this — that there is no married 
 life without storms and vexations, and that the only way 
 in which peace is to be gotten is for the one in the wrong 
 to give up to the other." 
 
 He put the half-token into Urith's hand. 
 
 She received it without a word, and held it in her 
 bruised palm. Her face was lowering, and she mused, 
 looking at the coin. 
 
 Yes, he who is in the wrong must abandon his wrongful 
 waj^ — give up what offended the other. What had she to 
 yield ? Nothing. She had done her utmost to retain An- 
 thony's love. She had not been false to him by a mo- 
 ment's thought. She had striven against her own nature 
 to fit herself to be his companion. She loved him — she 
 loved him with her whole soul ; and yet she hated him — 
 hated him because he had slighted and neglected her at 
 
288 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 the Cakes, bfcnnse he was suffering himself to be lured 
 from her by Julian, because he was dissatisfied with his 
 house, resented against her his quarrel with his father. 
 She could hardly discriminate between her love and her 
 hate. One merged into the other, or grew out of the other. 
 
 " Come ! " said the old man, looking about for his hat. 
 ''By the Lord! the boy has gone off with my wet cap. 
 Weil, I shall wear his, I cannot tarry here. I will go seek 
 out my friend Cudlip at the Hare and Hounds. I shall 
 not be' late, but I want to hear news. There is a wind that 
 the Duke of Monmouth has set sail from the Lowlands. The 
 mihtia have been called out and the trainbands gathered. 
 Come, Urith, do not look so grave. Brighten up with 
 some of the humours of the maid who sang of winter on 
 Trinity Monday. It cannot be summer-time all the year- 
 why, neither can it be winter." 
 
 Then he swung out of the house trolling : — 
 
 So let not this pair be despised, 
 
 Tliat man is bnt part of himself ; 
 A man without woman's a beggar, 
 
 If he have tlie whole world full of wealth, 
 A man without woman's a beggar, 
 
 Tho' he of the world were possessed, 
 But a beggar that has a good woman, 
 
 With more than the world is he blessed. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 'TmS FOR .JULIAN.' 
 
 "Urith was left alone looking at the broken token. It did 
 not bring to he4' the cynical consolation that her uncle in- 
 tended it to convey. It was not even poor comfort, it was 
 no sort of comfort whatever to learn that otliers had been 
 unhappy in the same way as herself — that there had been 
 discord between her father and mother. The broken token 
 was to her a token of universal breakage — of broken trust, 
 broken ambitions, broken words, broken hearts — but that 
 all the world was in wreck was no relief to Urith, whose 
 only world for which she cared was contained within the 
 bounds of Willsworthy. 
 
trniTlT: A TALE OF DAETMOOIi. ^89 
 
 She Lad dreamed with reverence of her father ; but 
 Uncle Sol had shown lier that this father had been false in 
 heart to her mother. Her own story was that of her 
 mother. Each had married one whose heart had been j^re- 
 eugaged. After a little while, no doubt of sincere struggle, 
 the heart swung back to its eldest allegiance. As Uritli 
 sat in the hall window, looking out into the court, her eyes 
 rested on the vane over the stables. Now that arrow 
 pointed to the west ! Sometimes it veered to other quar- 
 ters, but the prevailing winds came from the Atlantic, and 
 that vane, though for a few days it may have swerved to 
 north or south, though for a whole month, nay — a whole 
 spring it may have pointed east, as though nailed in that 
 aspect, yet round it swung eventually, and for the rest of 
 the year hardly deviated from west. So was it with the 
 heart of Anthony ; so had it been with the heart of her 
 father. Each had had a first love ; then there had come a 
 sway towards another point, and eventually a swing round 
 into the direction that had become habitual. 
 
 Fox's words at the dance in the house of the Cakes re- 
 turned to her: — "You cannot root out old love with a 
 word." AYith Anthony it had been old love. Since child- 
 hood he and Julian had known each other, and had looked 
 on each other in the light of lovers. It was a love that had 
 ramified in its roots throughout his heart and mind. It 
 ■was with this love as with the coltsfoot in the fields. When 
 once the weed was there, it was impossible to eradicate it ; 
 the spade that cut it, the pick that tore it up, the sickle 
 that reaped it down, only multiplied it ; every severed fibre 
 became a fresh i^lant — every lopped head seeded on the 
 ground and dispersed its grain. For a while a crop of 
 barley or oats appeared, and the coltsfoot was lost in the 
 upright growth ; but the crop was cut and carried, and the 
 coltsfoot remained. 
 
 Was this a justification for Anthony? IJrith did not 
 stay to inquire. She considered herself, her anguish of 
 disappointment, her despair of the future — not him. With 
 all the freshness and vehemence of youth, she had given 
 herself wholly to Anthony. She had loved— cared for— no 
 one before ; and when she loved and cared for him it was 
 with a completeness to which nothing lacked. Hers was a 
 love infinite as the ocean, and now she found that his had 
 19 
 
290 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 been but a love, in comparison with hers, hke a. puddle that 
 is dried up by the July sun. 
 
 She did not consider the matter with regard to Anthony's 
 justification, only as affecting herself — as darkening her 
 entire future. The coltsfoot must go on growing, and 
 spread throughout the field. It could not be extirpated, 
 only concealed for a while. She could never look into 
 Anthony's face — never kiss him again, never endure a word 
 of love from him any more, because of that hateful, hide- 
 ous, ever-spreading, all-absorbing, only temporarily-cover- 
 able weed of first love for Julian. An indescribable horror 
 of the future filled her — an inexpressible agony contracted 
 her heart as with a cramp. She threw up her hands and 
 clutched in the air at nothing ; she gasped for breath as 
 one drowning, but could inhale nothing contenting. Every- 
 thiuGf was f^one from her with Anthonv, not only every- 
 thing that made life happy, but endurable. Down the 
 stream belonging to the manor was a little mill, furnished 
 w4th small grinding-stones, and a wheel that ever turned 
 in the stream that shot over it. No miller lived at the 
 mill. "When rye, barley, or wheat had to be ground, some 
 person from the house went down, set the mill, and poured 
 in the grain. Night and day the wheel went round, and 
 now in her brain was set up some such a mill — there was a 
 whirl within, and a noise in her ears. The little manor- 
 mill could be unset, so that, though the wheel turned, the 
 stones did not grind unless needed ; but to this inner mill 
 in her head there was no relaxation. It would, grind, grind 
 as long as the stream of life ran — grind her heart, grind up 
 her trust, her hopes, her love, her faith in God, her belief 
 in men — grind up all that was gentle in her nature, till it 
 ground all her nobler nature up into an arid dust. 
 
 The day declined, and she was still looking at the brok- 
 en token. 
 
 The mill w^as gi'inding, and was turning out horrible 
 thoughts of jealousy, it ground her love and poured forth 
 hate, it ground up confidence and sent out suspicion. She 
 sprang to her feet. Where was Anthony now ? "What was 
 he doing all this while ? He had been away a long time ; 
 with whom had he been tanying ? 
 
 The mill was grinding, and now, as she threw in the 
 jealous thoughts, the hate, the suspicions, it had just turned 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 291 
 
 out, it ground tliem over again, and sent forth a wondrous 
 series of fancies in a magic dust that filled her eyes and 
 ears ; in her eyes it made her see Anthony in Julian's so- 
 ciety, in her ears it made her hear what they said to each 
 other. The dust fell into her blood, and made it boil and 
 rage ; it fell on her brain, and there it caught fire and 
 spluttered. She was as one mad in her agony — so mad 
 that she caught at the stanchions of the window and strove 
 to tear them out of the solid granite in which they were 
 set, not that she desired to burst through the window, but 
 that she must tear at and break something. 
 
 Why had Anthony marred her life, blistered her soul ? 
 She had started from girlhood in simplicity, prepared to be 
 happy in a quiet way, rambling over the moors in a desul- 
 tory fashion, attending to. the farm and garden and the 
 poultry yard. She would have been content, if left alone, 
 never to have seen a man. Her years woiild have slipped 
 away free from any great sorrow, without any great cares. 
 Willsworthy contented her where wants were few. She 
 loved and was proud of the place ; but Anthony, since he 
 had been there had found fault wdth it, had undervalued it, 
 laughed at it ; had shown her how bleali it was, how un- 
 generous was the soil, how out of repair its buildings, how 
 lacking in all advantages. 
 
 Anthony had taught her to depreciate what she had 
 highly esteemed. Why need he have done that ? 
 
 The wheel and the grindstones were turning, and out 
 ran the bitter answer — because Willsworthy was hers, that 
 was why he scorned it, why he saw in it only faults. 
 
 She paced the little hall, every now and then clasping 
 her hands over her burning temples, pressing them in 
 with all her force, as though by main strength to arrest 
 the churn of those grindstones. Then she put them to her 
 ears to shut out the sound of the revolving wheel. 
 
 On the mantel-shelf was a brass pestle for crushing 
 spices. She took it down. Into it were stuffed the old 
 gloves of Julian Crymes. It was a characteristic trait of 
 the conduct of the house ; nothing was put where it ought 
 to be, or might be expected to be. After these gloves had 
 lain about, at one time in the window, at another on the 
 settle, then upon the table, Urith had finally thrust them 
 out of the way into the i)estle, and there they had re- 
 
S9^ XJRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 
 
 main-ed forgotten till now. In the train of her thoughts 
 Urith was led to the challenge of Julian, when she recalled 
 where the gloves were, and these she now took from the 
 place to which she had consigned them. 
 
 She unfolded them and shook the dust from them. 
 Then she stood with one foot on the hearthstone, her 
 burning head resting against the granite upper stone of 
 the fireplace, looking at the gloves. Had Julian made good 
 her threat? Was she really, deliberately, wdth determinate 
 malice, winding Anthony off Urith's hand on to her own ? 
 And if so — to what would this lead? How w^ould she — 
 Urith — be tortured between them ? Every hair of her head 
 was a nerve, and each suffering pain. 
 
 She lifted her brow from the granite, then dashed it 
 back again, and felt no jar, so acute was the inner suffer- 
 ing she endured. It were better that Anthony, or she — 
 were dead. Such a condition of affairs as that of which 
 the mill in her head ground out a picture, was worse than 
 death. She could not endure it, she knew — she must go 
 mad with the torment. Oh, would ! oh — would that Fox's 
 fuse had been left to take its effect in the ear of Anthony's 
 horse, and dash him to pieces against the rocks of the 
 Walla ! 
 
 She could no longer bear the confinement of the house. 
 She gasped and her bosom laboured. She put the gloves 
 between her teeth, and her hands again to her head, but 
 her dark hair fell down about her shoulders. She did not 
 heed it. Her mind was otherwise occupied. In a dim 
 way she was aware of it, and her hands felt for her hair, 
 how to bind it together and fasten it again, but her mind 
 was elsewhere, and her lingers only dishevelled her hair 
 the more. 
 
 The air of the room oppressed her ; the walls contracted 
 on her ; the ceiling came down like lead upon her brain. 
 She plucked the gloves out of her mouth and threw them 
 on the table, then went forth. 
 
 The rain had ceased. Evening- had set in, dark for 
 June, because the twilight could not struo-ole throuoh the 
 dense vapours overhead. 
 
 " Where is Anthony ? I must see Anthony ! " Her 
 words were so hoarse, so strange that they startled her. 
 It is said that when one is possessed, the evil spirit in the 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 293 
 
 man speaks out of liim in a strange voice, utterly unlike 
 that wliicli is natural. It miglit be so now. The old de- 
 mon in Urith that had gone to sleep was a^yaking, re- 
 freshed with slumber, to reassert his power. 
 
 Where was Anthony ? What delayed his return ? Had he 
 on leaving Willsworthy gone direct to Julian to pour out 
 into her sympathetic ear the story of his domestic trou- 
 bles? W^as he telling her of his wife's shortcomings? — of 
 her temper? — her untidiness? — her waywardness? "Were 
 they jeering together in confidence at jioor little moorland 
 Willsworthy ? Were they talking over the great mistake 
 Anthony had made in taking Urith in the place of Julian ? 
 Were they laughing over that scene when Anthony led out 
 Urith for the dance at the Cakes? She saw their liands 
 meet, and their eyes — their eyes — as at the Cakes. 
 
 Then there issued from her breast a scream — a scream 
 of unendurable pain ; it came from her involuntarily ; it 
 was forced from her by the stress of agony within, but the 
 voice was hoarse and inhuman. She was aware of it, and 
 grasped her hair and thrust it into her mouth to gnaw at, 
 and to stifi« the cries of pain which might burst from her 
 again. 
 
 She had descended the hill a little way when she thought 
 she discerned a figure approaching, mounting the rough 
 lane. It might be Anthony — it might be Solomon Gibbs. 
 She was unj^repared to meet either, so she slipped aside 
 into the little chapel. The portion of wall by the door was 
 fallen, making a gap, but further back grew a large s^xa- 
 more, out of the floor of the sacred buildinof, near the an- 
 gle formed by the south and west walls. Behind this she 
 retreated, and thence could see the jDcrson who ascended 
 the path, unobserved. 
 
 She was startled when Fox Crymes stepped through the 
 gap where had been the door. There was sufficient light 
 for her to distinguish him, but he could not observe her, 
 as the shadows thrown bv the dense foliage of the syca- 
 more from above, and the side shadows from the walls, 
 made the corner where Urith stood thorouolilv obscure. 
 
 Of 
 
 She supposed at first that Fox had stopped there for a 
 moment to shake out his wet cloak and readjust it ; he 
 did, in fact, rearrange the position of the mantle, but it 
 was not 60 as more effectually to protect himself from rain 
 
294 URITH: A TALE OF BAIITMOOR. 
 
 as to leave his right arm free. Moreover, after that he had 
 fitted his cloak to suit his j^leasure, he did not resume hia 
 ascent of the lane to Willsworthy. 
 
 For a while Urith's thoughts were turned into a new 
 channel. She wondered, in the first place, why Fox 
 should come to Willsworthy at that hour ; and next, why 
 Fox, if "Willsworthy should be his destination, halted 
 where he was, without attempting to proceed. 
 
 His conduct also perplexed her. He seated himself on 
 a stone and whistled low to himself through a broken 
 tooth in front that he had — a whistle that was more of a 
 hiss of defiance than a merry pipe. Then he took out his 
 hunting-knife, and tried the point on his fingers. This 
 did not perfectly satisfy him, and he whetted it on a piece 
 of freestone moulding still in position, that formed a jamb 
 of the old door, of which the arch and the other jamb were 
 fallen. 
 
 This occupied Fox for some time, but not continuously, 
 for every now and then he stood up, stole to the lane, and 
 cautiously peered down it, never exposing himself so as to 
 be observed by any person ascending the rough way. 
 
 The air was still, hardly any wind stirred, but what lit- 
 tle there was came in sudden pufts that shook the foliage 
 of the sycamore burdened with wet, and sent down a 
 shower upon the floor. Urith could not feel the wind, and 
 when it came it was as though a shudder went through the 
 tree, and it tossed oif the burden of water oppressing it, 
 much as would a long-haired spaniel on emerging from a 
 bath. 
 
 Bats were abroad. One swept up and down the old 
 chapel, noiseless, till it came close to the ear, when the 
 whirr of the wings was as that of the sails of a mill. 
 
 An uneasy peewhit was awake and awing, flitting and 
 uttering its plaintive, desolate cry. It was not visible in 
 the grey night-sky, and was still for a minute ; then 
 screamed over the ruins ; then wheeled away, and called, 
 as an echo from a distance, an answer to its own cry. 
 
 Fox stood fonvard again in the road, and strained his 
 eyes down the lane ; then stole a little way along it to 
 where he could, or thought he could, see a longer stretch 
 of it ; then came back at a run, and stood snortiug in the 
 ruins once more. Again, soft and still, came on a com- 
 
URITIT: A TALE OF DAUTMOOE. 295 
 
 minuted rain — the very dust of rain — so fine and so light 
 that it took no direction, but floated on the air, and hjirdly 
 fell. 
 
 Fox turned to the s^'camore-tree. No shelter could be 
 had beneath its water-burdened leaves, that gathered the 
 moisture and shot it down on the ground. But he did 
 not look at it as wanting its shelter. He stepped toward 
 it, then drew back; exclaimed, "Ah! Anthon}'. Here's 
 one for Urith," and struck his knife into the bole. The 
 blade glanced througli the bark, sheering' oflf a long strip, 
 that rolled over and fell to the ground attached to the tree 
 at the bottom. "You took her and Willsworthy from me," 
 said Fox, drawing back. Then he aimed another blow at 
 the tree, cursing, " And here is for my eye ! " 
 
 Urith started back ; each blow seemed to be aimed at 
 and to hit her, who was behind the tree. She felt each 
 stroke as a sharp spasm in her heart. 
 
 Fox dragged at his knife, worked it up, down, till he 
 had loosened it ; then withdrew it. Then he laid his ]eft 
 hand, muffled in his cloak, against the sycamore trunk, 
 and raised his knife again. " That is not enough," he 
 whispered, and it was to Urith as though lie breathed it 
 into her ear. He struck savagely into the side of the tree, 
 as though into a man, under the ribs, and said, "And this 
 for Julian." 
 
 Before lie could release his blade, Urith had stepped 
 forth and had laid her hand on him. 
 
 " Answer me," she said : " What do you mean by those 
 words, ' And this for Julian ? ' " 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 "that for urith." 
 
 Fox cowered, and retreated step by step before Urith, 
 who stepped forward at every step he retreated. He 
 seemed to contract to a third of his size before her eyes, 
 over which a lambent, phosphorescent fire plaj'ed. They 
 were fixed on his face ; he looked up but once, and then, 
 
296 URITIT: A TALPJ OF JDARTMOOB. 
 
 scorcliecl and ^^'itlicrecl, let his eyes fall, and did not again 
 venture to meet hers. 
 
 Her hands were on his shoulders. It mi^-ht have been 
 thought that she was driving him backward, but it was not 
 so. He recoiled instinctively ; but for her hands he might 
 have staggered and fallen among the scattered stones of 
 the old chapel that strewed the floor. 
 
 "Answer me!" said Urith, again. "What did you 
 mean, when jon said — ' This for Julian ? ' " 
 
 "What did I mean?" he repeated, irresolutely. 
 
 " Answer me — what did you mean ? I can understand 
 that in thought Anthony stood before you when you struck 
 — once because I had cast you over, and had taken him — • 
 once because he touched and hurt 3'our eye — but why the 
 third time for Julian ? " 
 
 He lifted one shoulder after the other, squirming un- 
 easily under her hands, and did not reply, save with a 
 scoffing snort through his nostrils. 
 
 " I know that you are waiting here for Anthony — and 
 like yourself, waiting to deal a treacherous blow. It is 
 not such as 3'ou who meet a foe face to face, after an oj)en 
 challenge, in a fair field." 
 
 " An open challenge, in a fair field ! " echoed Fox, re- 
 covering some of his audacity, after the first shock of alarm 
 at discovery had passed away. " Would that be a fair 
 field in which all the skill, all the strength is on one side ? 
 An ojoen challenge ! Did he challenge me when he struck 
 me with the gloves in the face and hurt my eye ? No — he 
 never warned me, and why should I forewarn him ? " 
 
 " Come ! " said Urith, " go on before — up to Wills- 
 worthy ; I will not run the chance of being seen here talk- 
 ing with you, as if in secret. Go on — I follow." 
 
 She waved him iraj^eriously forth, and he obej'ed as a 
 whipped cur, sneaked through the broken doorway forth 
 into the lane. He looked down the road to see if Anthony 
 were ascending, but saw no one. Then he turned his head 
 to observe Urith, hastily sheathed his knife, and trudged 
 forward in the direction required. 
 
 Urith said nothing till the hall was entered, when she 
 pointed to a seat, and went with a candlestick into the 
 kitchen to obtain a light. She returned directly, having 
 shut the doors between, so that no servant could overheajc 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOE. 297 
 
 "svliafc was said. The candlestick she placed on the table, 
 and then j^lanted herself opposite Fox Crymes. He was 
 sitting with his back to the table, so that the light was off 
 his face, and such as there was from a single candle fell on 
 Urith ; but he did not look up. His eyes were on the skirt 
 of her dress and on her feet, and by them he could see 
 that she was quivering with emotion. He seemed to see 
 her through the flicker of hot air that rises from a kiln. 
 He wiped his eyes, thinking that his sight was disturbed, 
 but by a second look ascertained that the tremulous mo- 
 tion was in Urith. It was like the cpuver of a butterfly's 
 wings when fluttering at the window trying to escape. 
 
 "I am ready," said Urith. " What did you mean when 
 you said ' This for Julian? ' " 
 
 He half-lifted liiM cunning eyes, but let them fall again. 
 He had recovered his assurance and decided on his 
 course. 
 
 " I suppose," sneered he, " that you will allow that I 
 have a right to chastise the man who insults our good 
 name, to bring my sister into the mouths of folk ? " 
 
 " Has lie done so ? " 
 
 *'You ask that?" he laughed, mockingly. "How re- 
 mote this spot must be to bo where the breath of scandal 
 does not blow. You ask that ? AVhy, 'fore heaven, I sup- 
 posed that jealousy quickened and sharpened ears, but 
 yours must be singularly blunt, or, mayhap, deadened by 
 indifference." 
 
 *'Tell me plainly what you have to say." 
 
 " Do you not know that your Anthony was engaged, or 
 all but engaged — had been for some fifteen years— to my 
 sister ? Then he saw you under remarkable circumstances, 
 saw and attended you along the Lyke Way that night of 
 the fire on the moor. Then a sj^ark of the wild fire fell 
 into his blood, and he forgot his old, established first love, 
 and in a mad humour took you. Take a scale," pursued 
 Fox. *' Put in one shell my sister with her wealth, her 
 civilized beauty, her heritage, the grand old house of Kil- 
 worthy, and her representation of a grand old line. Put 
 in also " — he suited the action to his word, in imaginary 
 scales in the air before him, and saw the shrink of Urith's 
 feet at each item he named — "put in also his father's 
 favor, Hall — wherQ he was boru and bred, the inheritance 
 
298 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 of his family for many generations, with its associations, 
 his sister's company, the respect of his neighbours ; all that 
 and more that I have not named into the one shell, and 
 into the other. — Come, come ! " — he crooked his finger, 
 and made a sign "with his knuckle, and a distorted face full 
 of mockery and malice — " come, skip in and sit yourself 
 down with a couple of paniers of peat earth, that grows 
 only rushes. What say you? Do you outweigh Julian 
 and all the rest ? And your peat earth, sour and barren, 
 does that sink your scale heavier than all the bags of gold 
 and rich warm soil of Kilworthy and Hall combined ? " 
 
 He glanced upward hurriedly, to see what effect his 
 words had. All this that he said Urith had said it to her- 
 self ; but though the same thoughts uttered to herself cut 
 her like razors, they were as razors dipped in poison, when 
 coming articulate from the lips of Fox. 
 
 "Do you not suppose," continued he, "that after the 
 first fancy was over, Anthony wearied of you, and went 
 back in heart out from this wilderness, back to Goshen 
 and to the Land of Promise rolled into one, with the flesh- 
 pots, and without hard labour ? Of course he did. He 
 were a fool if he did not, or your hold over him must be 
 magical indeed, and the value of Willsworthy altogether 
 extraordinary." 
 
 Again he furtively looked at her. Her eyes were off 
 him, he felt it, before he saw it. She was looking down at 
 the floor, and her teeth were fastened into her clenched 
 hands. She was biting them to keep under the hysteric 
 paroxysm that was coming over her. He took a malevo- 
 lent delight in lashing lier to a frenzy with his cruel words, 
 and so avenging himself on her for his rejection, avenging 
 himself on her in the most terrible way possible, by mak- 
 ing her relations with her husband henceforth intolerable. 
 
 She could no longer speak. He saw it, and he waited 
 for no words. He went on: "You married him; you 
 married him, notwithstanding that he had oflered the 
 grossest insult to the memory of your father. You mar- 
 ried him indecently early after your mother's death, and 
 that was an outrapje on her memory. Whether you have 
 the blessing of father and mother on your union is more 
 than doubtful. I should rather say that out of heaven they 
 fling their united curses on you for what you have done.'* 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 299 
 
 A hoarse sound issued from her throat. It was not a 
 cry, nor a groan, but Uke the gasp of a dying person. 
 
 " And now the curse is working. Of course Anthony is 
 hungering after what he has thrown away. But he cannot 
 get Kilworthy. You stand in the way. He can get Hall 
 only by casting you over. That he wall do." 
 
 Suddenly Urith became rigid as stone. She could not 
 speak, she dropped her hands, and looked with large fixed 
 e^'es at Fox. He saw, by the cessation of the quiver of her 
 skirt, that she had become stiff as if dead. 
 
 " That," repeated Fox, " he is prepared to do. His 
 father made him the offer. If he would leave you, then, 
 said the old Squire, all should be as before. Anthony 
 should go back to Hall, live with his father, be treated as 
 heir, and command his pocket — only you were to be dis- 
 carded wholly, and he was not to see you again." 
 
 Fox paused, and began his hissing w^histle through his 
 broken tooth. He waited to let the full force of his words 
 fall on her to crush her, before he went on still further to 
 maltreat her wdth words more terrible than blows of blud- 
 geons or stabs of poisoned knife. 
 
 Now he twisted his belt round, and laid the scabbarded 
 hunting knife before him on his lap, j^layed with it, and 
 then slowly drew forth the blade. 
 
 " But now — " he said leisurely', " now I reckon you can 
 see why I took out my knife, and why I would strike him 
 down before he leaves you and returns to Hall. Already 
 has there been talk concerning him and my sister. He 
 gave rise to it at the dance at the Cakes. But you know 
 better than I what happened there, as I went away with 
 my father, who arrived from London. When 3'oung 
 blood boils, it is forgotten that the sound of the bubbling 
 is audible. When hearts flame, it is not remembered that 
 they give out light and smoke. I suppose that Anthony 
 and my sister forgot that they were in the midst of obser- 
 vant eyes when they met again, as of old so often ; just as 
 they forgot that you existed and were a bar between them. 
 I tell you I do not know what took place then, as I was not 
 there, but you had eyes and could see, and may remember." 
 
 He put the knife upright with the haft on his knee, and 
 set his finger at the end of the blade, balancing it in that 
 position. She saw it, her eyes were attracted by the 
 
300 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOU. 
 
 blade ; the light of the candle flashed on the polished 
 steel ; then Fox turned the blade and the light went out, 
 then again it flashed, as the surface again came round over 
 against the candle. 
 
 " When Anthony is back at Hall, I know well what will 
 take place. Even now he comes over often to Kilworthy, 
 too often, forgetful of you, forgetful of all save his old re- 
 gard, his love for Julian, that draws him there ; he cannot 
 keep away even now. AVheu he is at Hall nothing will 
 retain him, and he will Ijring my sister's fair name into 
 the dirt. Have I not a cause to take out this knife ? Must 
 I not stand as her guardian ? My father is old, he has no 
 thoughts for aught save the Protestant cause and Liberty 
 and Parliamentary rights. He lets all go its own w\ay, 
 and, unless I were present to defend my sister, he would 
 wake, rub his eyes, and lind — find that all the world was 
 talking about the aftairs of his house, and his grey hairs 
 w^ould be brought in shame to the grave. Julian has no 
 mother, and has only me. She and I have bickered and 
 fought, but I value the honour of my family, and for that 
 I can, when need be, strike a blow. You know now what 
 it is I fear ; you know what it is I meant when I took out 
 my knife and waited in the chapel for the man who would 
 bring my sister to dishonour. I could tell you more — I 
 could teil you that which would make you kiss the blade 
 that tapped his blood, that entered his false heart and let 
 
 out the black falsity that is there, but " He looked 
 
 hesitatingly at her, then slowly rose, and, watching her, 
 went backwards to the door. 
 
 She stood motionless, white, as though frozen, and as 
 still ; her hands were uplifted. She had been about to 
 raise them to her mouth again, but the frost had seized 
 them as they were being lifted, and were held rigid, in 
 suspense. Her eyes were wide and fixed, her mouth half- 
 open, and her lower jaw quivered as with intense cold, the 
 only part of her in which any motion remained. So stiff, 
 so congealed did she seem, that it occurred to Fox, as he 
 looked at her, that were he to touch and stir her wild flow^- 
 ing hair, it would break and fall like icicles on the floor. 
 He stepped back to the door, then held up his finger, wdth 
 a smile about his lips — 
 
 " I am coming back again. I am not going to run away." 
 
URITli: A TALE] OF" DARTMOOR. 30l 
 
 x\. convulsive movement in her arms. Her hands went 
 up with a jerk to her mouth. 
 
 "No," said Fox; "do not bite your pretty hands. 
 There " — he turned to the table and j^icked up the old pair 
 of gloves that lay there — " if you must tear something, 
 tear these. They will do you good." 
 
 He put the gloves to her hands, and they mechanically 
 closed on them. Her eyes were as stones. All light had 
 deserted them, as lire had deserted her blood, had died out 
 of her heart. 
 
 Fox went out, and remained absent about five minutes. 
 Suddenly the door was dashed open, and he came in ex- 
 citedly. "He is coming — he is hard at hand. I have 
 more to say. Do you mistrust me? Do you think lam 
 
 telling lies ? I will say it to his face ; and then " He 
 
 drew his knife and made a stroke with it in the air, then 
 sheathed it again. "Go," said he, "go in yonder." He 
 pointed to the well-chamber that opened out of the hall. 
 " Kemaiu there. The rest I will tell Anthony to his face." 
 
 He cauo-ht her bv the wrist and led her to the door, and 
 almost forced her into the little chamber. 
 
 Then he went across the hall to the door that led to the 
 kitchen, opened it, and looked into a small passage ; crossed 
 that to another door communicating with the kitchen, and 
 turned the key in it. He returned to the hall, and was 
 shutting the door behind him when Anthony entered from 
 outside. 
 
 Anthony raised his brows with surprise at the sight of 
 Fox there, and flushed with anger. This was the man who 
 was going to displace him at Hall, occupy his inheritance, 
 and take his very name. And Fox — this treacherous friend 
 — had the daring to come to his house and meet him. 
 
 "What brings you here?" asked Anthony, roughly. 
 
 " An excellent reason, which you might divine." 
 
 Fox had completely recovered his assurance. He came 
 across the room toward the seat he had occupied before, 
 and, with a "By your leave," resumed it. He thus sat 
 with his face in shadow, and his back to the door of the 
 well-chamber. 
 
 " And, pray, what are you doing in my house? Hast 
 come to see me or Master Gibbs?" 
 
 "You — you alone." 
 
302 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Anthony threw himself into the settle ; his brow was 
 knit ; he was angry at the intrusion, and yet not altogether 
 unwilling to see Fox — for he desired to have a word with 
 him relative to his proposed marriage with Bessie, and 
 assumption of his name. 
 
 " And I," said he ; "I desire an explanation with you, 
 
 Fox." 
 
 *' Come, now ! " exclaimed young Crymes. " I have a 
 desire to speak with you, and you with me. "Which is to 
 come first ? Shall we toss ? But, nay ! I will begin ; 
 and then, when I have done, we shall see what desire re- 
 mains in you to talk to me and i^luck thy crow." 
 
 *'I want then to know what has brought you here? 
 Where is my wife ? Where is Urith ? Have you seen her ? " 
 Anthony turned his head, and looked about the room. 
 
 *' What ! " said Fox, with a jeer in his tone, " dost think 
 because thou runnest to Kilworthy to make love to my 
 sister Julian, that I came here to sweetheart thy wife ? " 
 
 "Silence!" said Anthony, with a burst of rage, and 
 sprang from his seat. 
 
 " I will not keep silence," retorted Fox, turning grey 
 with alarm at the hasty motion, and with concentrated 
 rage. " Nay, Anthony, I will not be silent ! Answer me ; 
 hast thou not been this very day with Julian ? " 
 
 "And what if I did see her? I went to Kilworthy to 
 
 find you." 
 
 "You go there oftentimes to find me, but, somehow, 
 always when I am out, and Julian is at home. When I am 
 not there, do you return here, or go elsewhere ? Nay, you 
 console yourself for my absence by her society— bringing 
 her into ill-repute in the county." 
 
 " You lie ! " shouted Anthony. 
 
 *'Ido not lie," retorted Fox. "Did you not remain 
 with her to-day. Where else have you been ? Who drew 
 your initials on the glass beside hers, and bound them 
 together with a true lover's knot?" 
 
 Anthony's head fell. He had planted himself on the 
 hearthstone, with his back to the fireplace— now without 
 burning logs or peat in it. The flush that had been driven 
 by anger to his face deepened with shame to a dark crim- 
 son. 
 
 Fox observed him out of his small keen eyes. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 303 
 
 "Tell me this," he pursued. **Wag it not indiscreet 
 that thy father should come in and find thee and Julian 
 locked in each other's arms, exchanging lovers' kisses ? " 
 
 Anthony looked suddenly up, and in a moment all the 
 blood left his face and rushed to his heart. He saw behind 
 the chair in which sat Fox, the form of his wife. XJrith — 
 grey as a corpse, but with fire spirting from her eyes, and 
 her nostrils and lips quivering. Her hand was lifted, 
 clenched, on something, he could not see what. 
 
 *' Tell me," repeated Fox, slowly rising, and putting his 
 hand to his belt. *' Tell me— can you deny that ?— can you 
 say that it is a lie ? Your own father told me what he had 
 seen. Did he lie?" 
 
 Anthony did not hear him, did not see him ; his eyes 
 were fixed in sorrow, shame, despair, on Urith. Oh, that 
 she should hear this, and that he should be unable to 
 answer ! 
 
 *' Strike — kill him ! " her voice was hoarse— like that of 
 a man ; and she dashed the gloves, torn to shreds by her 
 teeth, against his breast. 
 
 Instantly, Fox's arm was raised, the knife flashed in the 
 candle-Hght, and fell on him, struck him where he had 
 been touched by the gloves. 
 
 " That," the words attended the blows, "that for Urith." 
 
 Anthony dropped on the hearthstone. 
 
 Then, as Fox raised his arm once more — without a cry, 
 without a word, Urith sprang before him, thrust him back 
 with all her force, that he reeled to the table, and only 
 saved himself from a fall by catching at it, and she sank 
 cousciouslesa on the hearthstone beside Anthony. 
 
 CHAPTER XLH. 
 
 ON THE BRroGE. 
 
 Fox soon recovered himself, and seeing Anthony moving 
 and rising on one hand, he came up to him again and 
 thrust him back, and once more stooping over him, raised 
 the knife. 
 
804 tJRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOM. 
 
 " One for Urith," he said, " one for myself, and then one 
 for Julian." 
 
 Before he could strike he was caught by the neek and 
 dragged awa}'. 
 
 Luke Cleverdon was in the hall ; he had entered unob- 
 served. Fox stood leaning against the table, hiding his 
 weapon behind him, looking at Luke with angry yet 
 alarmed eyes. 
 
 " Go," said Luke, waving his left hand. " I have not 
 the streno-th to detain you, nor are there sufficient here to 
 assist me were I to summon aid. Go ! " 
 
 Fox, still watching him, sidled to the door, holding his 
 knife behind him, but with a sharp, quick look at Anthony, 
 who was disengaging himself from the burden of Urith, 
 lying unconscious across him, and r.dsing himself from 
 where he had fallen. Blood flowed from his bosom and 
 stained his vest. 
 
 " It was she. She bade me ! " said Fox, pointing towards 
 Urith. Then he passed through the door into the porch, 
 and forth into the night. 
 
 Luke bent over Urith, who remained unconscious, and 
 raised her to enable Anthony to mount to his feet, then he 
 gently laid her down again, and said : 
 
 '•' Before any one comes in, Anthony, let me attend to 
 you, and let us hide, if it may be, what has happened from 
 other eyes." 
 
 He tore open Anthony's vest and shirt, and disclosed his 
 breast. The knife had struck and dinted the broken token, 
 then had glanced off and dealt a flesh wound. So forcible 
 had been the blow that the impress of the broken crown, 
 its part of a circle, and the ragged edge were stamped on 
 Anthony's skin. The wound he had received was not 
 dangerous. The token had saved his life. Had it not 
 turned the point of Fox's knife, he would have been a 
 dead man ; the blade would have entered his heart. 
 
 Luke went to the well-chamber, brought thence a towel, 
 . tore it down the middle, passed it about the body of An- 
 thony, and bound the linen so fast round him as to draw 
 together the lips of the wound, and stay the flow of blood. 
 
 He said not one word whilst thus engaged. Nor did 
 Anthony, whose eyes reverted to Urith, lying with face as 
 marble and motionless upon the floor. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 305 
 
 "When Luke had finished hig work, he said, gravely, 
 ** Now I will call in aid, Urith must be conveyed upstairs ; 
 you ride for a surgeon, and do not be seen. Go to my 
 house, and tarry till I arrive. Take one of your best 
 horses, and go." 
 
 Anthony obeyed in silence. 
 
 When Mistress Penwarne had returned from the visit to 
 Magdalen Cleverdon, she had communicated the intelli- 
 gence of Fox's suit, and of the old Squire's resolution, to 
 Luke, and he at once started for W^illsworthy, that he 
 might see Anthony. Of the offer made by the father to 
 Anthony he, of course, knew nothing ; but the proposal to 
 marry Bessie to Fox, and for the latter to assume the name 
 of Cleverdon, filled him with concern. Bessie would need 
 a firmer supporter than her Aunt Magdalen to enable her 
 to resist the pressure brought upon her. Moreover, Luke 
 was alarmed at the thought of the result to Anthony. He 
 w^ould be driven to desperation, become violent, and might 
 provoke a broil with Fox, in which weapons would be drawn. 
 
 He arrived at Willsworthy in time to save the life of 
 Anthony, and he had no doubt that the quarrel had arisen 
 over the suit for Bessie, and the meditated assumption of 
 the Cleverdon name. Anthony was hot-headed, and would 
 never endure that Fox should step into his rights. But 
 Luke could not understand what had induced Fox to run 
 hia head into danger. Tliat he was audacious he knew, 
 but this was a piece of audacity of which he did not sujd- 
 pose him to be capable. 
 
 Anthony saddled and bridled the best horse in the stable, 
 and rode to Tavistock, where he placed himself in the 
 hands of a surgeon. He did not explain how he had come 
 by the wound, but he requested the man to keep silence 
 concerning it. Quarrels over their cups were not infre- 
 quent among the 3^oung men, and these led to blows and 
 sword thrusts, as a matter of course. 
 
 The surgon confirmed the opinion expressed by Luke. 
 The wound was not serious, it would soon heal ; and he 
 sewed it up. As he did so, he talked. There was a stir in 
 the place. Squire Crymes of Kilworthy had been sending 
 round messages to the villages, calling on the young men 
 to join him. He made no secret of his intentions to march 
 to the standard of the Duke of Monmouth. 
 20 
 
306 URITU: A TALE UF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "It is a curious fact,"' said Surgeon Pierce, "but his 
 Lordship the Eaii of Bedford had been sending down a 
 laro-o quantit}' of arms to his house that had been built out 
 of the abbey ruins. His agent had told folks that the Earl 
 was going to lit up a hall there with pikes, and guns, and 
 casques, and breast^^lates, for all the world like the ancient 
 halls in the da^-^ before Queen Elizabeth. Things do hap- 
 pen strangely," continued the surgeon. "All at once, not 
 an hour ago "^ it was whispered among the young men who 
 were about in the market-place talking of the news, and 
 asking each other whether they'd fight for the Pope or for 
 the D^uke, that there were all these weapons in his Lord- 
 ship's hall ; and that no one was on the spot to guard them. 
 Well, they went to the place, got in, and no resistance 
 offered, and armed themselves with whatever they could 
 find, and are off the Lord knows where." 
 
 "When Anthony left the surgeon's house, he considered 
 what he should do, after having seen his cousin. To 
 Luke's lodgings in the rectory at Peter Tavy he at once 
 rode. His cousin he must speak to. To "Wills worthy he 
 could not return. The breach between him and Urith 
 was irreparable. She knew that he had tampered with 
 temptation, and believed him to be more faithless to her 
 than he really had been. He would not, indeed he could 
 not, explain the circumstances to her, for no explanation 
 could make the facts assume a better colour. It was true 
 that he had turned for a while in heart from Urith. Even 
 now, he felt he did not love her. But no more did he love 
 Julian. With the latter he was angry. When he thought 
 of her, his blood began to simmer with rage. If he could 
 have caught her now in his arms, he would have strangled 
 her. She had played with him, lured him on, till she had 
 utterly destroyed his happiness. 
 
 What had he done ? He had kissed Julian. That was 
 nothing ; it was no mortal crime. Why should he not 
 kiss an old friend and comrade whom he had known from 
 childhood ? What right had Urith to take offence at that ? 
 Had he written their initials on the glass, and united them 
 by a true lovers' knot ? He had ; but he had also effaced 
 it, and linked his own initial with that of Urith. He loved 
 Urith no longer. His married life had been wretched. 
 He had committed an act of folly in mariying her. Well, 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 307 
 
 was lie to be cut off from all liis old acquaintances because 
 lie was the husband of Uritli ? Was' he to treat them with 
 distance and coldness ? And then, how Julian had looked 
 at him ! how she had bent over him, and she— yes, she — 
 had kissed him ! Was he to sit still as a stone to receive 
 the salutation of a pretty girl ? Who would ? Not a Puritan, 
 not a saint. It was impossible — impossible to young flesh 
 and blood. A girl's kiss must be returned with usury — ten- 
 fold. He was in toils — entangled hand and foot — and he 
 sought in vain to break through them. But he could not re- 
 main thus bound — bound by obligation to Urith, whom he 
 did not love — bound by old association to Julian, whom he 
 once bad loved, and who loved him still — loved him stormily, 
 fervently. What could he do ? He must not go near Julian 
 • — he dare not. He could not go back to Urith — to Urith 
 who had given to Fox the mandate to kill him ! He had 
 heard her words. It was a planned matter. She had 
 brought Fox to Willsworthy, and had concerted with him 
 how he, Anthony, was to be killed. And yet Anthony knew 
 that she loved him. Her love had been irksome to him — 
 so jealous, so exacting, so greedy had it been. If she had 
 desired and schemed his death, it was not that she hated 
 him, but because she loved him too much — she could not 
 endure that he should be estranged from her and drawn 
 towards another. ■ 
 
 But one course was open to him. He must tear — cut 
 his w^ay through the entangled threads. He must free 
 himself at one stroke from Urith and from Julian. He 
 would join Monmouth. 
 
 He rode, thus musing, towards Peter Tavj^ and halted 
 on the old bridge that spanned in two arches the foaming 
 river. The rain that had fallen earlier had now wholly 
 ceased, but the sky remained covered with a dense grey 
 blanket of felt-like cloud. A fresher air blew ; it came 
 from the north, down the river with the water, and fanned 
 Anthony's heated brow. 
 
 His wound began now to give him pain ; he felt it as a line 
 of red-hot iron near his heart. It was due to pure accident 
 that he was not dead. If matters had fallen out as Urith 
 desired, he would now be lying lifeless on the hearthstone 
 where he had dropped, staggered and upset by the force 
 of Fox's blow, when unprepared to receive it 
 
808 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Now he recalled that half-challeuge offered on the moor 
 -when first he met Urith, and had wondered over her bitten 
 hands. He had half-threatened to exasperate her to one 
 of her moods of madness, to see what she would do to him 
 when in such a mood. He had forgotten all about that 
 bit of banter till this moment. Unintentionally he had ex- 
 asperated her, till she had lost all control over herself, and, 
 unable to hurt him herself, had armed Fox to deal him the 
 blow which was to avenge her wrongs. 
 
 He could not go back to the house with the girl who 
 had sought his life. No — there was nothing else for him 
 to do than throw in his lot with Monmouth, and, at the 
 moment, he cared little whether it should be a winning or 
 a losing cause. 
 
 " Anthony ? " 
 
 •' Yes. Is that you, Luke ? " 
 
 A dark figure stepped on to the bridge, and came to the 
 side of the horse. 
 
 "I have been home," said the curate. "Urith is ill; 
 she scarce wakes out of one faint to fall into another. I 
 have sent your grandmother to Willsworthy to be with 
 her." 
 
 "It is well," answered Anthony. "And, now that we 
 have met here, I wish a word with you, Luke. I am not 
 going back to Willsworthy." 
 
 " Not— to Urith ? " 
 
 "No, I cannot. I am going to ride at once to join the 
 Duke of Monmouth. You have the Protestant cause at 
 heart, Luke, and wish it well ; so have I. But that is not 
 all — I must away now. I do not desire to meet Fox for 
 a while." 
 
 '' No," said Luke, after a moment of consideration ; "no, 
 I can understand that. But Bessie must not be left 
 without some one to help her." 
 
 " There is yourself. What can I do ? Besides, Bess is 
 strong in herself. She will never go against what she be- 
 lieves to be right. She will never step into my shoes, nor 
 will she help Fox to draw them on." 
 
 "You cannot ride now, with your wound." 
 
 "Bah! That is naught. You said as much yourself." 
 
 "Tony, there is something yet I do not understand," 
 Baid Luke, falteringly. " Did you first strike Fox?" 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 309 
 
 <<No — no. I had my hands behind me. I stood at the 
 
 hearth." 
 
 "But the quarrel was yours with him, rather than his 
 with you. If you did not strike him, why did he aim at 
 you ? " 
 
 *' Luke, there were matters passed of which you need 
 know naught — at least no more than this. My father had 
 offered to receive me back into his good-will once more, 
 to let the past be blotted out, no longer to insist on Bess 
 being wed to Fox, and to return to live at Hall." 
 
 "Indeed ! " exclaimed Luke, joyously. " Now can I see 
 why Fox came to you, and why he struck you." 
 
 *' It was on one condition." 
 
 " And that was " 
 
 " That I should leave Urith, and never speak to her 
 
 again." 
 
 "Anthony!" Luke's tone was full of terror and pain. 
 " Oh, Anthony ! Surely you never — never for one moment 
 — not by half a word — gave consent, or semblance of con- 
 sent, to this ! It would— it would kill her ! Oh, Anthony ! " 
 
 Luke put up both his hands on the pommel of the 
 saddle, and clasped them. What light there was fell on 
 his up-turned, ash-grey face. 
 
 " Anthony, answer me. Has she been informed of that ? 
 She never thought you could be so cruel — so false ; and 
 she has loved you. My God ! her whole heart has been 
 given to you — to you, and to no one else ; and you have 
 not valued it as you should have done. Because you have 
 had to lose this and that, you have resented it on her. She 
 has had to bear your ill-humour — she has suffered, and has 
 been saddened. And now — no ! I cannot think it. You 
 have not let her know that this offer was made." 
 
 The sweat drops poured and rolled off Luke's brow. He 
 looked up, and waited on Anthony for a reply. 
 
 " She did know it," answered the latter, "but that was 
 Fox's doing. He told her ; and told her what was false, 
 that I intended to accept the offer, and leave her. No, 
 Luke, I have done many things that are wrong, I have 
 been inconsiderate, but I could not do this. And now I bid 
 you go to-morrow to my father, see him, and tell him my 
 answer. That is expressed in one word — Never." 
 
 Luke seized his hand, and wrung it. " That is my own 
 
o 
 
 10 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOU. 
 
 dear cousin Antlionj' ! " he said, and then added, ''But why 
 away at once, and TJrith so ill ? " 
 
 "I must away at once. I cannot return to iier." An- 
 thony hesitated for some while ; at last he said, in a low 
 tone, "I will tell you why — she thinks me false to her, and 
 in a measure I have been so. She thinks I no longer love 
 lier — and it is true. M}' love is dead. Luke — I cannot 
 return." 
 
 *'0h, Urith — poor Urith ! " groaned the curate, and let 
 his hands fall. 
 
 ' ' Now I go. "Whatever haps, naught can be worse than 
 the state of matters at present. If you can jDlead in any 
 way for me, when I am away, do so. I would have her 
 think better of me than she does — but I love her no more." 
 
 Then he rode awav. 
 
 If 
 
 Luke remained on the bridge, looking over into the 
 rushinGf water — the river was full. 
 
 "Poor Urith! My God — and it was I — it was I who 
 united them." Then he turned into the direction of Hall. 
 *'I will go there, and bear Anthony's message to his father 
 at once." 
 
 CHAPTER XLHL 
 
 AN EXPIRING CANDLE. 
 
 When Squire Cleverdon arrived at Hall, he found there 
 awaiting him a man booted, spurred, whip in hand, bespat- 
 tered with mire. The old man asked him his business 
 without much coui'tesy, and the man replied that he had 
 ridden all day from Exeter with a special letter for Master 
 Cleverdon, which he was ordered to dehver into his hands, 
 and into his alone. 
 
 Old Cleverdon impatiently tore away the string and broke 
 the seal that guarded the letter, opened it, and began to 
 read. Then, before he had read many lines, he turned 
 ghastly white, reeled, and sank against the wall, and his 
 hands trembled in which he held the page. 
 
 He recovered himself almost immediately, sufficiently to 
 give orders for the housing and entertainment of the mes- 
 senger ; and then he retired to his private room, or office, 
 
UniTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOU. 311 
 
 into wliicli lie locked himself. Ho unclosed n cabinet that 
 contained his papers, and, having kindled a light, brought 
 forth several bundles of deeds and books of accounts, and 
 spread them on the table before him. Some of the docu- 
 ments were old and yellow, and were written in that set 
 courthand that had been devised to make wdiat was written in 
 it unintelligible save to the professionals. Squire Cleverdon 
 took pen and a clean sheet of paper and began calculations 
 upon it. These did not afford him much satisfaction. He 
 rose, took his candle, opened and relocked the door, and 
 ascended the stairs to his bedroom, where he searched in 
 a secret receptacle in the fireplace for his iron box, in which 
 were all his savings. Thence he brought the gold ho had, 
 and, having placed the candle on the floor, began to arrange 
 the sovereigns in tens, in rows, where the light of tho candle 
 fell. After the gold came the silver, and after tho silver 
 some bundles of papers of moneys due that had never been 
 paid, but which were recoverable. 
 
 Having ascertained exactly what he had in cash, and 
 what he might be able at short notice to collect, the old 
 man replaced all in the iron case, and reclosed the recej^ta- 
 cle. 
 
 In the moan while, during tho evening, after darkness 
 had set in, to Bessie's great annoyance, Fox appeared. Di- 
 rectly he left Willsworthy, ho thought it advisable to visit 
 Hall before going home, and forestall with old Cleverdon 
 the tidinci'S of what had occurred. He did not doubt that 
 the story of his attack on Anthony would be bruited about — 
 that Anthony, or Luke, or both, would tell of it, to his dis- 
 advantage, and he determined to relate it his own way at once, 
 before it came round to the ears of the Squire, wearing an- 
 other complexion from that which ho Avished it to assume. 
 
 "You desire to see my father," said Bessie. "He is 
 engaged, he is in his room ; he would not be disturbed." 
 
 "I must see him, if but for a minute." 
 
 Bessie went to the door and knocked, but received no 
 answer. She came back to the parlour. "My father is 
 busy ; he has locked himself into his room. You had bet- 
 ter depart." 
 
 "I can wait," said Fox. 
 
 " Then you must pardon my absence. There has come 
 a messenger this evening for my father, with a letter that 
 
31^ URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 lias to be considered. I must attend to what is fitting for 
 the comfort of the traveller." 
 
 "Wlien left to himself, Fox became restless. He stood 
 up, and himself tried the door of old Anthony s apartment. 
 It was locked. He struck at the door with his knuckles, 
 but received no answer. Then he looked throuo-h the kev- 
 hole ; it was dark within. The old man was not there, but 
 at that moment he heard him cough upstairs. He was 
 therefore in his bedroom, and Fox would catch him as lie 
 descended. He returned to the parlour. 
 
 Presently Bessie entered with Luke ; she had gone to 
 the door, had stood in the porch communing with herself, 
 unwilling to be in the room with her tormentor, when 
 Luke appeared, and asked to see her father. " Verily," 
 said she, with a faint smile, "he is in mighty request this 
 night ; you are the third who have come for him — first a 
 stranger, then Fox " 
 
 "Fox here?" 
 
 "Yes, he is within." 
 
 " I am glad. A word with him before I see your father, 
 and do you keep away, Bessie, for a while till called." 
 
 Fox started to his feet when Luke came in, but said noth- 
 ing till Bessie left the room, then hurriedly, 
 
 "You, raven — what news? But mark you. I did it in 
 self-defence. Every man must defend his own life. When 
 he knew that I was to take his place in Hall, he rushed on 
 me, and I did but protect myself." 
 
 " Anthony's w^ound is trifling," said Luke, coldly. 
 
 " So ! and you have come to prejudice me in the ear of 
 his father." 
 
 " I am come with a message fi*om Anthony to his father." 
 
 " Lideed — to come and see his scratch, and a drop of 
 blood from it ; and then to clasp each other and weep, and 
 make friends ? " 
 
 " The message is not to you, but to his father." 
 
 "And— he is not hurt?" 
 
 "Not seriously hurt." 
 
 " I never designed to hurt him. I did but defend my 
 own self. I treated him as an angry boy with a knife." 
 
 " No more of this," said Luke. "Let the matter not be 
 mentioned. I will say naught concerning it, neither do 
 you. So is best. As for Anthony, he is away." 
 
nniTH: A TALE OF DAllTMOOR. 313 
 
 " Away ? Whither gone ? " 
 
 " Gone to-night to join Monmouth. Your father is gath- 
 ering men for the Protestant cause, Anthony will be with 
 him and them." 
 
 Fox laughed. His insolence had come back, as his fears 
 abated. 
 
 " Faith ! he has run away, because I scratched him wdth 
 a pin. At the hrst prick he fainted." 
 
 Luke went to the door, and called in Bessie. He could 
 not endure the association with Fox. 
 
 "Bess !" he said, *'can I see your father? — I have a mes- 
 sage for him from Tony." 
 
 "He is upstairs — in his bedroom," said Bessie. "I will 
 tell him you are here when he descends." 
 
 "Come here," exclaimed Fox, who had recovered all his 
 audacity, and with it boisterous spirits. "Come here, Bess, 
 my dear, and let Cousin Curate Luke know how we stand 
 to each other." 
 
 "And, praj^" said Bessie, colouring, "how do we stand 
 to each other? " 
 
 "My word! you are hot. We shall be asking him ere 
 long to join our hands — so he must be prepared in time— - 
 he will have a pleasure in calculating the amount of his 
 fee." 
 
 " Cousin Luke," said Bessie, " I am not sorry that he 
 Las mentioned this, for so I can ansv/er him in your pres- 
 ence, and give him such an answer before you as he has had 
 from me in private, but would not take. Never, neither 
 by persuasion, nor by force, shall I be got to give my con- 
 sent.'* 
 
 Li spite of his self-control, Fox turned livid with rage. 
 
 " Is that final ? " he asked, r 
 
 "It is final." 
 
 "We shall see," sneered he. "Say what you will, I do 
 not withdraw." 
 
 " For shame of you ! " exclaimed Luke, stepping between 
 Bessie and Fox. " If you have any good feeling in you, do 
 not pester her with a suit that is odious to her, and after 
 what has happened to-night, should, to yourself, be impos- 
 sible." 
 
 " Oh ! " jeered Fox, " you yourself proposed silence, and 
 are bursting to let the matter escape." 
 
8U URITII: A TALE OF BARTMOOR. 
 
 " Desisi," said Luke. " Desist from a pursuit that is 
 cruel to her, and which j^ou cannot prosecute with honour 
 to yourself." 
 
 *' I will not desist ! " retorted Fox. " Tell me this. Who 
 first sought to bring it about ? Was it I? No. Magdaleu 
 Cleverdon was she who prepared it, then came the Squire 
 himself. It's the Cleverdons who have hunted me — who 
 try to catch me ; not I who have been the hunter. You 
 call me Fox, and you have been hue and tally ho ! after 
 me." 
 
 "There is my father!" gasped Bessie, and ran from the 
 room. She found the old man in the passage with his 
 candle, unlocking his sitting-room door. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " she said, breathlessly, for the scene that 
 had occurred had taken away her breath, ''here is Luke 
 come — he must see you." 
 
 "What ! at night ? I cannot. I am bus3\" 
 
 "But, father, he has a message." 
 
 "A message? What, another? I will not see him." 
 
 "For a moment, uncle. It is a word from Anthon}'," 
 said Luke, entering the passage. " One word, shall I say 
 it here, or within?" 
 
 "I care not — if it is one word, say it hero ; but only one 
 word." 
 
 He was fumbling with tlie key in the lock. His hand 
 that held the candle shook, and the wax fell on his fingers 
 and on the cufT of his coat. He had the key inserted in 
 the door, and could not turn it in the wards. 
 
 " Very well," said Luke. " You shall have it in one word 
 — Never. 
 
 The old man let the key fall — he straightened himself. 
 His voice shook with anger. "It is well. It is as I could 
 have wished it. I take him at his word. Never. Never — 
 let me say it again. Never, and once again, never ; and 
 each never shuts a door on him for all time. Never shall 
 he have my forgiveness. Never shall he inherit an acre or 
 a pound of mine. Never will I speak to him another word. 
 Nay, were he dying, I would not go to see him ; could I 
 by a word save his life, I would not do it. Go tell him 
 that. Now go — and Elizabeth, hold the candle. I will open 
 the door ; go in before me to my room ; I'll lock the door 
 on us both. Now all is plain. The wind has cleared away 
 
URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 315 
 
 the mists, find we must settle all between us this night, 
 with the way open before us." 
 
 He managed to unfasten the door, and he made his 
 daughter pass in, carrying the light. Then he turned the 
 key in the loch. 
 
 The little table was strewn with deeds and papers and 
 books. Bessie cast a glance at it, and saw no spot on which 
 she could set the candle. She therefore held it in her 
 hand, standing before her father, who threw himself into 
 his chair. She was pale, composed, and resolved. He 
 could have nothing further to urge than what had been 
 urged already, and she had her answer to that. The candle 
 was short, it had swaled down into the tray, and could not 
 burn for more than ten minutes. 
 
 " Elizabeth," said her father, "I shall not repeat what 
 has been said already. I have told you what my wishes, 
 what my commands are. You can see in Anthony what 
 follows on the rebellion of a child against the father. Let 
 me see in you that obedience which leads to haj^piness as 
 surely as his disobedience has brought him to misery. 
 But I have said all this before, and I will not now repeat it. 
 There arc farther considerations which make me desire that 
 you should take Anthony Crymes without delay." He drew 
 a long breath, and vainly endeavoured to conceal his agita- 
 tion. " I bought this place — Hall — where my forefathers 
 have been as tenants for many generations ; I bought it, 
 but I had not sufficient money at command, so I mort- 
 gaged the estate, and borrowed the money to pay for it. 
 Then I thought soon and easily to have paid off the debt. 
 The mortgagee did not press ; but having Hall as mine 
 own was, I found, another thing to having Hall as a tenant. 
 My position was changed, and with this change came in- 
 creased expenditure. Anthony cost much money, he was 
 of no use in the farm, and he threw about monev as he 
 liked. But not so only. I rebuilt nearly the whole of the 
 house ; I might have spent this money in paying off the 
 mortf>"age, or in reducing: it, but instead of that I rebuilt 
 and enlarged the house. I thought that my new position 
 required it, and the old farmhouse was small and inconve- 
 nient, and ill-suited to my new position. But I had no 
 fear. The mortgagee did not require the money. Then 
 of late we have had bad times, and I have had the drag of 
 
316 URITH: A TALE OF DAETMOOM. 
 
 the mortgage on me. A little while ago I had notice that 
 I must rej^ay the whole amount. I did not consider this 
 as serious, and I sought to stay it off. The messenger who 
 has now come from Exeter, comes with a final demand for 
 the entire sum. The times are precarious. The Duke of 
 Monmouth has landed. Xo one knows what will hap- 
 pen, and the mortgagee calls in his money. I have not 
 got it." 
 
 " Then what is to be done? " 
 
 Bessie became white as the wax of the candle, and the 
 flame flickered because the candle shook in her haud. 
 
 " Only one thing can be done. Onlv vou can save Hall 
 • — save me." 
 
 "I! Oh, my father!" Bessie's heart stood still, she 
 feared what she should hear. 
 
 "Only you can save us," pursued the old man. "You 
 and I will be driven out of this place, will lose Hall, lose 
 the acres that for three centuries have been dressed witli 
 our sweat, lose the roof that has covered the Cleverdons 
 for many generations, unless j'ou save us." 
 
 "But — how, father?" she asked, yet knew what the an- 
 swer would be. 
 
 "You must marry Anthony Crymes at once. Then only 
 shall we be safe, for the Crymes family will find the money 
 required to secure Hall." 
 
 " Father," pleaded Bessie, " ask for help from some one 
 else ! Borrow the money elsewhere." 
 
 "In times such as this, Avheu we are trembling in revo- 
 lution, and none knows what the issue will be, no one will 
 lend money. I have no friend save Squire Crymes. There 
 is no help to be had anywhere else. Here " — said the old 
 man, irritably — "here are a bundle of accounts of moneys 
 owed to me, that I cannot get back now. I have sent 
 round to those in mv debt, and it is the same crv from all. 
 The times are against us — wait till all is smooth, and then 
 we will pay. In the mean time my state is desperate. I 
 offered to Anthony but this day to forgive the past and re- 
 ceive him back to Hall — but the offer came too late. 
 Hall is lost to him, lost to you, lost to me, lost forever, 
 unless you say yea." 
 
 " Oh, Luke ! Luke ! " cried Bessie ; " let me speak first 
 ■with him ; " then suddenly changed her mind and tone. 
 
TJEITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 317 
 
 ** Oh, no ! I must not speak to him — to him above all, 
 about this." 
 
 " Bessie ! " said the old man ; his tone was altered from 
 that which was usual to him. He had hectored and domi- 
 neered over her, had shown her little kindness and small 
 regard, but now he spoke in a subdued manner, with en- 
 treaty. " Bessie ! look at my grey hairs. I had hoped 
 that all future generations of Cleverdons would have 
 thought of me with pride, as he who made the family ; 
 but, instead, they will curse me as he who cast it forth 
 from its home and brought it to destruction." 
 
 Bessie did not sj^eak, her eyes were on the candle, the 
 flame was nigh on sinking, a gap had formed under the 
 w^ick, and the wax was running down into the socket as 
 water in a well. 
 
 " I have hitherto commanded, and have usually been 
 obeyed," continued the old man, " but now I must en- 
 treat. I am to be dishonoured through my children, one — 
 my son — has left me and taken to himself another home, 
 and defies me in all things. My daughter, by holding out 
 her hand, could save me and all my hopes and ambitions, 
 and she will not. Will she have me — me, an old grey- 
 headed father, kneel at her feet ? " He put his hands to 
 the arms of his seat to help him to rise from the chair 
 that he might fall before her. 
 
 " Father ! " She uttered a cvy, and, at the shock that 
 shuddered through her, the flaming wick sank into the 
 socket, and there burnt blue as a lambent ghost of a flame. 
 *' O father !— wait !— wait ! " 
 
 "How long am I to wait? The answer must be given 
 to-night; the doom of our house is sealed within a few 
 hours, or the word of salvation must be spoken. Which 
 shall it be ? The messenger who is here carries my answer 
 to Exeter, and, at the same time, if yoa agree, the demand 
 for a licence, that you may be married at once. No delay 
 is possible." 
 
 " Let me have an hour— in my room ! " 
 
 " No ; it must be decided at once." 
 
 " Oh, father — at once ? She watched the blue quiver of 
 light in the candle socket. " Very well — well — when the 
 light goes out you shall have my answer." 
 
 He said no other word, but watched her pale face, look- 
 
318 UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 ing weird in the uj^warcl flicker of the dying hhic llame, 
 a,nd her eyes rested on that flame, and the flicker was re- 
 flected in them — now bright, then faint, swaying from 
 side to side as a tide. 
 
 Then a mass of wax fell in, fed the flame, and it shot up 
 in a golden sj^iral, revealing Bessie's face completely. 
 
 *' Father ! I but just now said to Fox Crymes ' Never ! 
 never! never ! '" 
 
 She paused, the flamed curled over, 
 
 "Father ! within a few minutes must I go forth to him 
 and withdraw the ' Never ? ' " 
 
 He did not answer, but he nodded. She had raised her 
 eyes from the dying flame to look at him. 
 
 Again her eyes fell on the light. 
 
 *' Father ! If I withdraw my ' Never,' will you withdraw 
 yours about Anthony ? — never to forgive him — never to see 
 him in Hall — never to count him as your son ? " 
 
 The flame disappeared — the old man thought it was ex- 
 tinguished, but Bessie saw it still as a blue bead rolling on 
 the molten wax ; it caught a thread of wick and shot up 
 
 again. 
 
 "Father ! I do not say promise, but say perhaps." 
 
 " So be it — Perhaps." 
 
 The flame was out. 
 
 Bessie walked calmly to the door, felt for the key, turned 
 it, went forth, still holding the extinguished candle in her 
 hand. It was to her as if all that made life blessed and 
 bright to her had gone out with that flame. 
 
 She went into the parlour and composedly put out her 
 hand to Fox. 
 
 "Take me," she said. "I have withdrawn the 'Never.' 
 I am yours ! '* 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 LADING THE COACH. 
 
 Fox hastened back to Kilworthy. He also knew that 
 time was precious. His father was in a fever of excite- 
 ment about the landing of Monmouth, and was certain to 
 give him all the assistance in his power both with men and 
 
UBITH: A TALE OF DAUTMOOR. 319 
 
 with money. Not only so, but lie would so compromise 
 himself that, in the event of the miscarriage of Monmouth's' 
 venture, he would run the extremest risk of life and for- 
 tune. 
 
 He had for some time past been acting for the Duke in 
 enlisting men in his cause. The whole of the West of 
 England was disaffected to the King — was profoundly irri- 
 tated at his overbearing conduct, and alarmed iest he 
 should attempt to bring the realm back to Popery. The 
 gentry were not, however, disposed to risk anything till 
 they saw on which side Fortune smile<l. They had sutiered 
 so severely during the Civil War, and at the Restoration 
 had encountered only neglect, so that the advisability of 
 caution was well burnt into their minds. The Earl of 
 Bedford, who owned a vast tract of proiDcrty about Tavi- 
 stock, secretly favoured Monmouth, but was indisposed to 
 declare himself. He had not forgotten — he bitterly re- 
 sented the execution of his son, Lord William Russell, for 
 complicity in the Rye House Plot — a plot as mythical as 
 the Popish Plot revealed by Titus Gates, and which he 
 attributed to the resentment of the Catholic part3\ He 
 was willing that Squire Crymes should act for him, and 
 run the risk of so doing. 
 
 Fox had the shrewdness to see this, but his father was 
 too sincere an enthusiast, and too indifferent to his own 
 fortunes to decline the functions of agent for Monmouth 
 pressed on him by the Earl of Bedford. 
 
 ''' What dost w\ant ? I cannot attend to thee," said Mr. 
 Crymes, when his son entered the room. On the table lay 
 ynled up several bags tied with twine, and sealed. 
 
 ''What do I want?" retorted Fox. "Why, upon my 
 honour, you have forestalled my thought. I came for 
 money ; and, lo ! there it is." 
 
 "I am bus}',"' said the old man. "Dost see, though it 
 be night, I am ready for a journey ? I have the coach 
 ordered to be prepared. I must travel some way ere day- 
 dawn." 
 
 " If you are going away, father, so much the more reason 
 why you should give ear to me now." 
 
 "Nay, I cannot. I have much to do — many things to 
 consider of. I w^ould to God thou wast coming with me ! 
 But, as in the case of those that followed Gideon, only 
 
820 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 such as be whole -hearted and stout may go to the Lord's 
 army. " 
 
 ''I have the best plea — a scriptural one — for biding at 
 home," laughed Fox ; " for I am going to be married. Ere 
 ten days be passed, Bess Cleverdon will be my wife." 
 
 "I am sorry for her. I esteem her too well," said the 
 old man, impatiently. "But away with thy concerns; this 
 is no time for marrying and giving in marriage, when we 
 approach the Valley of Decision in which Armageddon will 
 be fought. Go out into the yard and see if any be about 
 the coach," 
 
 "I passed through the court in coming here. The coach 
 was there — no horses, no servants." 
 
 "I must take the coach," said the old man. "I was a 
 poor rider when young ; I cannot mount a horse Jiow in 
 my age." 
 
 "Then, verily, father, thy coach and four will be out of 
 place in the Valle}' of Decision," scoiied Fox. "Of what 
 good canst thou be in an army — in a battle — if unable to 
 mount a horse? Stay at home, and let the storm of war 
 blow across the sky. If thou wantest Scripture to justify 
 thee, here it is : 'Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.' " 
 
 " The cause of true religion is in jeopardy," retorted the 
 father. " I know what is right to be done, and I will do 
 it. Go I must, for, though I cannot fight myself, my coun- 
 sel may avail ; and I bear to the Duke the very nerves of 
 war." He pointed to the money-bags. 
 
 "I did not know thou hadst so much gold by thee, in 
 the house," said Fox, going to the table, taking up, and 
 weiohino- one of the ba^'S. 
 
 " A hundred pounds in each," said his father ; "and good 
 faith ! I had not the coin. There, thou art right. But it 
 has fallen out that the Earl of Bedford has called to mind 
 certain debts to me, or alleged debts for timber, wool, and 
 corn, and has sent orders to the steward to pay me for the 
 same in gold. The Earl — " he stopped himself. " But 
 there, I will say no more. The money is not mine." 
 
 " What, no real debt ? " 
 
 " I say nothing. I take it with me, whether mine or 
 not signifies naught to thee ; it goes to the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth." 
 
 "It concerns me, father, for I want, and must have 
 
URIfli: A TALl^ OF DAUTMOOll. 321 
 
 money. I am shortly to be married, and I cannot be as a 
 beggar. I have sent to the College of Arms for licence to 
 change my name, and that will cost me a hundred pounds. 
 I want the mone}'." 
 
 " I cannot let you have it." 
 
 ** But it is here. Let me toll it." 
 
 " Never — get thee away, I cannot attend to thee now." 
 
 " But, father ; I cannot be left thus, j'our clearing away 
 all the money in the house, and I about to marry ; who can 
 say but Armageddon may turn all contrary to your ex^Dec- 
 tations." 
 
 "Put off the marriage till I return." 
 
 " It cannot be put off. What if all goes wrong, and the 
 land be given up to the Jesuits? What then with thy 
 neck? What with thy money? Will either be spared? 
 Give me, at least, the gold, and take care of thy neck thy- 
 self ; then one will be safe at all events." 
 
 " If it be the Lord's will," said the old man, with a look 
 of dignity, " I am well content. If I follow Lord William 
 Russell's steps, I follow a good man, and die in a righteous 
 cause. I shall seal my faith with my blood." 
 
 "And the Jesuits will lay their hands on all thou 
 hast " 
 
 " I have nothing. Kilworthy belongs to thy sister. As 
 for what I have saved, it is not much. I have some bills, 
 I have contributed to the suffering saints, I have helped 
 the cause of the Gospel with my alms " 
 
 " More the reason, if so much has been fooled away that 
 this should be secured. The cause of the Gospel is the 
 providing for thine own household, and there never yei 
 was a more suffering saint than mj^self. I will lay hands 
 on this coin, and take it as my wedding portion ! " 
 
 "Hands off!" shouted the old man, half drawing his 
 sword. " Though thou art mine own son, I would run thee 
 through the body or ever thou shouldst touch this, which 
 is for the justest, truest, holiest cause, and I am a stew- 
 ard that must give account for the same. I will give thee 
 twenty pounds." 
 
 " That will not pay the clerks of the Herald's College.'* 
 
 " I will not pay for that — to change the ancient name of 
 Crymes for another." 
 
 " What ! Not when one name brings to me a vile twenty 
 21 
 
322 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 pounds, and the other name will give me a thousand pounds 
 a year ! " 
 
 J " Heaven gave tliee to me, for my sorrow," said the old 
 man, " and in giving thee to me, covered thee with my 
 name. It is tempting heaven to cast it off and take an- 
 other. But there ! t have no time for talk. Would God 
 I could persuade thee to draw a sword for the good cause." 
 
 " Not a bodkin ! " mocked Fox, who was very angry. 
 The sight of the bags of money fevered him. " But you 
 have one after your own heart ridden forward, and that is 
 'Tony Cleverdon. I heard as much from Luke." 
 
 *' 'Tony Cleverdon ! " repeated Mr. Crymes. "I am re- 
 joiced at that. Ah ! would that Providence had given him 
 to me as a son ! 'Tony Cleverdon ! That is well. He 
 will take my place at the head of a brigade from this re- 
 gion. My intirmities and age w411 not suffer me to ride, 
 but I will speak to the Duke, and he shall be the captain 
 over our men from Tavistock. But come now, and be of 
 good mind for once, and hel}) me, lad." The old man 
 took up one of the money bags. "I have sent the men to 
 the kitchen for their supper, and I would remove all these 
 to the carriage whilst they are away, as tliey know naught 
 about the treasure, and it is well tliat they should remain 
 ignorant. Not that I misdoubt them, they be honest men 
 and true, and would not rob me of a shilling, but their 
 tongues might clack at the taverns, and so it get noised 
 that there was money in the coach, and come to the ears of 
 scoundrels, and we be waylaid. Not but that we shall be 
 well provided against them ; for I shall be armed, so also 
 the footman on the box beside the driver, and there will 
 be two riders armed, with each a horse led to hitch on 
 when w^e go up the hills, so as to have six to pull the 
 coach up. And I shall have two of our recruits to go on, 
 with carbines, ahead, and spy about, that there be no high- 
 w^aymen awaiting us on the road. So ! Anthony Cleverdon 
 is gone on without tarrying for me to ask him. That is 
 like the lad. Tore Heaven ! even were a party of footpads 
 to waylay us, if I said, * Gentlemen of the Koad, I am trav- 
 elling for the Protestant cause, bearing specie to the camp, 
 and we are rising against the Jesuits and the Inquisition, 
 and the Pope of Eome, join us and march along ! ' I be- 
 lieve not one of them would touch a coin, but all would 
 
URITU: A TALE OF DAUTMOOn. 323 
 
 give a clieer and come alon^^. Why, who will stay us? 
 There is but the High Sheriff, John Rowc, is a Catholic, 
 and perhaps three or four more among the gentry, and 
 among the common, simple folk ne'er an one that would 
 stay us, and not wish us God speed ! Come, lend a hand 
 with the bags ; I will hold the candle. Let all be stowed 
 away whilst the men are supping." 
 
 In the courtyard of Kilworthy stood the glass coach of 
 Mr. Crymes — a huge and cumbrous vehicle, so cumbrous 
 that it required four horses to draw it along the roads, 
 and six to convey it to the top of a hill. Travelling on 
 the highways was not smooth and swift in those days ; the 
 roads were made by filling the ruts with unbroken stones 
 of all sizes, unbroken as taken off the fields. Where there 
 was a slough, faggots were laid down, and the horses stum- 
 bled over the faggots and soused into the mire between 
 them as best they could. Travelling in saddle was in 
 those days slow, especially in wet weather, but travelling 
 in a coach was a snail-like progress, and the outrunners 
 had not to exert themselves extraordinarily to distance the 
 horses, for they could trip along on the turf at the side of 
 the ways, which were part slough, part rubble -beds of tor- 
 rents, without the inconvenience and perils that assailed 
 the travellers on wheels. 
 
 Mr. Crymes always journeyed in his coach, for, owing to 
 an internal malady, he was unable to sit a horse ; but a 
 coach-journey tried him greatly, owing to his age, and the 
 jolting he went through in his conveyance. 
 
 The courtyard was deserted, the monstrous vehicle 
 looked in the darkness like a hearse, so black and massive 
 was it, only the flicker from the reflection of the light re- 
 lieved its sombreness as Mr. Crymes crept round to the 
 back with his lantern, and a bag of gold under one arm. 
 
 Fox sulkily obeyed his father. At the back of the car- 
 riage was the boot that had a flap which, when unlocked, 
 fell down. The old man fumbled for and produced the 
 key, unfastened the receptacle, and thrust his bag inside. 
 
 " Now give me thine, and go for two more," said he, 
 *' and I will tick them off in my note-book as they are 
 placed in the boot." 
 
 "It is a pity, father," said Fox, **that you have not % 
 stouter lock." 
 
S24 JJRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " Nay, it snfficeth," answered Mr. Crymes. '' None will 
 know what is fastened within. If we were — and the chance 
 is not like to come — overpowered by highwaymen, I trow 
 they would demand the key and open the boot thoiig-h the 
 lock were twice as strong. My own luggage shall travel 
 in the front boot. Go, lad, fetch me more of the gold. 
 Even in the best cause men will fight faintly unless they be 
 paid." 
 
 Fox obeyed, and brought all the bags in pairs to the 
 carriage, and saw the old man stow them away. He wa^ 
 in an ill-humour, and cursed his father's folly in his heart. 
 
 " How if the venture fails ? " he asked, " and then you 
 be led to Tyburn. It will be a sorry end to have lost all 
 this gold as well as thy life. Thy life is thine own to 
 throw away, but the gold I may claim a right to. I am thy 
 son, I want it ; I am about to be married, and have a use 
 for the money ; now it will all go into the pockets of 
 wretched country clowms, who will shoulder a musket and 
 trail a pike for a shilling — if it were given to mc, I could 
 put it to good usage." 
 
 '•' Come with me to my stud}^" said the old man. ' ' Here 
 come Jock and Jonas from the kitchen. Come along with 
 me, and thou shall have twenty pound in silver and gold, 
 and a hundred more in bills that may be discounted when 
 the present troubles are over." 
 
 " I will ride with thee, father, some part cf tlio road as 
 thy guard — till the daybreak." 
 
 CHAPTEB XLV. 
 
 UNLADING. 
 
 The hour was past midnight and before dawn when the 
 great coach of Squire Crymes approached the long hill of 
 Black Down. Tlie road from Plymouth to Exeter was one 
 of singular loneliness for a considerable part of its course, 
 but in no part did it traverse country so desolate and 
 apart from population as in the stretch, a posting stage be- 
 tween Tavistock and Okehampton, a distance of sixteen 
 miles. It ran high up on the tlanks of Dartmoor, mount- 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 325 
 
 ing it nearly nine linndred feet above the level of the sea, 
 with the trackless waste of tlie forest on one hand, and on 
 the other a descent by ragged and rngged lanes to distant 
 Tillages. Lydford, almost the sole one at all near the road, 
 was severed from it by ravines sawn through the rock, 
 through which the moor rivers thundered and boiled, ever 
 engaged in tearing for themselves a deeper course. 
 
 Precisely because this track of road was the most inhos- 
 pitable and removed from human haunts, was it one of the 
 safest to travel even in the most troublous times, for no one 
 dreamed of traversing it after nightfall, when aware that 
 for sixteen miles he would be cut off from help in the 
 event of a breakage of his carriage or the laming of a 
 horse ; and as no one ever thought of taking this road ex- 
 cept in broad day, when it was fairly occupied by trains of 
 travellers, no footpads and highwaymen thought it worth 
 their while to try their fortunes upon it. 
 
 Roads in former davs to a larjje extent made themselves, 
 or were made by the travellers. In the first place the bot- 
 toms of valleys were deserted by them as much as might 
 be, because of the bogs that were there, and the lines of 
 communication were laid on the ridges of hills above the 
 springs that undermined and made spongy the soil. Then 
 the roads were traced before the enclosures were made, 
 and originally were carried as directly as possible from 
 point to point. But obstacles, sometimes temporary, in- 
 tervened : perhaps a slough, perhaps a rut of extraordinary 
 depth had torn into the road, and became the nucleus of a 
 pool ; perhaps an unduly hard and obstinate prong of 
 rock appeared after the U23i:)er surface had been worn 
 through. Then the stream of travellers swayed to one 
 side, and gave the course of the road a curve, which curve 
 was followed when hedges were run up. These hedges 
 following the curves stereotj^ped the line of road, which 
 thenceforth became permanently irregular in course. 
 
 A roadway in those days was about as easy to go over, 
 and to go over with expedition, as the beach of Brighton. 
 Consequently it was slow work journeying on such high- 
 ways on horseback ; and it was journeying like a snail, 
 when travelling in a coach. The outrunner had no very 
 arduous task to outstrip the horses. He put his foot on 
 the turf by the road-^ide, and tripped along at hi3 ease, 
 
326 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 leaping the puddles and stones which were occasional by 
 the road-side ; whereas they were continuous in the road- 
 way. 
 
 Fox rode sulkily beside the coach, as it rolled and rocked 
 along the higlnvay from Tavistock to the North. The 
 night was overcast, after midnight, as it had been before 
 the turn of the night ; no wind was blowing, nor did rain 
 fall, but the aspect was utterly sombre and uncheering. 
 Every light was out in such houses as were passed, and not 
 a passenger was met, or overtook the carriage that lumbered 
 along, sending squirts of muddy water to this and that side 
 as the wheels plunged into ruts. Fox came occasion- 
 ally to the coach window, and said something to his father, 
 and was bespattered from head to foot, boots, clothes, and 
 face. 
 
 Presently the point w^as attained where the road left the 
 valley of the brawling Tavy and climbed Black Down. There 
 was a directness in the waj' in which old roads went at hills 
 that was in keeping with the characters of our forefathers. 
 A height had to be surmounted, and the road was carried 
 up it with a rush, and with none of our modern zig-zags 
 and easy sweeps. The hill must be ascended, and the 
 sooner it was surmounted the better. Now, the great road 
 to the North from Plymouth by Tavistock had the huge 
 hogsback of Black Down to surmount, and it made no lies- 
 itating and leisurely attempts at it ; it went up four limi- 
 dred feet as direct as a bow-line. 
 
 On reaching the foot of the Down, the driver paused and 
 the footman on the box dismounted. The men with the 
 spare horses went ahead and hitched on their beasts. Then 
 ensued loud cries and shouts, and the cracking of whips, 
 each man attending to a horse, and encouraging it to do its 
 uttermost to haul the great coach up the hill. The only 
 men who kept their places were the driver on the box, and 
 Mr. Crj'mes within. 
 
 Now, a good many other coaches had halted at the same 
 spot, and halting there had ground away the soil, so as to 
 make a very loose piece of road ; moreover, the water fall- 
 ing on the road had run down it to the lowest level, and 
 finding this rotten portion there had accumulated and done 
 its utmost to assist the disintegration. The result was that 
 the wheels sank in liquid mire to the axles, and six horses 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 327 
 
 did little more than churn the filth and jerk the coach 
 about. 
 
 Mr. Crymes having been subjected to several violent re- 
 lapses as the coach \vas half pulled out of the pit and then 
 sank back again, thrust his head out of the window and 
 called : — " Wilkey ! will it not be best to have all the horses 
 harnessed? There is rope in the box." 
 
 "Well, perhaps it were best, your worshii3." 
 
 Thereupon much discussion ensued, and much time was 
 spent in attaching ropes ; and fiuallj^ with great hooting, 
 and with imprecations as well, and some words of encour- 
 agement, the whole team was set in motion, and the coach 
 was hauled out of the slough, and began slowly to snail 
 the way up the two-mile ascent. 
 
 Again Mr. Crymes thrust forth his head. • 
 
 " Wilkey ! Perhaps if Mr. Anthony were to ride for- 
 ward, it might be an encouragement to the horses to go 
 along with more spirit." 
 
 " Your worship, I do not see Mr. Fox ! I beg pardon, 
 Mr. Anthony. I think he has returned." 
 
 " What ! without a farewell? The boy is unmannerly, 
 and inconsiderate of what is due to a father. But such is 
 the decay of the world, alas ! Go on, Wilkey ! there was 
 no necessity for all the men and horses to halt to hear what 
 I had to say to thee." 
 
 Agfdn there ensued a cracking of whips, objurgations, 
 and cheers, a great straining at ropes, and a forward move- 
 ment of the coach. 
 
 The vehicle proceeded some way with more ease, for the 
 stream of water that had here dowed over the road had 
 smoothed it, and cleared it of obstructions. 
 
 Presently the men and horses came to a dead halt, and 
 there ensued ahead much conversation, some expostulation, 
 and commotion. 
 
 Again Mr. Crymes' head was thrust out of the window, 
 and he called, " Wilkey ! I say ; come here, Wilkey ! What 
 is the matter ? Why dost thou not go on ? Has any rope 
 broken?" 
 
 But several minutes elapsed before Wilkey responded to 
 his master's call, and when finallv, in answer to further 
 and more urgent shouts, he did come, it was not alone, 
 but attended by several of the other men, dragging with 
 
S2S UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 them by the arms a man whom they had found in the 
 road. 
 
 " What is it ? Who is he ? What does he here ? " 
 
 *' Oh, I will be good ! I promise — I swear, I will be 
 good ! I'll say my prayers ! I'll not get drunk any more ! 
 I do not want to go inside — I'd rather walk a hundred 
 miles and run by night and day, than have this carriage 
 stop for me, and hear " 
 
 "Who are you? What are you doing here?" asked Mr. 
 Crymes. "Some of you bring the lantern. Let me look 
 at him. Is he a footpad ? " 
 
 "No — never — never robbed any one in my life. I pray 
 you do not ask me to step in. I thank thee, I had rather 
 walk than gather to thy side. I really will be good. Ton 
 my soul I will. Drive on, coachee ! " 
 
 " Whj^ — 'fore Heaven !" exclaimed Mr. Crymes, " this is 
 Mr. Solomon Gibbs — and, the worse for liquor. Mr. Gibbs, 
 Mr. Gibbs ! " 
 
 "Eh!" said the gentleman, coming to the coach door, 
 " why, by cock ! it isn't my Ladye at all ! By my soul, you 
 must excuse me, Master Crymes. I was in that state of 
 fright ! At this time of night, and on Black Down ! I 
 thought it could be no other than the Death Coach, and 
 that my Ladye wi' the aslien face was inside, and would 
 make me ride b}' her." 
 
 Then half-humorously, but half-scared still, and not 
 wholly sober, Mr. Soloinon Gibbs trolled forth in broken 
 tones, 
 
 I'd rather walk a liundred miles 
 
 And run by niglit and day, 
 Than liave that carriage halt for me 
 
 And hear my Ladye say — 
 '* Now pray step in and make no din, 
 
 Step in with me to ride ; 
 There's room I trow, by me for you, 
 
 And all tlie world beside." 
 
 " Why, how came you here? " asked Mr. Crymes. " My 
 men took you for a highwayman, and might have fired 
 their holsters or carbines at you." 
 
 " And I might ask, how came you here at night, in your 
 coach ! By coqk ! You do not know the scare you gave 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 329 
 
 me, at the very midnight — too — and I on the very road 
 that my Ladye goes over in her Death Coach! But — I 
 thought it stopped for me, and that uj^set my mind alto- 
 gether. When I saw something — black liorses, and a coach 
 coming along, I tried to skip out of the way and hide 
 somewhere, but, not a hiding-place could I find on the 
 moor. I did suppose at first that it was on its v/ay for my 
 poor niece — for Urith, but when it stopped — when it 
 stopped — " he shivered. *' I felt my heart go into my 
 boots. And I have been looking for him everywhere, in 
 every ale-house, and not so much r.s a thread of his coat, 
 nor the breath of a word as to his whereabouts, and she — 
 so ill — dying. I should not be surprised, dead. By cock ! 
 when I saw the coach come along, and at or about mid- 
 night, I made sure my Ladj^e was on her way to Wills- 
 worthy, to fetch Urith ; but when the coach stoj^ped — when 
 it stopped — " again he shuddered. 
 
 " Whom are you seeking?" asked Mr. Crymes. 
 
 ''Anthony, to be sure, my nephew-in-law. But I say. 
 Justice, thou art a religious man and a bit of a Puritan ; 
 now solve me this. When I thought this was my Lady's 
 coach, and that she was about to put out her bony hand, 
 and to wave me to come in, then I swore and j^rotested 
 I'd not touch another drop of drink and be good as any 
 red-letter day saint. Now, as the carriage is not hers, but 
 yours, and instead of the Lady wi' the Ashen Face it is the 
 Bight "Worshij^ful Justice Crymes, what say you ? Does it 
 hold ? Mind 3'ou, the oath was taken under misapjirehen- 
 sion. Does it hold ? " 
 
 *' What is that you say, Master Gibbs, about your niece? 
 Is she really so ill ? " 
 
 " 111 ! So ill that I made sure the coach was on its way 
 for her. I've been running about the world all night like 
 the Wandering Jew, to first one ale-house and then anoth- 
 er, after Anthony. Confound the fellow ! what does he 
 mean, running away, hiding where none can find him, when 
 Urith is so ilf ? " 
 
 ''What ails her?" asked JMi-. Ciymes. *'Step in by 
 me " 
 
 "No. 'Fore Heaven, I don't like the risk. You may be 
 my Lady in disguise, and I may rub my eyes and find that 
 a trick has been put on me. I will into no coach what- 
 
330 UPdTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 ever to-night. I will keep to my own feet, though, indeed, 
 they are so shaken with much running about that I can't 
 rely on them. I'll to the surgeon and have him examine 
 them, and let me know why they do not hold up under me 
 as they was wont." 
 
 *'How long has Urith been ill?" 
 
 " Now, look here ! " said Mr. Solomon Gibbs, approach- 
 ing the window closer, and lowering his voice. " Poor 
 thing, poor thing ! Prematurely, and the babe dead — she 
 out of her mind, crazed like — the house upside down, and 
 me running about the country, looking into every ale- 
 Louse I can call to mind, to make inquiries after Anthon}', 
 and not a footprint of him anywhere, and he has gone off 
 wdth a horse — the aj^ple-grey — 3'ou know him." 
 
 " I can tell thee where Anthony Cleverdon is — he has 
 followed the highest call — the voice of religion and of his 
 country's need. He has ridden away to join the Duke of 
 Monmouth." 
 
 " AVliew ! " whistled Solomon. "And his wife like every 
 minute to die ! I'll go back and tell her. This is ugly 
 tidings — he tried to give me a blow 'gainst all laws of the 
 game, this past day, but that I forgive him. But to run 
 off and never leave a word at home, and Urith dying ! 
 That I'll never forgive." 
 
 *'If I encounter him in the camp I will tell him the tid- 
 ings ; and now I must along. This delay has been great. 
 Wilkey ! wliat are 3'ou standing there agape for ? Urge the 
 horses on ; by this time we should have been at the top 
 of Black Down, Fare thee well, Master Gibbs." 
 
 He waived his hand out of the window. 
 
 The whips were cracked, shouts, oaths, and entreaties 
 recommenced, and the vehicle was again in motion. Mr. 
 Solomon Gibbs remained standinc^. 
 
 But the carriage had not gone forward mau}^ yards be- 
 fore Mr. Gibbs came striding up to the window ; he put 
 his head through and said, "Your worship! Are you 
 aware that the boot-flap behind is down ? " 
 
 "Boot — behind !" almost screamed Mr. Crvmes. "Let 
 me out ! Heigh ! Stay the horses '. Wilkey ! the door ! " 
 
 He scrambled out of the coach, called for the lantern, 
 and ran behind. 
 
 The flap was down, the boot open — and empt^. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 331 
 
 The coach had been unladen either at the slough at the 
 foot of the hill, or during the commotion occasioned by 
 the discovery of Mr. Solomon Gibbs. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVI. 
 
 AN EVENING SO CLEAK. 
 
 Luke paced his room at the parsonage, Peter Tavy, the 
 greater part of the night. He had nmch, very much to 
 trouble him. Uritli was seriously ill. IMistress Penwarno 
 was with her, otherwise she would have been left to ser- 
 vants who, with the best intentions, might not have known 
 what to do. Her fainting fits had continued one after an- 
 other, and then had been succeeded by an event which left 
 her in fever and delirium. 
 
 Luke's hands clenched with Avrath as he thought of An- 
 thony — Anthony, to whom had been entrusted the care of 
 this precious jewel, who had undervalued her, wearied of 
 her, neglected her, and broken her heart, perhaps de- 
 stroATdher young life. He was gone before, indeed, that 
 he suspected how ill Urith was, and unaware of the danger 
 she was in. Luke could not comnuuiicate with him, and if 
 he did send a message after him, this might reach him 
 when too late, or when unable to return. Urith's life hung 
 on a thread ; and, as Luke jjaced his room, he could not 
 resolve whether it were better to pray that it should be 
 spared or taken. 
 
 If her life were spared, it would be to what ? To a re- 
 newal of misunderstandings, to the greatest of unhnpj^i- 
 ness, probably to deep-seated, embittered estrangement. 
 Anthony and Urith were unsuited to each other— she sul- 
 len, moody, and breaking forth into bursts of passion ; he 
 impulsive, reckless, and without consideration for others. 
 Was it conceivable that they could become so tempered 
 and altered as to agree ? He did not think this possible, 
 and he folded his hands to pray for her release ; but again 
 he shrank from framing such a prayer lest, by making it, 
 he should bring upon himself a sense of guilt, should hia 
 petition be answered. 
 
332 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 What was to become of Uritli if she lived ? Best of all 
 that Anthony should fall on the battle-field fighting for lib- 
 erty and his religion. That would ennoble a life that 
 lacked dignity, that had been involved in one disaster after 
 another, that had alienated the hearts most attached — his 
 father's, his own, Luke's, and, lastly, his wife's. But what 
 if it were so ? What if Urith were left a widow ? 
 
 Luke's heart gave a leap, and then stood still and grew 
 faint. She would then be free. Dare he — he, Luke — 
 think of her, love her, once more ? He had the strength 
 of moral power to think out the situation, and he saw now 
 that it must ever remain impossible that they should unite. 
 He had his sacred calling, that brouglit on him obligations 
 he dare not cast aside ; and Urith's husband must be one 
 to live at Willsworthy, and recover her property from the 
 ruin into which it had fallen by devoting thereto all the 
 energies of his mind and body. Moreover, the radical dif- 
 ference in their characters, in the entire direction of their 
 minds, must separate them, and make them strangers in all 
 that is best and stoutest in the inner nature. No, not even 
 were she left a wddow, could Luke draw nearer to her. 
 
 With his delicate conscientiousness, he took himself to 
 task for having for a moment anticipated such a con- 
 tingency springing out of the possible death of Anthony. 
 Then Luke turned his thouglits to Bessie, and saw almost 
 as dark a cloud over Hall as that which hung upon Wills- 
 worthy. If Anthony and Urith were un suited for each 
 other, far greater was the ditterence whieli existed between 
 Fox and Bessie. Luke knew Fox — knew his unscrupu- 
 lousness, his greed, his meanness, his moral worthlessness ; 
 and he valued no woman he knew higher than he did 
 Bessie, for her integrity, her guilelessness, and self-devo- 
 tion. By no right could Fox claim the hand of Bessie, for 
 by no possibility could he make her happy. To unite her 
 to him was to ensure the desolation of her whole life, the 
 blighting of all that was beautiful in her. It was to con- 
 sign her to inevitable heartbreak. She would take an oath 
 to do what was impracticable ; she could jieither honour 
 nor love such a man as Fox ; she would strive to do both, 
 but must fail. Luke vowed that nothing would induce 
 him to pronounce the marriage benedictiou over their 
 heads. 
 
XIRITII: A TALE OF DARniOOR. 333 
 
 Luke was still up and awake, but kneeling at his table, 
 and with Lis head in his hands, when a rattle of gravel at 
 his window-panes brought him to his feet with a start, 
 and he went to see who was in want of him. He opened 
 the casement and looked out, to see Mr. Holomon Gibbs 
 below. Luke descended and unfastened the door. 
 
 ** Is Urith worse ? " was his breathless question. 
 
 "Whew ! I can say nothing," answered Mr. Gibbs. "I 
 am cold. Always chillest before dawn, it is saitl, and daj^- 
 break cannot be a bowshot off. What dost think ? Hiali- 
 way robbery on Black Down — this night Justice Crymes 
 23landered whilst on his way to Exeter in his glass coach. 
 The rascals prised open the boot behind, and though there 
 were six men with the carriage, no one either saw the rob- 
 ber or heard him at work. It must have been done whilst 
 they were urging the horses \\]} the ascent ; but it is pass- 
 ing strange. The highwayman must have been mounted, 
 for he could not have escaped with the plundered goods 
 had he not bestrid a horse. How it was done, when it was 
 done, by whom, no one can tell anything, and by cock 
 they're all talking, and every one has an opinion." 
 
 "Where is Mr. Crymes now ?" 
 
 " Gone on. He w^as as one distraught — what with los- 
 ing his money, and the call of the business he was on." 
 
 " His money taken ! " 
 
 " Ay, and more than his own — in all about four hun- 
 dred pounds, that was to be conveyed to the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth at Taunton. He told me about it, as I have to go 
 to Mr. Cleverdon about it, and see that the neighbourhood 
 be searched for footpids. It must have been done quickly, 
 for Fox rode behind the carria^-e, and now and then alone- 
 Gide it, to the rise of Black Down, when he turned and 
 went back to Kilworth}-. 'Twas dexterously done, and 
 must have been the deed of a skilled hand. Now, what I 
 am come hero for is that I do not care myself to go to 
 Squire Cleverdon. There has not been pleasantness be- 
 tween him and my family, so seeing your light, I came 
 here to ask you to do the matter. Tell him that steps 
 must be taken to have the neighbourhood searched for 
 strangers — strangers they must be. We've none here 
 could do the trick ; all honest folk. And I can be of bet- 
 ter service going round to the ale-houses. I am well 
 
334 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 kuo'wn there, and there I can pick up information that 
 may be of nse. Every cobbler to his bench, and that is 
 mine. Will you go to Hall as soon as 3^011 can in the 
 morning ? " 
 
 "I will do so, certainl}'. Now tell me about Urith." 
 
 " Urith ! I cannot. I have not seen her ; nor been near 
 Willsworthy since you came away, I have been going 
 about the country, to the taverns looking for Anthony, and 
 not hearing an}^ tidings of him." 
 
 "I can tell you where he is." 
 
 " I know myself now. Squire Crymes informed me that 
 he had ridden across tlio moor towards Exeter, also bound 
 for Taunton. Let me sit down. Nothing can be done yet ; 
 every one sleeps. The Hare and Hounds at Cudliptown 
 will be closed. Do you hap to have any cider that can be 
 got at ? I am dry as old ha}'." 
 
 Mr. Gibbs took a seat. 
 
 " Lord, I have had a day," said he, *' enough to parch 
 up all the juices of the bod}'. There was the aftair with 
 Tony to begin with, and I should not be surprised if the 
 cut of the single-stick he gave her " 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Luke, with a cry. " Ho strike her ! " 
 
 *'Well — not that, exactly. He and I were playing at 
 single-sticks, when he gave me a cut out of all rules, and 
 might have laid my skull bare had not Urith caught it on 
 her hand. I doubt not it stung. It must have stung, and 
 that may have begun the trouble. No — he never ill-treated 
 her to that extent, intentionally, but they have not been 
 happy together, and she has been very miserable of late." 
 
 Luke sighed, and said nothing. He had covered his 
 face with his hand. 
 
 •* Poor wench ! " continued Uncle Sol, " she has no pleas- 
 ure in anything now — that is to say, she has not for some 
 while, not even in my stories and songs. Everything has 
 gone contrary. Anthony has found fault with all I do — 
 has comj^lained of the state of the farm and the buildings, as 
 if I could better matters without money. He has been 
 discontented with everything, and Urith has seen it and 
 fretted over it, and now things are at their worst ; he is 
 away ; she dying, if not dead ; and. Heavens help us — here, 
 have you any cider? I am dried up with troubles." 
 
 ** Come ! " said Luke, *'I can bear to be here no longer ; 
 
URITII : A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 335 
 
 I will go with you to Willswortby ; I must know how Urith 
 is. I canuot eutlure this uncertainty longer." 
 
 Luke walked to AVillsworthy with Mr. Gibbs, who was 
 somewhat reluctant to pass Cudliptown without knocking 
 up the taverner of the Hare and Hounds to tell him what 
 had happened that night on Black Down, and to obtain 
 from him a little refreshment before he traversed the last 
 stage of his walk. 
 
 The grey of dawn appeared over the eastern ridge of 
 moors by the time Willsworthy was reached, and the birds 
 were beginning to pipe and cry. 
 
 No one had gone to bed that night in the house, a rush- 
 light was burning in the hall, unregarded, a long column 
 of red-hot snuff. The front door was open. Mr. Gibbs 
 strode into the kitchen, and found a servant-maid there 
 dozing on the settle. He sent her upstairs to call Mrs. 
 Penwarne down, and the old lady descended. When she 
 saw Luke, she was glad, and begged him to come upstairs 
 with her and see Urith. It was possible that his presence 
 might calm her. She was excited, wandering in mind, and 
 troubled with fancies. 
 
 Luke mounted to the room where Urith was. 
 
 By the single candle contending with the grey advancing 
 light of dawn he saw her, and was alarmed at her condi- 
 tion. Her face was pale as death, save for two flames in 
 her cheeks, and her eyes, unusually large, had a feverish 
 fire in them. She was sitting up. Mrs. Penwarne had 
 striven all night to induce her to lie down, but Urith in- 
 cessantly struggled to rise, and she had taken advantage of 
 her nurse's absence to do so. 
 
 Luke went to her side and spoke. She looked up at him 
 with hot eyes, and without token of recognition. 
 
 " I have killed him," she said. *' I did it so ! " — she rais- 
 ed her hand, clenched it, and struck downwards, imitating 
 the action of Fox. *'He fell on the hearthstone, as mother 
 said he would, and then I tried to strike him again, and 
 again, but was torn away." She began to grapple in the 
 air with uplifted hands — " Where is the knife ? Where 
 are the gloves ? That for Urith ! " 
 
 Luke took her burning right hand, and said, " Lie down, 
 lie down and sleep. You must be very quiet, you must 
 not distress yourself. Anthony is well." 
 
336 XJRITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " Anthony is dead. I killed liitn. And my baby is dead. 
 They killed it, because I had killed Anthony." 
 
 " Anthony is alive, he is but little hurt." 
 
 " Where is he ? You have carried him away and buried 
 him. I know he is dead. Why does he not come if he is 
 not dead. I am sure lie is dead. Look ! " — she again 
 struooled with her hand to be free, and show how the blow 
 was struck — Look ! You shall see how I did it ! " 
 
 *'No — Urith, lie down ! Hush ! I will pray with you.'' 
 
 Luke knelt at her side, but she turned her head impa- 
 tiently away. '* I will not be prayed for. I cannot pray. 
 I killed him. I am glad I killed him, he Avas untrue to me. 
 He had always loved Julian, and he grew tired of me. I 
 killed him. I would not give him up. Julian should not 
 have him back." 
 
 " Listen — I will pray." 
 
 " It is of no use. I do not regret that I struck him — I 
 struck him to the heart. Answer me. Is there forgive- 
 ness if there be no rej^entance ? " 
 
 She looked eagerly, almost fiercely, at Luke, who did 
 not know what to answer. She was, it seemed to him, 
 partly conscious, but partly only, of what had taken place 
 — to be in a state of half dream. She knew him, she could 
 reason, but she believed herself to have done that which 
 was done actually by Fox Crymes. 
 
 "There!" she exclaimed, and threw back her head on 
 the pillow. "It cannot bo. I am glad I killed him. I could 
 not do other. He brought it on himself. He was untrue 
 to me. He loved Julian all his life, all but for a little while, 
 when he fancied me. But you — you gave him to me at 
 the altar. He could not remain mine. He was drawn 
 away. But I could not let Julian have him. She defied 
 me — it was a fair strife. She won up to a certain point, 
 then I w^on the last point. Look ! I will show you how I 
 did it." 
 
 Once more she strove to sit up in the bed, and raised 
 her hand, and clenched it. 
 
 " Do not be afraid. I have no knife now. They have 
 taken it away to wash off the blood. I have heard them 
 cleaning it. But my hand has the stain. That they can- 
 not clean aw^ay. I had his blood on me once before — at 
 the Drift. But then I did not know what that meant. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR.' 387 
 
 See — this ig how I did it. Here is a feather, a feather from 
 my pillow. That will do. I will let you see how I killed 
 him. I will strike him with the feather. Then take that 
 and clean it too." 
 
 Luke held her wrist, and gently forced her back on her 
 pillow. 
 
 "Urith!" he said, "leave him to God. Commit the 
 matter to God. Do not take the revenging of your wrongs, 
 real or fancied, into vour own hands." 
 
 She allowed him to compose her for a moment, and 
 closed her eyes. But presently opened them again, and 
 they were as full of fire as before. 
 
 " All is to pieces," she said, " all is broken, and Anthony 
 broke it. Look here ! " she plucked at her neck, and 
 drew forth the halved token that was suspended there. 
 " Look, he gave me this — but it was false. He has only 
 given me one half, he has given the other to Julian. If she 
 comes here, I will put my hand in between the libbon and 
 her throat and throttle her. Then there will be three 
 dead — Anthony and my baby and she ; and I will die next. 
 I hope I shall. I long to die." 
 
 " You must not desire death, it is sinful." 
 
 *' But I do ; I have nothing to live for. I have killed 
 Anthou}^ and my baby is dead ; they say it was born dead. 
 Then I will kill Julian. Look ! you shall see how I killed 
 Anthony." 
 
 Again she struggled to sit up. Luke rose from his 
 knees, and said, peremptorily, "Lie down." 
 
 She obeyed, and he laid his cool hand on her burning 
 temples. Below could be heard Solomon Gibbs tuning his 
 fiddle, and then playing a few snatches. 
 
 Urith began to struggle under Luke's hands. " Do you 
 hear? He is playing Anthony's song. Let him play it out 
 and sing it also." 
 
 Mrs. Penwarne went to the head of the stairs and told 
 Mx. Gibbs the request of Urith ; then he put the violin to 
 his chin and played : 
 
 An evening so clear 
 I would that I were 
 To kiss tliy soft clieek 
 With the faintest of air. 
 
 23 
 
338 XJBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 The star that is twiukliug 
 So hriglitly above, 
 I wouhl that I were 
 To eu-lighteii my iove. 
 
 He plaj^ed very softly, and as lie played the words of 
 the song formed and passed faintly over Urith's lips. She 
 may have recalled that evening when Anthony sang it, 
 coming up the hill, and so was carried away from the tor- 
 turing present back into a pleasant past. 
 
 If I were the seas, 
 
 Tliat about the world run, 
 
 I'd give thee my pearls. 
 
 Not retaining of one. 
 
 If I were the summer. 
 
 With flowers and green, 
 
 I'd garnish thy tHrnplef, 
 
 And would crown thee my queen. 
 
 She was quieter, lying with eyes closed, murmuring the 
 words as Uncle Sol played in the room below. 
 
 If I were a kiln, 
 
 All in fervour and flame, 
 I'd catch thee, and then be 
 
 Consumed in — the — same, 
 
 Luke lightly raised his hand, and put his finger to his 
 
 lip. 
 
 Urith was asleei^. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVH. 
 
 IN THE HALL GARDEX. 
 
 Bessie w^as in the garden, the following afternoon, with 
 scissors and an apron pinned up, trimming her flowers, yet 
 with her mind away from the plants ; she was unhappy on 
 her own account, yet strove after resignation, and she felt 
 the consciousness of having done right in sacrificing her- 
 self for her father. He must now behave more kindly 
 towards her : be more readv to listen to her intercession 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DART3I00R. 339 
 
 for poor Anthony. Poor Anthony ! she had heard that 
 morning that he was gone, gone to extreme risk, and that 
 Urith was in danger. She had resolved that now she must 
 go to Willsworthy and see her sister-in-law, and be of what 
 use to her she could. Her father could no longer forbid 
 that. Even if he did, in that she would not obey him. 
 
 She was stooping over her plants, with tears in her eyes, 
 snipping, picking off dead flowers and leaves, and tying up 
 the carnations, when she heard behind her the voice of 
 Fox. 
 
 " What !— busy ? " 
 
 She winced, but rose, and with a little hesitation, held 
 out her hand to him. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I must do something with my hands 
 to keej) my thoughts from resting on troubles." 
 
 " Troubles ! what troubles ? " 
 
 Bessie gave him a look of reproach. " I must feel anx- 
 ious about my brother, and also for Urith. How is it that 
 you did not go as well as your father and my Anthony, to 
 draw a sword for the good cause ? " 
 
 "You ask that? Why, you are my attraction. I cannot 
 leave you to venture my precious life in crack-brain under- 
 takings. Before either of them returns, I suppose we shall 
 be married." 
 
 "I am ready to fulfil my promise at any time," said Bes- 
 sie. 
 
 " The sooner the better. Your father has already sent 
 a messenger for a licence. I shall not rest till you are 
 mine." 
 
 Bessie knew that what Fox desired v/as to have his foot 
 in Hall, and be established there in the position of heir, 
 and that his pretence of caring for her was hollow. A col- 
 our came into her cheeks like the carnations she was tying 
 up. "Enough of that," she said ; "you know the condi- 
 tions on which I take you ?" 
 
 "Conditions ! On my soul I know of none." 
 
 "I told you that I did not love you, that I never had 
 felt any love for you." 
 
 "You had the "frankness to inform me of that, and to say 
 that you had thrown your heart away on some one else, 
 who declined the gift altogether." 
 
 Bessie bowed her head over her flowers. 
 
340 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " Yes, you told me that as we walked in the mnd on the 
 road ; and then you refused me, but changex^l your mind 
 before many hours had passed. I have no doubt that, 
 when I am your husband, you will learn to love and ad- 
 mire me. However, this is no condition." 
 
 "No condition?" asked Bessie, rising, and looking him 
 in the face. " Surely it is. I will take you, as you insist 
 on it, and as my father desires it ; but it must be on the 
 understanding that you do not ask of me at once what is 
 not in my power to give. I will try to love you, I promise 
 you. I will strive with my whole heart to give j'ou all I 
 undertake ; but I cannot do that at once." 
 
 "Oh! you call that a condition. It is well. I accept 
 it." There was a veiled sneer in his tone. 
 
 "Then, again," continued Bessie, "I made my father 
 promise, if I gave my consent, that he would try to forgive 
 Anthony." 
 
 " What ! — forgive and reinstate him ? " asked Fox, 
 sharply. 
 
 " There was nothing said about reinstating him. I sup- 
 pose that my father and you have talked about Hall, and 
 everything that concerns the property, and that you un- 
 derstand the circumstances fully." 
 
 " To be sure I do," said Fox. 
 
 "Then, of course, I said nothing to him about reinstat- 
 ing Anthony, except in his old place in my father's heart. 
 I believe that he will, himself, be glad to forgive the past. 
 He cannot have cast out all the old love for, and pride in 
 Anthony." 
 
 " And he has promised that ? " 
 
 " He has promised to try and forgive him. And now. 
 Fox — I mean Tony Crymes — you are ready to take me, 
 knowing that I do not love you, and can only try to render 
 you that love which will be due from a wife to a husband?" 
 
 "Oh, yes ! I take you as you are." 
 
 Of course he would. It was indifferent to him whether 
 Elizabeth loved him or not, so long as his ambition and 
 greed were satisfied. 
 
 " You see, Bess, I have a sharp tongue, and have made 
 many enemies with it, who say in return sharp things of 
 me, but with this difference — I say these things to their 
 faces, they malign me behind my back. When we are 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DART MO OR. 841 
 
 married you will know me better, aud not believe all you 
 hear said of me." 
 
 Bessie slightly shook her head, and stooped again over 
 her carnations. 
 
 " There is one thing further," she said ; "you must help 
 me to i^ersuade my father to be completely reconciled to 
 Anthon3^" 
 
 "To be sure I will," answered Fox. "You want to see 
 how good a fellow I am, in spite of all that is said of me. 
 Here, take my hand, in token that I will do all you ask of 
 me." 
 
 He gave her a cold, moist hand. 
 
 "And you promise me," she said, taking it, "on your 
 honour that you will stand by me and back me up when I 
 try to bring Anthony and my father together once more 
 on the old terms ? " 
 
 His mistrust was roused, and he did not answer at once. 
 Her frank grey eyes rested full on his face, and his eyes 
 fell before her steady glance. 
 
 "I will do what you will," he said ; " but I do not sup- 
 pose that your father will prove as wax in our hands, to 
 mould as we like. Anthony has too deeply offended him, 
 and Urith he will never see." 
 
 They dropped hands, for at that moment Julian entered 
 the garden. 
 
 " I will go, see your father at once, and make trial in 
 this matter," said he. 
 
 "You will find him in his room ; he is looking at some 
 papers." 
 
 Fox walked away, giving Julian a nod and a sneer as he 
 passed, and entered the house. 
 
 Julian came hastily up to Bess. 
 
 "'My dear Bessie ! Is it true ? Are you really going to 
 take my brother? It cannot — it must not be. It is in- 
 tolerable to be in the house with him when one is master, 
 and he there only on sufferance ; but to have him lord su- 
 j)erior, and to be his slave ! " Julian shivered. 
 
 " It is settled. I have passed my word, and I will not 
 withdraw it." 
 
 "Bess! And after the lesson you have had from An- 
 thony ! " 
 
 "How a lesson, Julian?" 
 
342 URITff: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 
 
 " Wh3% dear cbikl, a lesson that it does not answer io 
 maiTj without love." 
 
 "Surely, Julian, there was love there, on both sides." 
 
 *' Oh ! love ! A passing caprice. Do 3'ou not know that 
 Anthony always loved me? Wh}- has he gone off to join 
 the Duke of Monmouth ? Do 3'ou supjDOse it isl3ecause \\2 
 cares so greatly for the Protestant cause ? Nay, wench, it 
 is that he may escape from me — and from the sight of 
 Urith. I am dangerous, Urith is odious to him. Better be 
 where balls are flying than where my eyes flash with temp- 
 tation and Urith's dart with jealousy." 
 
 " Julian ! how canst thou speak thus ? " Bessie stepped 
 back from her visitor, without offering to take her extended 
 hands. 
 
 "Nay! do not be so offended. What I speak is the 
 truth, and it all comes of marrying where there is no true 
 affection. I am holding up thy brother as a warning to 
 thee. Dost think that Fox cares a rush for thee ? Not 
 half a rush — all he looks to is Hall ; lie takes thee because 
 he cannot have Hall without tliee ; and to have Hall is 
 double pleasure to him, for he will have the place as his 
 own, spiced with the satisfaction of having robbed his friend 
 of it." 
 
 " I cannot help m3'self. I have passed my word, and 
 stand to it." 
 
 " Look how things are now at "Willswortliy. There is 
 Urith dying, maybe ; and Anthonj^ far away. I hope she 
 may die. It is best so, for she will have no happiness any 
 more with Anthon}'. He is weary of her, he has found 
 out that he cannot find his rest in her, his heart is with 
 me. It has come back to me. It flew away a little while, 
 and now it has returned. Anthony is mine. He does not 
 belong any more to Urith." 
 
 *' Shame on you ! " said Bessie. " But I am glad you 
 have spoken on this matter. You have acted sinfully, you 
 have striven to turn Anthony from his duty." 
 ' "I have done so. Urith and I have wrestled a hitch 
 together, and I have given her the turn, a fair back — three 
 points. That is what she knows, and she is eating her 
 heart out at the thought." 
 
 " Do you know what has happened ? Urith has become 
 a mother of a dead child." 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 343 
 
 " Is it so ? " Julian was startled and changed colour. 
 She had not heard this, she oul}' knew that Uritli was ill. 
 
 "She is in high fever and derangement of mind. If you 
 have driven Anthony awa}^ driven him to his death in the 
 battle-field, and Urith also dies, then there will be the lives 
 of all three you will be answerable for. It may be that 
 Anthony was too hasty in marrying Urith, but once mar- 
 ried, you should have left him alone. I do not believe, 
 Julian, that he ever loved you. No, you may look at me 
 in anger and doubt, but I am sure of it ; I am his sister, I 
 have seen and heard him, and if you fancy that he ever 
 loved you, 3'ou are utterly in error. He never did. He 
 never loved any girl till he saw Urith. She was his first 
 love, not you. No, you never stirred his heart. He liked 
 you. It flattered his vanity to see that you admired, 
 almost worshipped him, but love you he did not. No, 
 Julian, never — never ! Urith was his first love, and, please 
 God ! will remain his only love." 
 
 Julian Crvmes turned deadly white, and clenched her 
 hands ao-ainst her bosom. 
 
 " I saw what you were doing at that dance at the Cakes. 
 Then you strove to draw him from his wife — then you 
 threw the seeds of mistrust into her heart ! You played a 
 cruel and wicked g-ame. But do not think, even although 
 you may for a while have lured Anthony away from his 
 wife, that you will separate them for ever. No ! She was 
 his first love, and to her he will return with redoubled 
 love when this misunderstanding, this estrangement, is at 
 an end — that is to say, if they live." 
 
 Bessie did not speak reproachfulh*, but sadly. 
 
 "Julian, you have been thouoiitless, not malicious. I 
 can tell you what the end will be, if Anthony do come 
 back and find Uiith dead. He will not go to you, and 
 throw himself at your feet. No ; he will hate 3'ou with a 
 hatred that will be lasting as his life. He will look on you 
 as — if not his wife's murderer — at all events, as one who 
 engalled the last hours of her life — who drew briars and 
 thorns between them, tearing their hearts when thej' last 
 met. What passed between them I cannot say ; but some- 
 thing must have — something terrible — to account for her 
 present condition, and for his absence. You are answer- 
 able for that. Your thoughtlessness, and Anthony's love 
 
34J: UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 of flattery, have contrived to ruin a home. Anthony and 
 Urith might have been happy parents of a sweet, innocent 
 little one, who would have bowed the heart of his grand- 
 father, and wiped off it all the rust that has gathered there. 
 Tha+i little life, with all it might have been to itself, or to 
 others, is destroyed — by you ! You and Anthony broke 
 the heart of Urith, and brought about what has taken 
 place. You cannot give back the little life — you cannot 
 mend the wreckage of hapj^iness you have brought about. 
 Pray to God to have pity on you, and forgive you your 
 sins ! " 
 
 "I have no cause to repent," answered Julian ; but she 
 did not si^eak with her old confidence, and she spoke with 
 veiled eyes, resting on the gravel of the walk. " I am sor- 
 ry Urith is ill. I am sorry that she and Anthony are dis- 
 appointed in their hopes. I have always loved Anthony. 
 There is no sin in that. If Urith succeeded in drawing 
 him away from me to whom he was all but assured, must 
 I not feel it ? May I not resent it ? She stole him from 
 me, and the blessing at the altar does not hallow her 
 theft." 
 
 *' What are you saying ! " exclaimed Bessie, fixing her 
 eyes on Julian. " Is it not a sin to love a man who has 
 sworn before heaven that he will be true to one, and one 
 only, and that not yourself? Is it not a sin to endeavour 
 to make him false to his oaths ? " 
 
 " I cannot force him to be true to Urith, and to love her. 
 You are going to marry Fox. You will swear to love and 
 honour him, and you know you can do neither. You will 
 swear and be false to yoiu' oath, for it is an impossibility 
 to keep it. Anthony swore, but he could not keep his 
 oath, he found out that he had make a mistake " 
 
 *' You tried to persuade him that he had. Be sure he 
 •will return to Urith wath tenfold deeper, sincerer love, and 
 will bitterly rue that he let himself be deluded by you." 
 
 Julian stood brooding, with her eyes on the ground. 
 She recalled how Anthony had brushed out her initials 
 linked with his, and interwoven in their place his own 
 with those of Urith. 
 
 *' There," said she, hastily, " I ^came here for some- 
 thing else than to be judged and condemned by you." 
 
 " I neither judge nor condemn you," answered Bessie, 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOM. 845 
 
 (( 
 
 but I tell you the truth. Anthony can never be yours, 
 not even if Urith dies. He never did love you." 
 
 JuHan stamped. "You do not know — he did, and I 
 loved him." 
 
 " What token did he give that he cared for you ? — an- 
 swer me now." 
 
 " I loved him, I love him still. In love all is fair. If 
 I thought he did not love me " 
 
 " "Well," said Bessie, " what ? " She looked steadily in- 
 to Julian's eyes. 
 
 "I would dash my head against the stones, and kill 
 thought for ever." 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVm. 
 
 A WEDDING DAY. 
 
 The marriage took place so speedily after the report of 
 the engagement as to take every one by surprise ; for 
 everywhere a wedding is expected to be much discussed 
 and prepared for beforehand. In the case of Fox and 
 Bessie, all was over almost as soon as it was known to be 
 in the air. 
 
 No Q'reat ceremony was made of it. Indeed, there was 
 not time to make great preparations ; nor did Squire 
 Cleverdon care for display, or, on this occasion, for ex- 
 pense. His one desire was to have it over^ and Fox settled 
 in his house, for his affairs were causing him the utmost 
 alarm — they were gathering to a crisis. It was with them 
 but a matter of days ; and, unless Fox were married to 
 Bessie before the crisis arrived and became known, it was 
 possible that the engagement, on which now all his hopes 
 for the salvation of the property hung, might be broken off. 
 
 The licence was obtained, and almost simultaneously 
 came the grant from the Garter King of Arms, and Claren- 
 ceaux King of Arms, "of the South, East, and AVest parts 
 of England, from the River Trent southwards," to the ef- 
 fect that "whereas His Majestj^ by warrant under his Royal 
 Signet and Sign Manual, had signified to the Most Noble 
 the Earl Marshal that he had been graciously pleased to 
 
o 
 
 46 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 give an-d to grant unto Antlionj' Ciymes, Gent., son and heir 
 apparent to Fernando Crymes, Esquire," tlie licence to 
 bear henceforth the arms and name of Cleverdon, in heii of 
 that of Crymes ; that therefore a patent to this effect Avas 
 issued, etc. Consequently, Anthony Crymes was married, 
 not in his paternal name, but in that which he had ac- 
 quired. 
 
 The day was grey and sunless, with a raw northeast 
 wind blowing. 
 
 Bessie returned, after the marriage, to the house where 
 she had been born, and Fox came with her. She went to 
 her old room, and there laid aside her wedding-dress, and 
 then came quietly down the stairs into her father's cham- 
 ber, where she patiently awaited him. 
 
 The old man had been giving orders without, and she 
 heard his voice in the passage. She had not long to wait 
 before he came in. 
 
 He looked at her' with lifted eyebrows, and took off his 
 hat, and asked what she wanted there. 
 
 •' One word with you, dear father," said she, gentty. 
 
 "Very well ; make haste — I am busy. There is much to 
 see to to-day. Where is Fox ? " 
 
 He threw himself into his armchair, and crossed his feet. 
 
 "Father," said Bessie, "I have done what you desired, 
 and with this day a new life begins with me. I have como 
 to ask your pardon for any grief, annoyance, or trouble I 
 may have at any time caused you. I also ask you to for- 
 give me for having opposed your wishes at first when you 
 wanted me to marry Fox. I did not then understand 3'our 
 reasons. But it has been a hard thing for me to submit. 
 I dare say, dear father, you can have no idea how hard it 
 has been for me. Now I have sworn to love Fox, and I 
 will try my best to do so." 
 
 "Oh, love! love! "said the old man; "that is a mere 
 word. You will get accustomed to each other, as I am to 
 this chair." 
 
 " That may be. And yet — there is love — love that is 
 more than a word. I suppose you loved my mother." 
 
 The old man made a deprecatory motion with his hand. 
 
 " Oh ! father, without love in the house, how sad life is ! 
 I ought to know that, for I have had but little love shown 
 me by you. Do not think I reproach you," she said, hastily, 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 3J:7 
 
 a little colour monnting into her pale face ; " but I have 
 felt the want of what, perhaps, I was not worthy to re- 
 ceive." 
 
 " Come — come ! " said the old man ; "I have no time for 
 such talk that leads to nothing." 
 
 *' But it must lead to something," urged Bessie ; " for 
 that ver}' reason have I come here. You know, my dear 
 father, that you made me a promise when I gave my con- 
 sent, and I come now to remind you of it." 
 
 "I made no promise," said the old man, impatiently. 
 
 *' Indeed, father, j^ou did ; and on the strength of that 
 promise I found the force to conquer my own heart, and 
 make the sacrifice you required of me." 
 
 *'0h, sacrifice! sacrifice!" sneered Squire Cleverdon. 
 " I have been a cruel father, to be sure ; I have required 
 you to offer yourself up as a victim ! Pshaw ! You keep 
 your home — it becomes doubly yours — you get a husband, 
 and retain your own name of Cleverdon. What more do 
 you require ? It is a sacrifice to become heiress of Hall ! 
 Good faith ! Your brother would give his ears for^such a 
 sacrifice as this. Go and get ready for the guests." 
 
 *'I cannot go from you, father," answered Ehzabeth, 
 with gentleness, and yet, withal, with firmness. '' I should 
 be doing an injustice to myself, to my brother, and to you, 
 were I not now to speak out. There was a compact made 
 between us. I promised to take him whom you had deter- 
 mined on for me because it was your wish, and because it 
 was necessary for the saving of the estate. I suppose Fox 
 made it a condition. He would not help you out of your 
 difficulties unless I gave him my hand." 
 
 "Fox knows nothing about them." 
 ! " What ! " Bessie turned the colour of chalk. "Father ! 
 you do not mean what you say? He has been told all. 
 He is aware that the mortgage is called in, and must be 
 
 paid." 
 
 The old man fidgetted in his chair ; he could not look 
 his daughter in the face. He growled forth : 
 
 " You wenches ! what do you understand of business — 
 of money concerns — mortgages, and the like ? Say what 
 you have to say and be gone, but leave these money-matters 
 on one side." 
 
 "I cannot, father," exclaimed Bessie, with fluttering 
 
348 milTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOn, 
 
 heart ; " I cannot, indeed, father. Is it so that Fox has 
 been drawn on to take me without anj' knowledge of how 
 matters stand with regard to the property ? " 
 
 "All properties are hardened more or less with dehts. 
 He knows that. He does not keep his wits in his pocket. 
 I have told Lim nothing, but he must know that there are 
 mortgages. Show me the estate without them. But there, 
 I will not speak of this matter with you ; if you will not 
 leave the room, I shall." He half rose in his seat. 
 
 "Very well, father, no more of that now. Time will 
 show whether he was aware of, or suspected the condition 
 Hall is in ; and I trust that he may not then have to re- 
 proach you or me. That is not what I desired to speak of 
 when I came here. I came about Anthony." 
 
 " I know but one Anthony Cleverdou, and ho is your 
 husband." 
 
 " I came in behalf of my brother and your very flesh and 
 blood, which Fox is not. Father, you must — you must in- 
 deed suffer me to pour out my heart before you." 
 
 He growled and turned uneasily in bis chair, and began 
 to scrape the floor with his heel. His brows were knit, 
 and his lips close set. 
 
 " Father," said Bessie, with her clear, steady eyes on 
 him, "you speak of love as emjDty air, but it is not so. 
 "What but love induced me to sut)mit myself to your will ? 
 I love you. To me Hall is nothing ; a cottage with love 
 in it, w'liere I might sit at yoiu* feet and kiss your hand, 
 were a thousand times dearer to me than this new, cold 
 house, where all is hard, and love does not settle to live." 
 She drew a long breath. "I love you, therefore I have 
 bowed myself before you ; and I love Anthony, and for his 
 sake I have made the greatest sacrifice any mortal can 
 make. I have given my life up to another, whom as yet I 
 can neither love nor respect, that I might by so doing ob- 
 tain from 5'ou pardon for my brother." 
 
 " A fine pattern of love Anthony has shown !" 
 
 "Father, there is great sorrow and sickness in his house, 
 and he is far away, venturing his life for a cause that he 
 thinks right. He may never return. His babe is dead, his 
 wife ill. See what misery there is hanging over him ! 
 Nothing but my love for my brother, my desire to see him 
 again in your arms, has ke^Dt me here. When I was plagued 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF DABTMOOU. 349 
 
 about Fox — that is to say, ^Yhell I first heard about him as 
 seeking me — I had resolved never to marry him, and rather 
 thau marry him, I would have run awa}'' to Anthony ; he 
 would have taken me in. But I thought of you alone in 
 this house, deserted by both your children, and I thought 
 that by stajdng here I might do something for Anthony, 
 find a proper time for speaking* in his favour, and so I stayed ; 
 and then, father, when you told me in what peril the 
 property stood, when I saw what agony of mind was yours, 
 when I thought that with the break down of the whole am- 
 bition of your life, your grey hairs would certainly be 
 bowed to the dust — then I conquered myself and gave up 
 my will to yours. There is love that is more than a mere 
 w^ord, it is a mighty force, and oh ! father, I would that 
 you kuev/ more of it ! Father, you — your own self — have 
 suffered most of all throu^jh your lack of love. I have seen 
 how the consequences of your harshness towards Anthony 
 have fallen on you, and you have suffered. I dare say you 
 may have loved him, but I think, as you say love is nought 
 but a word, that you can have had only pride in him, and 
 not love — for love sufferetii long and is kind. He rebelled 
 against you because you showed him pride — not love. He 
 offended your ambition because you had set your heart on 
 his taking Julian and winning wdth her Kilworthy ; he em- 
 bittered 3'our heart because he married the daughter of a 
 man that w^as your enemy. AYhat has been wounded in 
 you has been ambition, not love. Well, Anthony has done 
 wrong. He ought to have considered you. He has ill re- 
 paid you all that was lavished upon him from infancy. 
 But, father, if you had given him love, instead of setting 
 your ambition on him, it would not have been so light a 
 matter for him to resist your will. I feel his conduct more 
 than do you. It is because of him that I have married Fox. 
 I have loved and cared for him since he was an infant, as 
 though I were his mother as well as his sister. 1 promised 
 my mother and his to be his guardian angel, and L have 
 been what I could to him, and now, dutiful to my promise 
 to her and my love of him, and my desire for your own 
 happiness, I have given ujd myself. So now, father, accept 
 the sacrifice I have made, ancl forgive Anthony his incon- 
 siderate offence against you." 
 
 The old man felt rather than saw that she was nearing 
 
350 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 him with exteiicled hands, with tearful eyes fixed entreat- 
 ingly on him. He tlionght how he had ahuost gone on his 
 knees to her to obtain her consent to marry Fox, and he 
 was ashamed of his temporary weakness, the outcome of 
 his distress ; now he thought he must compensate for this 
 weakness by obstinate perseverance in his old course. 
 
 "Now, Bess," said he, roughly, "no more of this. What 
 I did promise that I will keep. I did not undertake to for- 
 give Anthony. I never — no, not for one instant — gave way 
 to your intercession for that girl — that Urith. Her I will 
 never forgive ! " 
 
 " What, father ! Not if she dies? " 
 
 " No, never ! not if she dies ! " 
 
 " Tlien how can you expect forgiveness for your trans- 
 gressions ? Father, consider that it was not her will to 
 marry Anthony. It was his. You taught him to be head- 
 strong, self-willed, imperious. You taught him to deny 
 himself nothing that he wished. He acted on the teach- 
 ing you gave, and yourself is answerable for the result." 
 
 The old man drew back in his armchair and clenched 
 his hands on the arm of the seat, so that the tendons stood 
 out as taut strings, and the dark veins were puffed with 
 blood. 
 
 "Father ! You have now a son-in-law, taking the place 
 in the house that should have been — that was — Anthony's. 
 He takes his place, occupies his seat, wears his very name. 
 Compare the two. Which is the most worthy represent- 
 ative of the Cleverdons, of whom you are so proud ? Which 
 is the finest man — the tall, strong, sj)lendidly-built Tony, 
 your own son, wi'.h his handsome face and honest eyes, or 
 this other Anthony — this Fox who has stolen into his lair ? 
 Which is the better in heart ? Tony, with all his faults, 
 has a thousand good quahties. He has been vain, self-willed, 
 and self-indulgent, but all this came on him from outside ; 
 you and I, and all who had to do with him, nurtured these 
 evil qualities. But in his inner heart he is sound, and true, 
 and good. What is Fox? What good do we know of 
 Fox ? Will anything make of him a generous and open- 
 hearted man ? " 
 
 It seemed to Bessie as though the hands of her father 
 that clenched the chair-arms were trembling. He moved 
 his fingers restlessly ; and for a moment she caught his eye, 
 
UlUTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 351 
 
 and thoiiglit she saw in it a tender look. She threw her 
 arms about him, and, stooping, kissed the backs of his 
 hands. It was the first time she had dared to kiss him. 
 He thrust her from him. 
 
 "Pshaw ! " said he. "Do you suj^pose I am to be cajoled 
 against my judgment ? " 
 
 "Is that all you have to say?" asked Bessie, drawing 
 back. " No, father, you shall not put me off". I will not 
 be put off. I have won a right to insist on what I ask 
 being heard and granted." 
 
 " Indeed ! " He looked up at her with recovered hard- 
 ness in his eye, and with his hands nerved to the same icy 
 grip. " Indeed ! You have acquired a right over me ? " 
 
 " I have, father. I will be heard ! " 
 
 " Very well ; I hold to what I promised. Perhaps," he 
 laughed bitterly, " perhaps I may think of the possibility 
 of Anthony obtaining my forgiveness. Yes," said he, as a 
 sudden access of better feeling rushed over him, as in his 
 mind's eye the form of his handsome son rose up before 
 him ; " yes, let him come to me as the prodigal son, and 
 speak like the prodigal, and desert his swine-husks, and 
 then I will kill the fatted calf and bring forth the ring." 
 
 Still the same. He could see no fault in himself — no 
 error in his treatment of his son. 
 
 Bessie would have answered, but that the door was 
 thrust open, and in came Fox, agitated, angry, alarmed. 
 
 "' What is the meaning of this ? " he shouted, addressing 
 the Squire, regardless of the presence of Bessie. " What 
 is this about ? Here is that fellow — that man from Exeter 
 — here again at the door, with two others — and " 
 
 " And what ? " 
 
 " He says they are bailiffs, come to take possession." 
 
 ** What ! to-day ! Then, son-in-law, you must pay them 
 o£& I cannot. Save Hall for yourself." 
 
352 URITR: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE PIGEON-COTE. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" asked Fox. ''Are 
 these wedding-guests invited to help to make merry? " 
 
 Old Cleverdon looked at Fox, then at the door, in 
 which, behind his son-in-law, entered the stranger from 
 Exeter. 
 
 '* This is Master French," said the Sqnire. 
 
 "I do not care what be his name, but what his busi- 
 ness? " said Fox, rudel3^ '-'Come in, Master French, and 
 let us have this load winnowed. You had better go." The 
 last words were addressed to Bessie. 
 
 *' This is what I have come about," said the stranger, en- 
 tering : " The bill for foreclosure has been tiled ; and, un- 
 less the mortgage-money be paid within fourteen days, 
 then, Master Cleverdon, 3'ou stand absolutely debarred and 
 l^recluded from all rights, title, suit, and equity of redemp- 
 tion in or to the premises, which thenceforth become the 
 absolute property of the mortgagee." 
 
 "And this," exclaimed Fox — " this is the meaning of my 
 being constituted heir to Hall ! Come, Squire, you must 
 take me into council ; for, please to know that now y,ou 
 have hooked me into your family and house, I must eat off 
 the same trencher as you. You don't suppose I married 
 Bess for her beauty, do you ? What have you there ? " 
 
 The old man had gone to his desk, and unlocked it. 
 
 Fox pressed after him, put his hand on his shoulder, and 
 thrust him aside. ' ' Let me see your accounts, your mort- 
 gages, and whatever you have beside stuffed into that cabi- 
 net of mysteries." 
 
 "Is there no means of raising the requisite money?" 
 asked French. " Times are bad ; but — still money is to be 
 had somewhere. You must have friends and relatives who 
 can help." 
 
 "Relatives — none," said the old man. "Friends — I 
 have but Justice Crymes." 
 
 "And he is away," said Fox, looking over his shoulder. 
 
 ''Away, putting his head into a noose." 
 
URITH: A TALK OF DARfMOOIl 353 
 
 *' You have a fortnigbt," said French. " I was sorry for 
 you, but — I must perform my duty. If in a fortnight the 
 sum be not forthcoming " 
 
 *^ A pretty sum it is ! " shouted Fox, who had got hold 
 of the mortgage. " And this is what my father is to be ca- 
 joled into finding ? That is the meaning of all the hurry 
 and scramble of the marriage ? " 
 
 "I have debts due to me, but I cannot get the money in 
 — in time," said old Cleverdon. 
 
 " If not in time, then as well never," said Fox. " Come, 
 you French, tell me all about it.'* 
 
 The stranger — an attorney from Exeter — looked at Mr. 
 Cleverdon, who nodded his head. He knew that eventu- 
 ally the whole matter must be made known to his son-in- 
 law, but he had not reckoned on it coming to a crisis so 
 soon. 
 
 Mr. French plainly stated all the circumstances. A 
 large sum had been borrowed on the property some years 
 ago when purchased by Anthony Cleverdon, the elder, and 
 this sum had been called in. His client, the mortgagee, 
 was dead, and the executors were resolved, obliged, in fact, 
 to realise the estate, and could not be put off. Mr. Clev- 
 erdon had been given due notice, and had neglected to 
 attend to it ; the mortgage money had not been paid, con- 
 sequently a bill had been filed in Chancery, and unless the 
 entire sum were forthcoming within fourteen days, the 
 Cleverdons would have to leave the place, which would 
 pass over to the executors, who would sell it. 
 
 Fox followed what was said with close attention, and 
 without interruption. The only token of his feelings was 
 the contraction [ind twitching of his hard sandy ej'elashes. 
 When Mr. French ceased speaking, he laughed aloud, 
 hoarsely and hysterically^ and became deadly white. His 
 eyes turned to old Cleverdon, and with lips curled and 
 livid over his teeth, he looked at him in speechless rage for 
 some minutes. He was like a mean and angry beast, 
 driven to bay, and watching his oi^portunity to fly out and 
 bite. 
 
 Then all at once, with a voice half in a scream, half- 
 choked, he poured forth reproaches on the Squire. 
 
 " By heaven ! I did suppose that no one could get the 
 better of me ; but I had not reckoned on the craft of an 
 23 
 
354 VBITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 old country farmer, in wliom sharp dealing has gone down 
 from father to son, and roguery has been an heritage never 
 parted with, never diminished, always bettered with each 
 generation. And I have had to take this scurvy name of 
 Cleverdon so as to involve me in the disgrace of the famil}', 
 and mated with it to a maid with an ugly face and no wit 
 — all to get me entangled so that I must with my own 
 hands pull the Cleverdons — the Cleverdons," he sneered 
 and spat on the floor, " pull w4th my hands, these Clever- 
 dons out of the ditch into which they have tumbled, or lie 
 down and be swallowed up in the mire with them. I will 
 not do it. I will neither help you nor go into the dirt with 
 you. I will leave you to yourselves, and laugh till my 
 sides crack when you are turned out of the house. Where 
 will you go — you and your beggarly daughter ? Shall I 
 see if there be room in the poorhouse at Peter Tavy ? Lis- 
 ten ! " he screamed and turned to the attorney, ^' listen 
 to what this man, this old grey-haired rascal has done. 
 He comes of a breed of sheep-dealers, accustomed to get a 
 wether between the knees and sheer her ; got horny hands 
 from the plough-tail, boots that smell of the stables, arms 
 accustomed to heave the dung-fork — this is what they have 
 been, and he goes and buys Hall with other folks' money, 
 and buj's himself a coat of arms with other folks' money, 
 and builds a mansion in place of his old tumble-about-the- 
 cars farmhouse with other folks' money, and puts what 
 money he will into the hands of that brag and bombast 
 talker, his son, to humble and insult the young gentles of 
 good blood and name — and, mark you, it is other folks' 
 money — and then — then he offers to make me his heir if I 
 will take his daughter, whom no one else will look at and 
 give a thank-you for, and assume his name — his name that 
 reeks of the stable-^^ard. "When I do so, then I find I am 
 heir to nothing but beggary!" He shrieked with rage, 
 and held out his hands threateningly at the old man. 
 
 The Squire became at first purple with rage ; he rose 
 from his seat slowly. His eyes glittered like steel. He 
 was not the man to be spoken to in this manner, to be in- 
 sulted in himself and his family ! His hand clenched. Old 
 though he was, his sinews were tough and his hands were 
 lieavy. 
 
 1^05 came at him with head down between his shoulders. 
 
URITU: A TALE OF DABTMOOn. 355 
 
 his sharp chin extended, his hand Uke the claws of a hawk 
 catching the air. 
 
 The attorney stepped between them, or father and son- 
 in-Law would have done each otlier an injury. He laid 
 hold of Fox by the shoulder and thrust him back, and bade 
 him cease from profitless abuse of an unfortunate man, 
 who was, moreover, his father, and to collect his thoughts, 
 consider the situation, and decide whether he and his 
 father would find the mone}- and save Hall. 
 
 "Find the money !" said Fox. "Do you not hear that 
 my father is away on a fool's errand, gone to join the reb- 
 els ; W' as taking them mone}', several hundreds of pounds, 
 when he was robbed by the way." He burst into harsh, 
 hysterical laughter once more. " My father will not be home 
 for a fortnight if he does come home at all. How am I to 
 find tlie mone}^? Kilworthy is not mine. It belongs to 
 my sister." 
 
 (( 
 
 Cannot your sister assist you ? " 
 
 " She would not if she could, but she can touch nothing, 
 it is held in trust, and my father is trustee. Let Hall go, 
 and the Cleverdons along with it. What care I? " 
 
 " You are now yourself a Cleverdon," retorted the Squire. 
 
 "By heavens," gasped Fox, "that I — that I should be 
 outwitted, and by you ! " Then he swung through the 
 door and disappeared. 
 
 The old man remained standing with clenched hands for 
 some minutes. The sweat liad broken out on his brow, 
 his grey hair, smoothed for the wedding ceremon}', had 
 bristled with rage and shame, and become entangled and 
 knotted on his head. If it had not been for the convulsive 
 twitching of the corners of the mouth, he might have been 
 supposed a statue. 
 
 Presently he put his hands down on the arms of his 
 chair, and slowly let himself sink into the seat. The colour 
 died out of his cheeks and from his brow, and he became 
 ashen in hue. His hands rested on the chair-arms, mo- 
 tionless. His lips moved as though he were speaking to 
 himself ; and he w^as so — he was repeating the insolent 
 words — the words wounding to his pride, to his honour, that 
 had been shot at him from the envenomed heart of Fox ; 
 and these hurt him more than the thoughts of the disaster 
 that menaced. 
 
35 G IIRITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 "Do not be overcome by his spite," said French. "He 
 is disappointed, and his disappointment has made him 
 speak words he will regret. He must and will help you. 
 My clients would not deal harshly with you — they respect 
 you, but are forced to act. They do not w^ant your estate 
 but their money — that they are compelled to call together. 
 If this young gentleman, be your son-in-law and heir, it 
 is his interest to save the property, and he will do it if he 
 can. His father can be found in a couple of days, and 
 when found can be induced to lend the money, if he has 
 the means at his disposal. Perhaps in a week all will be 
 right." 
 
 Squire Cleverdon did not. speak. 
 
 "And now," said French, *" with^your consent I will 
 refresh myself, and leave you to joxxv own thoughts. It 
 is a pity that you did not take steps earlier to save your- 
 self." 
 
 " I could not — I could not. I was ashamed to ask of 
 any one. I thought, that is, I never thought the demand 
 was serious." 
 
 Fox had gone forth to the stable to saddle a horse ; 
 finding no one about in the yard, he seated himself on the 
 corn-box, and remained lost in thought, biting his nails. 
 All the men connected wdth the farm were in the kitchen 
 having cake and ale, and drinking the health of tlie bride 
 heartily, and secretly confusion to the bridegroom, whom 
 they detested, both for his own character, which was pretty 
 generally judged, and also, especially, because he had 
 stepped into the place and name of their beloved young 
 Anthony, who, though he had tyrannised over them, was 
 looked up to, and liked by all. 
 
 All was silent in the stable save for the stamp occasion- 
 ally of a horsehoof and the rattle of the halters at the man- 
 gers. Bessie's grey was nearest to Fox, and the beast 
 occasionally turned her head and looked at him out of her 
 clear, gentle eyes. 
 
 Fox put his sharp elbows on his knees, and drove his 
 ' fingers through his thin red hair. He was in a dilemma. 
 He was married to Bessie, and adopted into the family. 
 As the old man had said to him, he was now a Cleverdon. 
 It had cost him a large sum to obtain this j^rivilege, and he 
 could not resume his patronymic without the cost of a 
 
UniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 357 
 
 fresh grant from the College of Arms. Moreover, that 
 would not free him from his alliance. 
 
 Nothing, perhaps, so galled the thoughl^ of Fox as the 
 consciousness that he had been over-reached — he who had 
 deemed himself incomparably' the shrewdest and keenest 
 man in the district ; who had despised and laughed at old 
 Cleverdon — never more than when luring him on with the 
 hopes of winning Julian. He had done this out of pure 
 malice, with the desire of making the old man ridiculous, 
 and of enjoying the disappointment that was inevitable. 
 He had i^layed his trick upon his father-in-law ; but the 
 tables had been turned on him in compound degree. 
 
 His father-in-law was right — he was a Cleverdon, and 
 his fortunes were bound up with Hall. If Hall were lost, 
 he had lost all but the trifle he was liliely to receive from 
 his father. If Hall w^as to be saved, it must be saved by 
 him ; and, had he known that it was likely to be sold, he 
 would never have encumbered himself with a wife — with 
 Bessie — and degraded himself to take the name of Clever- 
 don instead of his own ancient and honourable patronymic. 
 He would have waited a fortnight ; and, if he could get 
 the money together, would have bought Hall, and enjoyed 
 the satisfaction of turning the Cleverdons out of it. 
 
 It was now too late. He must decide on his course of 
 conduct. He did not think of doing what Mr. French 
 supposed he would — ride in quest of his fatlier. He would 
 not venture himself near the quarters of Monmouth, and 
 run the risk of being supposed to have any sympathy or 
 connection with the rebellion. ]\[oreover, he very much 
 doubted whether his father could, if he would, assist in 
 this matter. 
 
 Presently he stood up, went to the grey, saddled her, 
 and rode to Kil worthy. 
 
 On reaching that place he put up the horse himself, and 
 stole up the steps to the first terrace, on which grew a 
 range of centur^'-old yews, passed behind the yews to the 
 end of the terrace, where was an abandoned pigeon-house, 
 a circular stone building, with conical roof. The door was 
 open, and Fox went in. The wooden door had long dis- 
 appeared, for the pigeon-house had been given up. With- 
 in were holes in tiers all round the building, in which 
 pigeons had formerly built and laid. But the owls and 
 
858 URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 rats bad so repeatedly and determinedly invaded tliis house, 
 and bad wrought such havoc among the pigeons, that 
 at last it had been abandoned wholly, and the pigeons 
 were accommodated in the adjoining farm-^'ard, on casks 
 erected on the top of poles, where, if not out of reach of 
 owls, they were secure from rats. The neglected pigeonry 
 was too strongly built to fall to ruin, but the woodwork 
 was rotted away, and had not been replaced. It was a 
 dark chamber, receiving its light from the door, and was 
 not used for any purpose. 
 
 Into this, after looking about him cautiously, Fox enter- 
 ed. A short ladder was laid against the wall, and this he 
 took, and after carefully counting the pigeon-holes, set the 
 ladder, and after ascending it, thrust his hand into one of 
 the old resting-places, and drew out a canvas bag. It had 
 been sealed, but the seal was broken. It had been opened 
 and then tied up again. Then Fox went to tlue next 
 pigeon-hole, and felt in that, and again drew forth a bag 
 similar to the first. 
 
 "Here is the monev," muttered he. *' Enoufrh to sava 
 Hall, but whether I shall risk doing it is another matter." 
 
 Suddenly the place was darkened — the light entering by 
 the door was intercepted. 
 
 Fox's heart stood still. For a moment onl}' he was in 
 darkness. He fell rather than climbed down the ladder, 
 hastily put it back where he found it, and ran outside. 
 
 At the further end of the teiTace was Julian. As he 
 caught sight of her he attempted to withdraw, but she had 
 seen him, and she beckoned, and came to hiui with quick 
 steps. 
 
 " Whv, Fox! vou here ! — and vou were married but an 
 hour or two acione ! Whv here? AVhv not at the side of 
 Bessie at table answering the toasts ? " 
 
 " Where have vou come from ? " retorted Fox, uneasilv. 
 
 " Nay ? that is for me to ask. I have but just come to 
 walk up and down for air, and you — you spring out of the 
 earth. "What has brought you back ? Quarrelled already 
 with your bride ? " 
 
 " I have returned for you, Julian. Bess is pained and 
 aggrieved that you have not come to Hall to be with her. 
 She has none as a friend but vou." 
 
 " What ! vou have come after me ?" 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 359 
 
 " For what else should I come ? " 
 
 *'Nay," laughed Julian ; "who can sound tlij dark and 
 deep thoughts, and thread thy crooked mind V I cannot 
 believe it." 
 
 " I have ridden Bess's own mare." 
 
 "That may be. And you came here to fetch me ? And 
 for that only ? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 ''I won't go." Julian looked at Fox with twinkling 
 eyes. "Oh, Fox! I do love and i^ity Bess too greatly to 
 bear to see her at thy side. So you came for me ? You 
 came out here on the terrace after me ? " 
 
 "I have told you so. How long have you been here?" 
 
 *' But this minute. I took one walk as far as the old 
 pigeon-house and back, and then — saw you. Did you come 
 uj) the other way ? From the yard ? " 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " Oh ! I will not go with you. Return to Bess. Tell 
 her I love her and wish her well, but I cannot see her ; I 
 cannot now, I love her too well. Get thee gone, Fox." 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 ANOTHER FLIGHT. 
 
 The day was drawing to its decline before Fox returned 
 to Hall. He had been alarmed at having- been seen bv his 
 sister in the dove-cote, and he tried by craft to extract from 
 her whether she had observed what he had been doing in 
 it. He hung about Kihvorthy for several hours, uncertain 
 what course to pursue. He could draw nothing from Ju- 
 lian to feed his alarm, and he persuaded, or tried to per- 
 suade, himself that she had no suspicions that he had been 
 in the dove-cote ; then he considered what he had best do 
 with the monej'-bags concealed there. He could remove 
 them only at night, and if he removed them, where should 
 he hide them ? No more effectual place of concealment 
 could well be imagined than the pigeon-house with its 
 many lockers, the depths of which could not be probed 
 by the eye from below, and only searched by the hand 
 
360 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 
 
 from a ladder. He puzzled his brain to find some othei 
 place, but his ingenuity failed him. He was angry with 
 Julian for having come on the terrace at the inojDportune 
 moment when he was in the pigeon-house, and he was 
 angry with himself for having gone there in dajdight. 
 
 He asked, w^as it probable that Julian, had she suspected 
 anything, would not at once have assaileel him with in- 
 quiries wherefore he had gone to that deserted structure, 
 and wdiat he was doing within it, on the ladder. It would 
 be unlike her not immediately to take advantage of an oc- 
 casion either against him, or of perplexity to him, and he 
 almost satisfied himself that she had believed his account, 
 and was void of suspicion that there was concealment be- 
 hind it. Even if she did suspect and search the lockers of 
 the pigeon-cote, he must know it. He would find she had 
 been there, and he deemed it advisable not to disturb his 
 arrangement, but leave the money hidden there till he was 
 given fresh cause for uneasiness relative to its safety, at all 
 events for a few days, till he could discover another and 
 more secret place for stowing it away. 
 
 He remained for some hours, lurking about and watch- 
 ing ; for he argued that, if Julian entertained any thought 
 that he had been in the dove-cote on private ends, like a 
 woman she would take the earliest occasion of trying to 
 discover his ends, and would go, as soon as she thought 
 she was unobserved, to the place and explore its lockers. 
 
 But though he kept himself hidden, and narrowly 
 watched her proceedings, he could find no cause for mis- 
 trust. She left the terrace and went off to the stables to 
 see her horse ; she ordered it out for a ride ; then, as rain 
 began to fall, she countermanded it ; then she went to the 
 parlour, where she wrote a letter to her father to give him 
 an account of the marriage of his son, and to express her 
 views thereon. 
 
 Finding her thus engaged, and with his mistrust laid at 
 rest, Fox left Kilworthy and went to Tavistock, w^here he 
 entered a tavern and called for wine. He had not resolved 
 what to do about the mortgage money on Hall. 
 
 He believed that, with the five hundred pounds stowed 
 away in the pigeon-holes at Kilworthy, and watli what 
 money old Cleverdon was able to raise, sufficient, or al- 
 most sufficientj could be paid to secure Hall. If more had 
 
UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 361 
 
 to be foimd, it could perhaps be borrowed on the security 
 of the small Crymes estate in Bucklaud ; but Fox was 
 most averse to having his own inheritance charged for this 
 purpose. If Hall were let slip, then he was left with noth- 
 ing save his five hundred pounds and the small Buekland 
 property. 
 
 He sat in the tavern for long, drinking, and trying to 
 reach a solution of liis difficulty, consumed, with burning 
 wrath at the manner in which he had been imposed upon, 
 and entangled in the embarrassments of a family into 
 which he had. pushed his way, believing that by so doing 
 he Avas enterim? into a rich heritan-e. 
 
 AYhen he reached Hall, at nightfall, he had drunk so 
 much, and was in such an inflamed and exasj^erated frame 
 of mind, as to promise trouble. 
 
 Bess saw the condition he was in the moment he entered 
 the door, and she endeavoured to turn him aside from her 
 father's room, towards which he was making his way, un- 
 steadily. 
 
 The servino'-men and maids were about, and a, few 
 guests. Comments, unfavourable to Fox, had passed with 
 some freedom, and. not inaudibly, relative to his absence 
 on that afternoon. No one desired his presence, and yet 
 the fact of his being away provoked displeasure. It was 
 taken as an insult to those present. That some trouble 
 had fallen on Squire Cleverdon, that his position in Hall 
 was menaced, was generally known and commented on in 
 the house, by guests and servants alike. That Fox had 
 left in connection with this difficulty was admitted but 
 nevertheless not excused. 
 
 French was there disposed to make himself merry, 
 with a fund of good stories to scatter among the guests. 
 AYhen Fox appeared, all present, guests and servants, were 
 in jovial mood, having eaten and drunken to their hearts' 
 satisfaction ; some were in the passage, some in the din- 
 ing-room that oj^ened out of it, w^ith the door open. Mr. 
 Cleverdon was with the giiests, and when he beheld his 
 * son-in-law in the entrance, he started up and came to- 
 wards him. Fox saw him at once, and hissed, caught at 
 the side-posts of the door with his left, and pointed jeer- 
 ingly at the Squire. 
 
 "I want to have a talk with you, my plump money-bag, 
 
Q 
 
 62 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 my well-acred Squire father-in-law, and if there are others 
 by, so much the better. It is well that all the world should 
 see the bubble burst. Ha ! ha ! ha ! This is the man who 
 was a little farmer, and pushed himself to become a jus- 
 tice ! The little shrivelled toad who would blow himself 
 out to be like an ox. His sides are cracking, mark you ! '* 
 
 "Take him away," said the old man, "he is drunk." 
 
 "Go — I pray 3'ou go!" pleaded Bessie. "Prithee, re- 
 spect him, at least in public, look at his grey hairs, con- 
 sider the troul^le he is in." 
 
 " His grey hairs ! " retorted Fox. "Why should I re- 
 spect them ? The}' have grown grey in rascality. So many 
 years of sandy locks, so much roguery, so many more with 
 grey hair, double the amount of roguer}'. Wliy should I 
 respect an old rogue ? I would kick and thrash a young 
 one out of the house. His trouble — forsooth ! His trou- 
 ble is naught to mine, hooked on to a disreputable, drown- 
 ing family, and unable to strike out in their faces, and 
 wrench their hands away, and let them swallow the brine 
 and go down alone." 
 
 The Squire and the guests stood or sat spell-bonnd. 
 What was to be done with the fellow? How could he be 
 brought to silence V The stream of words of a drunken 
 man is no easier stopped than is a spring by the hand laid 
 against it. 
 
 " Ha ! ha! " jeered Fox, still pointing at his father-in-law ; 
 "there is the man who has ruled so tyrannically in his house, 
 who drove his son out-of-doors because he followed his own 
 example and married empty j^ockets. But his son did bet- 
 ter than the father, he did take a girl with a few lumps of 
 granite and a few shovelfuls of peat, but the father s own 
 wife had nothing. What he suffered in himself he would 
 not suffer in his sou." 
 
 The old man, shaking with rage as with the palsy, and 
 deadly white, turned to the servants, and called to them to 
 take away the fellow. 
 
 "Take me away!" screamed Fox. "Take and shake 
 me, and see if there be any gold in my pockets that will 
 fall out, and which he may pick up. I tell you I am rich ; 
 I have the money all ready, I could produce that in an hour, 
 which would save Hall, and send that fellow there, the law- 
 yer, and his men back to Exeter to-night, if they cared to 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 363 
 
 go over Black Down in the dark, where robbery is com- 
 mitted and coaches stopped and phmdered. I have the 
 gold all ready, but do not fancy I will give one guinea to 
 help a Cleverdon. I hate them all — father, daughter, and 
 son ; I curse the whole tribe, I dance on their heads, I 
 trample on their hearts, I scorn them. They hold out 
 their hands to me, but I will not pick them up." 
 
 Bessie put her ams about him, and, with eyes that were 
 full of tears, and face blanched with shame, entreated him 
 to go, to control himself, to remember that this old man 
 that he insulted was his father-in-law, and that, for bet- 
 ter, for worse, in riches or povert}^ he was her husband. 
 
 "I am not like to forget that," hissed Fox. "O, troth, 
 no! Linked to thee — to thee, with thy ugly face and 
 empty purse ; thee, whom no one else would have, who 
 has been hawked about and refused by all, and I am to be 
 coupled to thee all my life. Tore heaven, I am not like to 
 forget that." 
 
 This, addressed to Bessie, whom every servant in the 
 house loved, and every guest who knew her respected, 
 passed all bounds of endurance. 
 
 An angry roar rose from the men and maids who had 
 crowded into the entrance-hall from the kitchen, from the 
 courtj'ard, from the stables. The guests shouted out their 
 indignation, and a blow was aimed at Fox from a groom 
 behind, that knocked him over, and sent him down on his 
 knees into the dining-room. He w\as not seriously hurt — 
 not deprived of his senses — but other blows would have 
 followed from the incensed servants had not Bessie thrown 
 herself in the way to j^rotect him. 
 
 " Take liim up — throw him into the horse-pond f " 
 
 " Get a bramble, and thrash him with it till he is painted 
 red." 
 
 " Cast him in with the pigs." 
 
 Such were the shouts of the servants, and, but for the 
 interposition of Bessie, serious results would have followed. 
 She gave Fox her hand, and, leaning on her shoulder, he 
 was able to stagger to his feet. The blow he had received 
 had driven the final remains of caution he had about him 
 from his brain ; he glared around in savage rage, w^ith his 
 teeth showing, and his short red hair standing up on his 
 head like the comb of an angry cock. 
 
364 UBITH: A TALE OF DAUTMOOn. 
 
 " Who touched me ? Bring him forth, that I may strike 
 him." He drew his hunting-knife, and turned from side 
 to side. '' Ah ! let him come near, and I will score him as 
 I did Anthony Cleverdon." 
 
 Bessie uttered a cry and drew back. 
 
 Fox looked at her, and, encouraged by her terror and 
 pain, proceeded. "It is true, I did. We had a quarrel 
 and drew swords, and I pinked him." 
 
 " A lie ! " shouted one present. '' Thou wearest no 
 sword." 
 
 Fox turned sharply round, and snarled at the speaker. 
 " I have not a bodkin — a skewer — but I have what is bet- 
 ter — a carving-knife ; and with that I struck him just above 
 the heart. He fell, and ran, ran, ran" — his voice rose to a 
 shriek — " he ran from me as a hare, full of fright, lest I 
 should go after him and strike him again, between the 
 shoulder-blades. Farmer Cleverdon ! Gaffer Cleverdon ! 
 Thou hast a fool for a son — that all the Vvorld knows — and 
 a knave as well, and add to that — a coward." 
 
 ^ He stopped to laugh. Then, pointing with his knife at 
 his father-in-law, he said : 
 
 " They say that he has gone to join the rebels. It is false. 
 He is too great a coward to adventure himself there, and 
 add to that I have cut too deep and let out too much white 
 blood. He is skulking somewhere to be healed or to die." 
 
 Bessie had staggered back against the walk She held 
 her hands before her mouth to arrest the cries of distress 
 that could barely be controlled. The old man had become 
 white and rigid as a corjDse. 
 
 "I would he were with the rebels. I hope he will be so 
 healed, and that sj^eedity, that he may join them, and then 
 he will be taken and hung as a traitor. I' faith, I would like 
 to be there ! I would give a bag of gold to be there — to 
 see Anthony Cleverdon hung. I'd sit down on the next 
 stone and eat my bread and cheese, and throw the crusts 
 and the rinds in his face as he hung. — The traitor ! " 
 
 An hour later there came a tap at the door of Willswor- 
 th3\ Uncle Sol opened, and Bessie Cleverdon entered, 
 pale. 
 
 She asked to see her grandmother, Mistress Penwarne, 
 who was still there. 
 
UniTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOn. 3G5 
 
 *'I am come," she said, "to relieve 3^011. Go back to 
 Luke, and I will tarry with Urith. Luke must need you, 
 and I can take your place here. I will not lay my head 
 under the roof of Hall whilst Fox is there. It is true that 
 I promised this day to love and obey him, but I promised 
 what I caunot perform. He has forfeited every right over 
 me ! Till he leaves Hall I remain here — with Urith — both 
 unhappy — maybe we shall understand each other. My poor 
 father ! My poor father ! I cannot remain with him whilst 
 Fox is there ! " 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 ON THE CLEAVE AGAIN. 
 
 Ever full of pity and love for others, and forgetfulness 
 of self, Bessie sat holding- Urith's hand in her own, with 
 her eyes fixed compassionately on her sister-in-law. 
 
 Urith's condition was perplexing. It was hard to say 
 whether the events of that night when she saw Anthony 
 struck down on the hearthstone, and her subsequent and 
 consequent illness, with the premature confinement and 
 the death of the child, had deranged her faculties, or wheth- 
 er she was merely stunned by this succession of events. 
 
 Always with a tendency in her to moodiness, she had 
 now lapsed into a condition of silent brooding. She would 
 sit the whole day in one position, crouched with her elbows 
 on her knees and her chin in her hands, looking fixedly 
 before her, and saying nothing : taking no notice of any- 
 thing said or done near her. 
 
 It almost seemed as though she had fallen into a con- 
 dition of melancholy madness, and yet, when spoken to, 
 she would answer, and answer intelligently. Her faculties 
 were present, unimpaired, but crushed under the over- 
 whelming weight of the past. Only on one point did she 
 manifest any signs of hallucination. She believed that 
 Anthony was dead, and nothing that was said to her could 
 induce her to change her conviction. She believed that 
 everyone was in league to deceive her on this point. 
 
 And yet, though sane, she had to be watched, for in her 
 absence of mind and internal fever of distress, she w^ould 
 
366 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR.- 
 
 put her liauds into lier nioutb, and bite the knuckles, ap- 
 parently unconscious of pain. 
 
 Mrs. Penwarne, who was usually with her, would quietly 
 remove her hands from her mouth, and hold them down. 
 Then Urith would look at her with a strange, questioning- 
 expression, release her hands, and resting the elbows on 
 her knees, thrust the fingers into her hair. 
 
 The state in which Urith was alarmed Bessie. She tried 
 in vain to cheer her ; every effort, and they were various in 
 kind, failed. The condition of Urith resembled that of one 
 oppressed with sleep before consciousness passes away. 
 AVhen her attention was called by a question addressed to 
 her pointedly by name, or by a touch, she answered, but 
 she relapsed immediately into her former state. She could 
 be roused to no interest in anything. Bessie spoke to her 
 about domestic matters, about the rebellion of the Duke of 
 Monmouth, about the departure of ]Mr. Crj^mes, finally, 
 after some hesitation, about her own marriage, but she said 
 nothing concerning the conduct of Fox on the preceding 
 evening, or of her desertion of the home of her childhood. 
 Uiith listened drearail}^ and forgot at once what had been 
 told her. Her mind was susceptible to no impressions, so 
 deeply indented was it with her own sorrows. 
 
 Luke, so said Mistress Penwarne, had been to see her, 
 and had spoken of sacred matters ; but Urith had replied 
 to him that she had killed Anthonv, that she did notre^'ret 
 having done so, and that therefore she could neither hojie 
 in nor pray to God. 
 
 This Mrs. Penwarne told Bessie, standing over Urith, 
 well aware that what she said passed unheeded l)y the lat- 
 ter, probably uiilieard by her. Nothing but a direct ap- 
 peal could force Urith to turn the current of her thoughts, 
 and that only momentarily, from the direction they had 
 taken. 
 
 "She has been biting her hands again," said Mrs. 
 Penwarne. " Bessie, ^Yhen she does that, pull out the 
 token that hangs on her bosom and put it into her palm. 
 She will sit and look at that by the hour. She must bo 
 broken of that trick. " 
 
 Urith slowly stood up, w^ith a ruffie of uneasiness on her 
 dull face. She was conscious that she was being discussed, 
 without exactly knowing what was said about her. With- 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 367 
 
 out a word of explanation, slie went out, drawing Bessie 
 with her, who would not let go her hand ; and together, 
 in silence, they passed through the court and into the lane. 
 
 Their heads were uncovered, and the wind was fresh 
 and the sun shone brightly. 
 
 Urith walked leisurely along the lane, accompanied by 
 Bessie Cleverdon, between the moorstone walls, thick- 
 bedded with pink and white flowering saxifrage, and 
 plumed with crimson foxgloves. She looked neither to 
 right nor to left till she reached the moor-gate closing the 
 lane, a gate set there to prevent the escape of the cattle from 
 their upland pasturage. The gate was swung between 
 two blocks of granite, in which sockets had been cut for 
 the pivot of the gate to swing. Urith put forth her hand, 
 thrust open the gate, and went on. It was characteristic 
 of her condition that she threw it open only wide enough 
 to allow herself to pass through, and Bess had to put forth 
 her disengaged hand to check the gate from swinging back 
 upon her. This was not due to rudeness on the part of 
 Urith, but to the fact that Urith had forgotten that any 
 one was with her. 
 
 On issuing forth on the open waste-land among the 
 flowering heather and deep carmine, large-belled heath, the 
 freedom, the fresh air seemed to revive Urith, A flicker 
 of light passed over her darkened face, as though clouds 
 had been lifted from a tor, and a little watery sunlight had 
 played over its bleak surface. ^She turned her head to the 
 west, whence blew the wind, and the air raised and tossed 
 her dark hair. fShe stood still, with half-closed e3'es, and 
 nostrils distended, inhaling the exhilarating breeze, and en- 
 joying its coolness as it trifled with her disordered locks. 
 
 Bessie had tried her with every subject that could 
 distract her thoughts, in vain. She now struck on that 
 which nearly affected her. 
 
 "Urith," she said, "I have heard that a battle is expected 
 every day, and Anthony is in it. You will pray God to 
 guard him in danger, will 3^ou not ? " 
 
 "Anthony is dead. I killed him." 
 
 "No, dear Urith, he is not dead; he has joined the Duke 
 of Monmouth." 
 
 " They told you so? They deceived you. I killed him." 
 
 *'It is not so." Bessie paused. Her hand clenched 
 
S68 tlRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOH. 
 
 tliat of Uritli tightly. *'My dearest sister, it is not so. 
 Fox himself told me, and told my father — he struck 
 Anthon5\" 
 
 *' I bade him do so — I had not strength in my arm, I 
 had no knife. But I killed him." 
 "I assure you that this is not true." 
 
 "I saw him fall across the hearthstone. My mother 
 wished it. She prayed that it might be so, with her last 
 breath ; Ijut she never prayed that I should kill him." 
 
 " Urith ! Poor Anthony, who is dear to you and to me, i> 
 in extreme danpjer. There is like to be bloody fiohtinn- 
 and we must ask God to shield him." 
 
 "I cannot pray for him. He is dead, and I cannot pray 
 at alh I am glad he is dead. I would do it all over again, 
 rather than that Julian should have him." 
 
 " Julian !" sighed EHzabeth Cleverdon. ''^yhat has 
 been told you about Julian ? " 
 
 " She threatened to pluck him out of my bosom, and she 
 has done it ; but she shall not wear him in hers. I killed 
 him because he was false to me, and would leave me." 
 "No — no — Urith, he never would leave you." 
 " He was going to leave me. His father asked him to go 
 back to Hall." 
 
 "But he would not go. Anthony was too noble," 
 "He was going to desert me and go to Julian, so I killed 
 him. They may kill me also ; I do not care. God took 
 my baby ; I am glad He did that. I never wish for a mo- 
 ment it had lived — lived to know that its mother was a 
 murderess. It could not touch mv hand with his blood on 
 it ; so God took my baby. I am waiting ; they will take 
 me soon, because I killed Anthony. I am willing. I can- 
 not pray. I have no hope. I wish it were over, and I 
 were dead." 
 
 On her own topic, on that which engrossed all her mind, 
 on that round which her thoughts turned incessantly, on 
 that she could speak, and speak fairly rationally ; and 
 when she spoke her face became expressive. 
 
 They walked on together. Bessie knew not what io say. 
 It was not possible to disturb Urith's conviction that her 
 husband was dead, and that she was his destroyer. 
 
 Tliey continued to walk, but now again in silence. Urith 
 again relapsed into her brooding mood, went forward. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 369 
 
 threaded licr own way among the bunches of pricMy gorse, 
 now out of flower, and the scattered stones, regardless of 
 Bessie, who was put to great inconvenience to keep at her 
 side. She was forced to disengage her hand, as it was 
 not possible for her to keep pace with her sister-in-law in 
 such broken ground. Urith did not observe that Bessie 
 had released her, nor that she was still accompanying her. 
 
 She took a direct course to Tavy Cleave, that rugged, 
 natural fortress of granite which towers above the river 
 that plunges in a gorge, rather than a valley, below. 
 
 On reaching this she cast herself down on the over- 
 hanging slab, whereon she had stood with Anthony, when 
 he clasped her in his arms and swung her, laughing and 
 shouting, over the abyss. 
 
 Bessie drew to her side. She was uneasy what Urith 
 might do, in her disturbed frame of mind ; but no thought 
 of self-destruction seemed to have crossed Urith's brain. 
 She swung her feet over the gulf, and put her hands through 
 her hair, combing it out into the wind, and letting that 
 waft and whirl it about, as it blew up the Cleave and rose 
 against the granite crags, as a wave that bowls against a 
 rocky coast leaps up and curls over it. 
 
 Bessie allowed her to do as she liked. It was clearly a 
 refreshment and relaxation to her heated and overstrained 
 mind thus to sit and play with the wind. 
 
 Books 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 de- 
 serted their usual haunts among trees, to disport them- 
 selves 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, stand- 
 ing on a jDlatform 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, 
 24 
 
870 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Slie did not know wliat the effect j^-oduced on Uritli miglit 
 be of seeing suddenly before her the rival who had blighted 
 her happiness ; and the jDosition occupi*ed by Urith was dan- 
 gerous, on the overhanging ledge. 
 
 Bessie rose from her place and walked towards Julian, 
 stepping cautiously among the crags. Urith took no no- 
 tice of her departure. 
 
 On reaching Julian Crymes, Bessie caught her by the 
 arm and drew her back among the rocks, out of sight and 
 hearinof 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 her- 
 self." 
 
 " Well," retorted Julian, " what of that? She and I staked 
 for the same prize, and she has lost." 
 
 " And you not w^on." 
 
 "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 3'ou ! " 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 j^ast her, between her and the pre- 
 cipice, with steady eye and lirm step, and clambered to 
 where was Uritk. 
 
 She stood beside her for a minute, studvini? her, watch- 
 mg 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. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 371 
 
 Then, her patience exhausted, Julian put forth the end of 
 her stajff, 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 coukl 
 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 alwaj'S 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 indif- 
 ferent to both whether we live, for to you and me alike is 
 Anthon}" 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 Juhan's staff, and now stood 
 looking down the abyss to the tossing, thundering water, 
 still holding the end. 
 
 "Urith!" called Julian, imperiously and impatiently, 
 
372 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " dost hear what I say ? Let us have one more, and a 
 final hitch. Thon 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. 
 
 "1 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* and a fair 
 back." * 
 
 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 quar- 
 rel 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. 
 
 CHAPTER LH. 
 
 THE SAW-PIT. 
 
 At Hall, that same morning had broken on Squire Clev- 
 erdou 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. 
 
 * Terms in wrestling. A "turn" is .1 fall ; a '* fair back '' is one 
 wliere the three points are touched — head, shoulders, and back. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 373 
 
 "When tlie maid came in at an early liour 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 hap- 
 pened 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 propert}- ? 
 Anj'how 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 Kil- 
 worthy — till the Bebellion was either successful or was ex- 
 tinguished — 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, pub- 
 licly 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 fur- 
 row, 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 corjDse in the house. 
 
 His man told the Squire that Fox was gone, and had left 
 a message, which the fellow would not deliver, so grossly 
 
3Y4 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 insolent was it ; the substance was that he would not re- 
 turn 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 farther, urging on his 
 horse to a quicker rate. 
 
 Next moment the brute stumbled, and nearly w^ent 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 w\as 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 lumg 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 tlie lialter as the old Squire 
 rode away, and had shouted after him to that effect. 
 
 Mr. Cleverdon removed the bridle, then took off the hal- 
 ter, 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 x^it 
 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 could 
 
UEITII: A TALE OF DAUTMOOll. 375 
 
 obtain fissistance nowhere. The limes were dangerous, 
 because unsettled, and no one woukl 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 w^as said to lend money at high rates of interest. The 
 Jew, however, would not think of the loan, till the Rebel- 
 lion was at an end. 
 
 All was over. The Squire — the Squire ! — ho 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 im- 
 perious 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 brutal- 
 ity with which he had been treated by Fox was but a sam- 
 ple and foretaste of the brutality with which he would be 
 treated bv all such as hitherto he had held under, shown 
 harshness and inconsideration towards. He had been self- 
 ish in his prosperity, he was selfish in his adversity. He 
 did not think of Anthony. He gave not a thought to 
 Bessie. His own disaj^pointment, his ovv'n humiliation, 
 was all that concerned him. He had valued the love of 
 his children not a rush, and now that his material posses- 
 sions slij^ped from his grasp, nothing was left him to which 
 to cling. 
 
S76 nRlTJI: A TALE OF nARTMOOU. 
 
 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 impracti- 
 cable. 
 
 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, mo~ 
 tionless. 
 
 To what was he returning: ? To a home that was no 
 
 o 
 
 more a home — to a few miserable daj^s of saj'ing 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 noth- 
 ing, without interests, without ambitions — wholly pur- 
 portless. He would go forth alone ; Bessie would not ac- 
 company him, for he had thrown her away on the most 
 despicable of men, and to him she w^as bound — him she 
 must follow. Anthony — he knew not whether he were alive 
 or dead. If alive, he could not go to him wdiom he had 
 driven from Hall, and to Willsworthy, of all places under 
 the sun, he would not go. Luke he could not ask to re- 
 ceive 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 deadh' rival and enem3\ What sort 
 of life could he live wdtli no one to care for him — with 
 nothing to occu^^y his mind and energies ? 
 
 How could he appear in church, at market, now that it 
 w^as 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 an- 
 nuity he would have to pay out of his reduced income ; he 
 might live with her — with her whom he had treated so 
 
VRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 377 
 
 unceremoniously, so rudely — over wliom lie 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 bo sawn into planks, 
 and already it was in part cut through. The men had 
 been there, begun their task ; then had gone otY, 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. Eound 
 the edges of the pit the hart's-tongue fern and the penny- 
 wort had lodged between the stones and luxuriated, the 
 latter throwing up at this time its white spires of flower. 
 
 A magnificent jDlume of fern occupied one end of the 
 trough. Bushes 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 run- 
 ning 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 go- 
 ing, 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, w^here a cross-way led to Black 
 Down. It was well that so it should be ; so he would re- 
 tain, 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 some- 
 thing 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. 
 
oTS URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Thus furiiislied, lie stopped back, and again looked 
 do^vii. Ho did not pra}-. 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 j^alate ! 
 
 Though he could not si)eak 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 pro- 
 ceed to construct a cobweb between him and the side of 
 the pit? Ho saw himself thus utilised as a sidestay for a 
 great cobweb, and saw a brown butterfly, with silver un- 
 derwings, 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 ! " 
 
URITH: A TALE OF BABTMOOR. 379 
 
 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 m 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 m any other 
 
 way?" 
 
 " There is no other way." 
 
 " What has happened," said Luke, " is by the will ot 
 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 conduc- 
 tino- 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, , , , i. 
 
 "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 m 
 God, and He will give you in place of Hall something bet- 
 ter 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 m 
 
 God and see." 
 
380 UIUTII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 CHAPTER LHI. 
 
 BAD TIDINGS. 
 
 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 chang- 
 ing 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 di- 
 minished. 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 es- 
 trangement 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 j^romise made yesterday? 
 I cannot fulfil it. I did not know it then. Now it is im- 
 possible. I can never love Fox — never resj^ect him. He 
 has behaved to mv father in a manner that even if foroiven 
 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 wliat 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 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 381 
 
 — 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 any- 
 thing you said would have altered his determination. He 
 was resolved, and when resolved, nothing will turn him 
 from his purjDose. As we were married at Tavistock and 
 not in your church, you were not spoken to about it." 
 
 " No — but I ouo-ht to have seen vour 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 mis- 
 management, quarrelling between the leaders : bad general- 
 ship, I have no doubt ; it was but a beginning of a fight ; 
 and then a general route. 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. Crvmes 
 is dead. He passed the coach and saw the soldiers pUm- 
 dering it, and the poor old gentleman had been shot and 
 draofged 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 contino-ent of men from Tavistock and the 
 villages round, who had been collected by the activity of 
 Mr. Orymes 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 officer- 
 ing 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 to 
 
382 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 throw fiwfi}' arms and run, than was any other. That ia 
 what Gloine says." 
 
 "And he can say nothing of Anthony ?" 
 
 ** Nothing, Gloine says that when the route 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 wdth his life, he will stand 
 in extreme danger. He has been one of the few gentlemen 
 who has ojDenly 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 
 jirice will be set on his head, and if he be caught, he will 
 be executed — almost certainly. He may return here if alive, 
 lie probably wdll do so ; but he must be sent abroad or kej)t 
 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. Be- 
 sides, 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. jMy 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, withoutan audible laugh, " tljat the five 
 or six hundred pounds had been lifted on Black Down in- 
 stead 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. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 383 
 
 "But not for long. I shall change my name back, if it- 
 cost me fifty pounds. There is something more that 1-^ 
 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 
 3'ou 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 ex- 
 pected him to be drawn to Tyburn, hung, and disembow- 
 elled 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 itis undoubted. 
 The troopers were in full pursuit of our Tavistock com- 
 pany of Jack-Fools, cutting them down and not sparing 
 one. Anthony cannot escape. If he ran from the field, he 
 will be caughtelsewhere. If they spitted the common men, 
 the}^ will not spare the commanding officer." 
 
 " Poor Anthony ! " sighed Bess. 
 
 " Ay ! poor Anthony, indeed, wdth 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 jDassed 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. "Tour 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, 
 
384 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 she said, "I cannot help myself. I swore with good inten- 
 tion 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 awaj', and could only lead to a breach 
 between him and Fox, in which he must get the w^orst, 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 vesterdav," 
 Baid 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 ex- 
 pression and in age. The old hardness had given way, 
 and distress — pain, such as never before had marked his 
 countenance, now imj^ressed it, even in sleep. He had 
 probably hardl}' closed his eyes for many nights, as he 
 had been full of anxiety about the fate of Hall, and tho 
 success of his scheme for its preservation. The last night 
 had been Si3ent in complete and torturing wakefulness. 
 !^sow 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 with 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 385 
 
 his 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 stej) 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, with- 
 out touching him, and never turned an 63-6 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 hig 
 head to her bosom, pressed it there, and kissed him, say- 
 in <^' 
 
 " My father ! my dear, dear father ! " 
 
 He drew a long and laboured breath, disengaged him- 
 self from her arms, and putting down his feet, sat up on 
 the couch. She w^as 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 ho 
 gently yet firml}^ put her from him, and yet — in so doing 
 kept his eyes intently, questioningl}^ 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 ? 
 
 25 
 
386 URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOli. 
 
 CHAPTER LTV. ' "' ^ 
 
 A DAISY. 
 
 As briefly as may be, we must give some account of the 
 venture of Monmouth, which ended in such comjolete dis- 
 aster. 
 
 Charles, natural son of Charles II. by Lucy Walters, 
 born in 1649, created Duke of Monmouth in 1663 by his fa- 
 ther, w^as, as Pei:)ys writes, '' a most pretty sj)ark ; " *' very 
 handsome, extremely well made, and liad an air of great- 
 ness answerable to his birth, " says the Countess D'Aulna}- ; 
 was his father's favourite son, and for some time it was 
 supposed that King Charles 11. would proclaim his legiti- 
 macy 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, wdiose accession to the Throne was generally 
 dreaded on account of his kuow"n attachment to the Roman 
 Church. James therefore always regarded him with jeal- 
 ousy 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 hon- 
 oured Squire Thynne, of Longleate House, with his com- 
 pany for some days. Thence he journeyed into Somerset- 
 shire, 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 per- 
 sonal beauty, the charm of his manners, Avon 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 had 
 
 "*:. 
 
UBITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 3S7 
 
 been armnged bet^Yeen liim 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 Mon- 
 mouth. 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 
 sjDeedily defeated and lodged in Edinburgh Castle on Juno 
 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 in- 
 famous 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 Dnko 
 from an enterprise which he saw was premature and des- 
 perate, 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 Poi^ery, 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 ex- 
 traordinary rapidity was carried to the very Land's End, 
 raising the excitement of the people, who chafed at the des- 
 potism of King James 11., and were full of susj^icion as to 
 his purposes. In the Declaration, j^romises 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 Duke en- 
 
888 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOU. 
 
 trusted the volunteers to the direction of a man of talent 
 and integrity, it is not impossible that lie 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 Lj'me, 
 and Monmouth detached three hundred men to storm the 
 town, Lord Gre}', 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 Somerset- 
 shire 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 j^assed through Axminstcr, and on the IGth was 
 at Chard ; thence he marched to Taunton, his numbers in- 
 creasing 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 jo^'ful acclama- 
 tions, the rich threw open their houses to him and his fol- 
 lowers, his way was strewn with flowers, and twenty-six 
 young girls of the best families in the town appeared be- 
 fore Monmouth, and presented him with a Bible. Mon- 
 mouth 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 
 liis coach. Anthony was immediately presented to the 
 
TJRITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 381) 
 
 Duke, who, taken by liis manly appearance, at once ap- 
 pointed him to be captain of the contingent from Tav- 
 istock. 
 
 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 hini, or were secretly in his favour, 
 still respected the hereditary rights of kingship ; and 
 others had a lingering affection for Republican institu- 
 tions. These two opposite classes were dissatisiied 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. Mar}', 
 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 agained j^roclaimed 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. Discour- 
 agement 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 
 Poyal 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 princi- 
 ples 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 w^ould at last have obtained a victory, had not 
 the misconduct of Monmouth and the cowardice or treach- 
 ery of Gre}^ prevented it. 
 
 In the height of the action, w^hen the fortune of the day 
 was w^avering, Lord Grey told Monmouth that all was lost 
 • — that it was more than time to think of shifting for him- 
 
390 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 self. AccordiDgly, he and Monmouth, find a, few other of- 
 ficers, rode off the field, leaving the poor enthusiasts, with- 
 out 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 se- 
 verely. 
 
 Urith sat in the parlour at Willsworthy. She had re- 
 verted 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 hnnd 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 move- 
 ment of muscle, not a flicker of the eyelid betrayed that 
 she was alive and sentient ; no tears filling the eye, no 
 sigh escaj^ing her lips. 
 
 The heat of her brow showed that she was labouring 
 under an compressive sorrow. 
 
 She spoke and acted mechanically when roused into 
 action and to speech, and then instantly fell back into her 
 customary tor^mor. Only when so roused did the stunned 
 sjmirit flutter to her eyes, and bring a slight suffusion of 
 colour into her face. Next moment she was stone as be- 
 fore. 
 
 She had been given, by Mrs. Penwarne, some flowers to 
 arrano-e for the table. 
 
 O 
 
 " 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 uncon- 
 scious, holding the stalks. 
 
 The old lad}' 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 when 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 391 
 
 roused from her dream, lyinr^ across the hearthstone with 
 his heart pierced. Slie had seen a httle 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 con- 
 nected, 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 slowl}', 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 sta^'ing 
 its onward progress till it had filled the chink, and con- 
 verted 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 wasj^ 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, la}^ 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, 
 Avhether 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 eai'thworm, as endowed with a half con- 
 sciousness that gave it direction without organs of sense. 
 
 And now on the floor lay the garden dais^^-head, and 
 towards it the purple-red streanilet was pushing on ; was 
 the daisy alread}' touched, and the edges of the fringe of 
 petals just tinctured ? Or was its redness due to the 
 
302 URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 reflection on the pure wliite 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 ^^rocess would require Uritli did not ask, 
 for time was nothing to her. But she looked and waited, 
 she fancied that she saw the clotting together of the ra3's, 
 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, obser- 
 ving the flower, step by step followed it. There was a 
 draught blowini]f along the floor from a back-door that was 
 
 o o o 
 
 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 daisv w^ould 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, car- 
 ried the little delicate blossom forward rapidly, into the 
 hall and along its floor, and after it shot tlie 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. 
 
 Udth rose from her stooping position, and saw before 
 her the man whose foot had stopj^ed the daisy — it was An- 
 thony, 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. 
 
 xiud now, standing on the actual hearthstone, with the 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 393 
 
 fancied blood-stream ruuuing 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 Hght 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 
 e^'es, 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 e^'es stead- 
 ily fixed on him ; but there was neither surprise nor j^leas- 
 ure 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. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 FATHER AND SON AGAIN. 
 
 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 j-et — 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 
 ine again." 
 
 **you must not be discouraged," urged Bess. "She 
 
o 
 
 Ott URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 has 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 re- 
 quires 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 re- 
 store her to the condition in which she was. I have heard 
 of a woman thrown into a trance by a flash of liehtnin"". 
 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 hither- 
 to considered and valued your love to me, but have im- 
 posed 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 opposi- 
 tion." 
 
 " No, Tony, my father employed no force ; but he told 
 me how matters stood with regard to Hall, and I was will- 
 ing 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 
 mone}', but he will not pay the mortgage ; and yet I can- 
 not believe he will allow Hall to slip away. I think he is 
 holding out to hurt my father, with whom he is very an- 
 gry because the state of matters was not told him before 
 the marriage." 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 395 
 
 ''You suffered her to throw herself away?" asked An- 
 thoii}', 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 
 wrongl}^, your father. Fox, all — all are blameworthy, but 
 she — nay ! Bess, suftfer me to speak ; what I say I feel, 
 and so must all who know the circumstances. The Squiro 
 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 j^ou," pleaded Bessie, with crimson brow, "I 
 pray you, not another word about me." 
 
 "Very well, we will sj^eak 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 for- 
 giveness." 
 
 " What has he to forgive ? " asked Anthony, impatiently. 
 " Are not his own hard-heartedness and his hatred of 
 Bichard 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 jomv own doing." 
 
 "Mine?" Though he asked the question, yet he an- 
 swered it to himself, for his head sank, and he did not 
 look his cousin in the face. 
 
 " Yes — yours," replied Luke. " It was your unfaithful- 
 ness to Urith that drove her " 
 
 "I was not unfaithful," interrupted xiuthony. 
 
 *'You hovered on the edge of it — sufficiently near infi- 
 delity to make her believe you had turned 3'our 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 respon- 
 sible 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." 
 
S9G URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR, 
 
 Anthony remained witli his head bowed on the table. 
 He put np 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 con- 
 fess 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 3"Our 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 
 tres2:>ass if you remain at enmity with youv earthly fa- 
 ther?" said Luke, sternly. " No, Tony, begin aright. Do 
 what is clearly your first duty, and then walk forward, 
 trustincf 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 1 " 
 She held his hand still, and drew him after her. She had 
 risen. 
 
 "Very well!" said xVnthony, standing up. "In God's 
 name." 
 
 (( 
 
 He has heard that you are returned," added Bessie. 
 " It will be a pleasure to him to see 3'ou 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 
 be could scraj^e 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 unpropitions 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 j)rices they 
 W'Ould fetch. 
 
 When the door opened andBessieentered with Anthony, 
 the old man looked ujd, 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." 
 
tiniTlT: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 397 
 
 " So I see," said liis father, drjly. 
 
 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 pres- 
 sure 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, "j^ou 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 re- 
 sultless 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 this 
 
398 URITU: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 comes to pass because you disregarded my wishes. Had 
 you married Julian, had you even proj^osed 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 diffi- 
 culty 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 3'our heart, father, turning it against 3'our 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, every- 
 thing, 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 An- 
 thony, " and have set on edge all teeth that have bitten 
 into them. Sister-— come ! " 
 
 He went out of the door. 
 
riilTJI: A 2'ALh' OF UAUTMOOH. 399 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 EURYDICE. 
 
 In the hall again, seated in the window, is Urith. The 
 window is planted high in the wall, so high, that to look 
 out at it a sort of dais must be ascended, consisting of a 
 step. On this dais is an ancient Tudor chair, high in the 
 seat, as was usual with sucli chairs, made when floors were 
 of slate and were rush-strewn, calculated to keep the feet 
 above the stone, resting on a stool. Thus, elevated two 
 steps above the floor, to whit, on the dais and the footstool, 
 sat Urith as an enthroned queen, but a queen most forlorn, 
 deadly pale, with sunken eyes that had become so large as 
 to seem to fill her entire face, which remained entirely im- 
 passive, self-absorbed. 
 
 She made no allusion to Anthony ; after he had with- 
 drawn, she forgot that she had seen him. His presence 
 when JDefore her rendered her uneasy, so that, out of pity 
 for her distress, he removed, when at once she sank back 
 into the condition which had become fixed. But Anthony 
 was again in the hall on Uiis occasion, resolved again to try 
 to draw her from her lethargy. 
 
 She sat uplilted in her chair, trifling with a broken token. 
 She was swinging it like a pendulum before her, and to do 
 this she leaned forward that the ribbon might hang free of 
 her bosom. Thou^-h her eves rested on the half-disc, its 
 movement did not seem to interest her, and yet she never 
 suffered the sway entirely to cease. So soon as the vibra- 
 tion became imperceptible, she put a finger to the coin and 
 set it swinging once more. 
 
 Anthony had seated himself on the dais step, and looked 
 lip into her face, and, as he looked, recalled how he had 
 gazed in that same face on Devil Tor, when he had car- 
 ried her through the fire. An infinite yearning and tender- 
 ness came on him. His heart swelled, and he said low, 
 but distinct, with a quiver in his voice 
 
 *' Urith ! " 
 
 She slowly turned her head, fixed her eyes on him, and 
 said, ** A^-e." 
 
400 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 " Uritli ! Do you not know me ? " 
 
 8be bad averted her head again. Slowly, mechanically, 
 she again turned her face to him, seemed to be gathering 
 her thoughts, and then said : 
 
 "You are like Anthony. But 3'ou are not he. lean- 
 not tell who you are." 
 
 *' I am your Anthony ! " 
 
 He caught her elbow to draw her hand to him, to kiss it, 
 but she started at the touch, shivered to lier very feet, so 
 as to rattle the stool under them, plucked her arm from 
 him, and said quickly : 
 
 "Do not touch me. I will not be touched." 
 
 He heaved a long breath, and put his hand to his 
 head. 
 
 " How can you forget me, Urith. Do you not recall how 
 I had YOU in my arms, and leaped with you through the fire, 
 onDeVilTor?" 
 
 " I was carried by him — he is dead — not by you. " She 
 looked steadily at him. " No — not by you. " 
 
 "It was I ! " he exclaimed, with vehemence. "I set you 
 on my horse, dearest. It was I — I— I. Oh, Urith ! do not 
 pretend not to know me ! I have been away, in danger of 
 my life, and I thought in the battle of you, only of you. 
 Urith ! my love ! Turn your eyes on me. Look steadily 
 at me. Do you remember how, when I had set you on 
 my horse, I stood with my hand on the neck, and my 
 eves on you. You dazzled me then. My head spun. 
 Urith ! dear Urith, then I first knew that you only could be 
 mine, that nowhere in the whole world could I find another 
 I would care for. And yet— whilst I discovered that, I fore- 
 saw something dreadf id, it was undefined, a mere shadow — 
 and now it has come. Look me in the eyes, my darling' ! 
 look me in the eyes, and you must know me." 
 
 She obeyed him, in the same mechanical, dead manner 
 and said, '' I will not thus be addressed, I am no man's 
 darling. I was the darling of Anthony once — a long time 
 ago ; but he ceased to love me ; and he is dead. I killed 
 him." 
 
 "Anthony never ceased to love you. It is false. ^ He 
 always loved you, but sometimes more than at other times, 
 for his self-love rose up and smothered his love for you — 
 but never for long." 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 401 
 
 "Did Anthony never cease to love me? How do you 
 know that ? How can you know that? You are deceiving 
 
 me. 
 
 "It is true. None know it as I do." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Listen to me, Urith. Anthony never loved any but 
 
 "He liad loved Julian," answered Urith. "He had 
 from a child, and first love always lasts, it is tough and 
 
 enduring. " 
 
 " No, he never loved her. I swear to you. " 
 She shook her head again, but drew a long breath, 
 as though shaking off something of her load. "I can- 
 not think you know," she said, after a xmuse. 
 
 " I knew Anthony as myself. " He caught her hand. 
 " I in^list— look me steadily in the face. " 
 
 She obeyed. Her eyes were without light, her hand 
 was cold and shrinking from his touch, but he would not 
 let it go. For a while there was symptom of struggle m 
 her face, as though she desired to withdraw her eyes 
 from him, but his superior will overcame the dim, half- 
 formed desire, and then into her eyes came a faint glimmer 
 of inquiry, then of vague alarm. 
 "Urith?" 
 
 " It is a long way down," she said. 
 "A long way down? What do you mean?" 
 " I am looking into helL " 
 " What ! thiiough my eyes ? " 
 ■ " I do not know ; I am looking, and it goes down deep, 
 then deeper, and again deeper. I am sinking, and at last 
 I see him, he is far, far away down there m flames. She 
 paused, and intensity of gaze came into her eyes. "In 
 chains." She still looked, the iris of each orb contractmg 
 as though actuallv strained to see somethmg afar off. 
 "Parched." Then she moaned, and her face quivered. 
 " All because he loved Julian when he was mine, and I 
 shall go there too— for I killed him. I do not care. I 
 could not be in heaven, and he there. I will be there- 
 with him. I killed him. " i . i • 
 
 Anthony was dismaved. It seemed impossible to bring 
 her to recognition. But he resolved to make one more 
 attempt. 
 
 26 
 
402 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 He had let go her hand, and as he withdrew his eyes, 
 her head returned to its former position ; and once more 
 she began to play with the pendant token. 
 
 Her profile was against the window. The consuming- 
 internal fire had burnt away all that was earthly, common 
 in her, and had etherialised, refined the face. 
 
 *' Urith ! " 
 
 " AYliy do you vex me ? " 
 
 "Turn fully round to me, Urith. AYhat is that in your 
 hand ? " 
 
 *'A token.'' 
 
 " Who gave it you ? '* 
 
 "It belonged to my father." 
 
 " It is broken." 
 
 " Everything is broken. Nothing ig soxmd. Faith — 
 trust — love." She paused between each word, as gathering 
 her thoughts. " Everything is broken. Words — promises 
 — oaths — ." Then she looked at the token. '' Everything 
 is broken. Hearts are broken — lives —unions — nothing 
 is sound." 
 
 " Look at this, Urith." 
 
 Anthony drew from his breast the half-token that had 
 belonged to his mother, and placed it against that which 
 Urith^held. 
 
 "See, Urith ! they fit together." 
 
 It was so, the ragged edge of one closed into the ragged 
 edge of the other. 
 
 She looked at it, seemed surprised, parted the portions, 
 and reclosed them again. 
 
 " Evervthino- broken may be mended, Urith," said An- 
 thouY. "Faith — trust — love. Do you see ? Faith shaken 
 and rent may become firm and sound again, and trust may 
 be restored as it was, and love be closed fast. Unions — a 
 little parted by misunderstanding, by errors, may be healed. 
 Do you see — Urith ? " 
 
 Siie looked questioningiy into his eyes, then back at the 
 token, then into his eves aiiain. 
 
 "Is it so? " she asked, as in a dream. 
 
 "It is so, you see it is so. See — this broken half-token 
 belonged to your father ; that to my mother. Each had 
 failed the other. All seemed lost and ruined forever and 
 ever. But it could not be — the broken joledge must be 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 4U3 
 
 mado whole, the promises redeemed, the parts must be re- 
 united—and Urith ! they are so in us." 
 
 He caught her by both hands, and looking into her tace, 
 began to sing, in low, soft times : — 
 
 All evening so clear 
 
 I would that I were 
 To kiss thy soft cheek 
 
 Witli the lightest of air. 
 The star that is twinkling 
 
 So brightly above 
 I would that I might be 
 
 To enlighten my love ! 
 
 A marvellous thing took place as he sang. 
 
 As he sang he saw— he saw the gradual return of the 
 far-away soul. It was hke Orpheus in Hades with his harp 
 charming back the beloved, the lost Eurydice. 
 
 As he sang, step by step, nay, hardly so, hair sbreadth 
 by hair'sbreadth, as the dawn creeps up the sky over the 
 moor, the spirit returned from the abysses where it had 
 lost its way in darkness. 
 
 As he sang, Anthony doubted his own power, leared the 
 slio-htest interruption, the least thing to intervene and 
 scare the tremulous spint-life back into the profound 
 wdience he was conjuring it. vi ii 
 
 The soul came, slow as the dawn, and yet, unlike tlie 
 dawn in this, that it came under compulsion. It came as 
 the treasure heaved from a mine, responsive to the effort 
 employed to hft it ; let that strain be desisted from, and 
 it would remain stationary or fall back to where it was be- 
 fore, p ■■ 1 1 -1 
 
 An explosion of firearms, the crash of broken glass, and 
 
 the rattle of bullets against the waxls. _ 
 
 Instantly Anthony has leaped to his feet, caught Until m 
 his arms, and carried her where she was protected by the 
 walls, for the bullets had penetrated the window and whizzed 
 
 past her head. 
 
 At the same moment he saw Solomon Gibbs, who plunged 
 into the hall, red, his wig on one side, shouting, "Tony ! 
 for God's sake, fly ! the troopers are here, sent ^if tei' you 
 I've fastened the front door.^^ Quick— be oH. i hey 11 
 string you up to the next tree," 
 
404 UlilTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 He was deafened by blows against the main entrance, 
 a solid oak door on stout iron hinges let into the granite. 
 It was fastened by a cross-bar — almost a beam — that ran 
 back into a socket in the jamb, when the door was unbar- 
 ricaded. 
 
 "Tony ! not an instant is to be lost. Make off. But by 
 the Lord ! I don't know how. Thev are clamberinc: over 
 the garden wall to get at the back door. There are a 
 score of them — troopers under Captain Fogg," 
 
 Anthony had Urith in his arms. He looked at her, her 
 eyes were fixed on him, full of terror, but also — intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 "Anthony ! " she said, "what is it? Are 3'ou in danger?" 
 
 "The}^ seek my life, dearest. It is forfeit. Never mind. 
 Give me a kiss. AVe part in love." 
 
 " Anthony!" she clung to him. " Oh, Anthony ! What 
 does it all mean ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you now. I suppose it is over. Thank 
 God for this kiss, my love — my love." 
 
 The soldiers were battering at the door ; two were up at 
 the hall window, ripj^ing and smashing at the panes. But 
 there was no possibility of getting in that way, as each 
 light was protected by stout iron stanchions. 
 
 "By the Lord! Tony. I'll fasten the back-door!" 
 shouted Gibbs. " Get out somehow — Urith ! if you have 
 wits, show him the trapway. Quick ! not a moment is to 
 be lost — whilst I bar the back-door." Solomon flew out of 
 the hall. 
 
 " Come," said Urith. " Anthony ! I will show you." She 
 held his hand. She drew it to her, and pressed it to her 
 bosom. It touched the broken token — and she had his 
 half-token in her hand. "Anthony! when joined — to be 
 again separate ? " 
 
 They passed behind the main door, whilst the troopers 
 thundered against it, pouring forth threats, oaths, and 
 curses. They had drawn a great post from the barn over 
 against the porch, and were driving this against the door. 
 That door itself would stand any number of such blows, 
 not so the hinges, or rather the granite jambs into which 
 the iron crooks on which the hinges turned were let ; as 
 Anthony and Urith went by, a piece of granite started by 
 the jar flew from its place, and fell at their feet. Another 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 405 
 
 blow, and the crook would be driven in, and with it the 
 uj^per portion of the door. 
 
 On the further side of the entrance passage, facing the 
 door into the hall, was one that gave access to a room em- 
 ployed formerly as a buttery. In it were now empty casks, 
 old saddles, and a variety of farm lumber, and, amongst 
 them that cradle that Anthony had despised, the cradle 
 in which Urith had been lulled to her infantine slumbers. 
 
 Urith thrust the cradle aside, stooped, lifted a trap- 
 door in the wooden-planked floor, and disclosed steps. 
 
 ** Down there," she said, " fly — be quick — grope j^our 
 way along, it runs in the thickness of the garden wall, and 
 opens towards the chapel. " 
 
 " One kiss, Urith ! " 
 
 They were locked in each other's arms. Then Anthony 
 disengaged himself. 
 
 A shout ! Tlie door had fallen in. A shot — it had been 
 fired through the window by a soldier without who had 
 distinguished figures, though seen indistinctly, through 
 the cobwebbed, dusky panes of the buttery window. 
 Anthony disappeared down tlie secret passage. Urith put 
 her hand to her head a moment, then a sudden idea flashed 
 through her brain ; she caught with both arms the cradle, 
 and crashed it down the narrow passage, blocking it com- 
 pletely, and threw back the door that closed the entrance. 
 
 Next moment she and Solomon Gibbs were in the hands 
 of the troopers who had burst in. 
 
 *' Let go — that is a woman ! " called the commanding 
 officer. " Who are you ? " This to Mr. Gibbs. " Are you 
 Anthony Cleverdon ? You a rebel? '' 
 
 ft/ 
 
 "I! — la rebel! I never handled a sword in my life," 
 answered Mr. Gibbs, without loss of composure ; " but, 
 my lads, at a single-stick, I'm your man." 
 
 " Come ! — who are you ? " 
 
 "I am a man of the peu, Mr. Solomon Gibbs, attorney," 
 answered the old fellow ; " and, master — whatever be your 
 name, I'd like to see j'our warrant — breaking into a house 
 as you have done. I can't finger a sword or a musket, but, 
 by Saint Charles the Martyr, I can make you skip and 
 squeak with a goose-quill ; and I will for this offence." 
 
 " Search the house," ordered Captain Fogg, the officer 
 in command of the party. " I know that the rebel is here ; 
 
406 URITII: A TALE OF DAIiTMOOU. 
 
 he haF? been seen. He cannot have escaped ; lie is secreted 
 somewhere. Meanwhile keep this lawyer-rascal in custody. 
 Here— you, madarae ! " — to Urith — "what is your name, 
 and who are you ?" 
 
 "I am Anthony Cleverdon's wife." 
 
 " And he — where is he ? " 
 
 "Gone." 
 
 " AVhere is he gone to.'* 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " Who is this fellow in the hands of my men ? " 
 
 "He is my uncle, my mother's brother, ]\Ir. Solomon 
 Gibbs." 
 
 " Search the house," ordered the captain. " Madame, if 
 we catch your husband, w^e shall make short work of him. 
 Here is a post wdth which we broke open the door ; we 
 will run it out of an upstair window and hang him from 
 it." 
 
 " You will not take him ; he is away." 
 
 In the mean time the soldiers had overrun the house. 
 No room, no closet, not the attics w^ere unexplored. 
 Anthony could not be found. 
 
 " What have we here ? " A couple of troopers had lifted 
 the trap and discovered the passage. 
 
 " It is choked," said the captain. "What is that? An 
 old cradle thrust away there ? 'Fore heaven ! he can't have 
 got off that way, the cradle stops the way. The bird had 
 flown before we came up the hill." 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 ANOTHER PARTING. 
 
 Immediately after Sedgemoor, a small detachment had 
 been sent under Captain Fogg to Tavistock from the Royal 
 Army to seek out and arrest, and deal summarily with, 
 such volunteers as had joined the rebels from thence. Not 
 only so, but the officer was enjoined to do his utmost to 
 obtain evidence as to what gentlemen were disaffected to 
 the King in that district; and to discover how far they 
 were compromised in the attempt of Monmouth. Mr. 
 
URITH : A TALE OF DAHTMOOE. 407 
 
 Crymes's papers had been secured in his coach. They con- 
 tained correspondence, but, for the most part, letters of 
 excuse and evasion of his attempt to draw other men of 
 position into the rebelhon. With the letters were lists of 
 the volunteers, and names of those who, it was thought, 
 might be induced later to join the movement. 
 
 There existed in the mind of James and his advisers a 
 suspicion that the Earl of Bedford, angry at the judicial 
 murder of his son, was a favourer of Monmouth, and Cap- 
 tain Fogg was particularly ordered to find out, if such ex- 
 isted, proofs of his complicity. 
 
 The part Anthony had taken was too well known for him 
 to remain neglected ; and Fogg had been enjoined to seize 
 and make short work of him. 
 
 Between two of the tors or granite crags that tower 
 above the gorge of the Tavy where it bursts from the moor, 
 at the place called The Cleave, are to be seen at the present 
 day the massive remains of an oblong structure connecting 
 the rocks, and forming a jDarallelogram. This was standing 
 unruined at the time of our story. For whatever purpose 
 it may have served originally, it had eventually been con- 
 verted into a shelter-hut for cattle and for shepherds. 
 
 There was a doorway, and there were narrow loophole 
 windows ; the roof was of turf. At one end, against the 
 rock, a rude fireplace had been constructed ; but there was 
 no j^roper chimney — the smoke had to find its way as best 
 it might out of a hole in the roof above, which also ad- 
 mitted some light and a good deal of rain. A huge castle 
 of rock in horizontal slabs walled off the hut from the north, 
 and gave it some shelter from the storms that blew thence. 
 There was a door to the opening that could be fastened, 
 which was well, as it faced the southwest, whence blew the 
 prevailing wind laden with rain ; but the windows were un- 
 glazed — they were mere slots, through which the wind 
 entered freety. The floor was littered with bracken, and 
 was dry. The crushed fern exhaled a pleasant odour. 
 
 Outside the hut, in early morning, sat Anthony with 
 Urith among the rocks, looking down into the gorge. The 
 valley was full of white mist, out of which occasionally a 
 grey rock thrust its head. Above the mist the moor-peaks 
 and rounded hills glittered in the morning sun. 
 
 Anthony sat with his arm about Urith ; he had drawn 
 
40S XTRITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 lier head upon his breast, and every moment he stooped to 
 kiss it. Tears were in her eyes — tears sparkHng as the 
 dewdrops on bracken and heather — tears of happiness. 
 The dusky shadows of the past had rolled away : a shock 
 had thrown her mind off its balance, and a shock had re- 
 stored it. What led to that brief period of darkness, what 
 occurred during it, was to her like a troubled dream of 
 which no connected story remained — onty a reminiscence 
 of pain and terror. She knew now that Anthony loved 
 her, and there was peace in her soul. He loved her. She 
 cared for nothing else. That was to her everything. 
 That he was in danger she knew. How he had got into it 
 she did not dare to inquire. But one thought filled her 
 mind and soul, displacing every other — he loved her. 
 
 It was so. Anthony did love her, and loved her alone. 
 When he was away — in the camp, on the march, in the 
 battle-field — his mind had turned to Urith and his home. 
 Filled with anxiety about her from what he had heai'd from 
 Mr. Crymes, he had become a i^rey to despair ; and, if he 
 had fought in the engagement of Sedgemoor with des- 
 perate valour, it had been in the hopes of falling, for he 
 believed that no more chance of happiness remained to 
 him. 
 
 After his escape, an irresistible longing to see Urith 
 once more, and learn for certain how she was, and how she 
 regarded him, had drawn him to Willsworthy. And now, 
 that she was restored to him in mind and heart, he stood, 
 l^erhaps, in as great peril as at any time since he had joined 
 the insurgents. He knew this, but was sanguine. The 
 vast extent of the moor was before him, where he could hide 
 for months, and it would be impossible for an enemy to 
 surprise him. Where he then was, on the cliffs above the 
 Tavy, he was safe, and safe within reach of home. No one 
 could approach unobserved, and opportunities of escape 
 lay ready on all sides — a thousand hiding-places among 
 the piles of broken rock, and bogs that could be put be- 
 tween himself and a pursuer. Nevertheless, he could not 
 remain for ever thus hiding. He must escape across the 
 seas, as he was certain to be proscribed, and a price set on 
 his head. That he must be with Urith but for a day or 
 two he was well aware, and every moment that she was 
 with him was to him j)recious. She did not know this : 
 
mUTII: A TALU: OF DARTMOOR. 409 
 
 slie tliought slie had recovered liim for ever, and lie did 
 not undeceive lier. 
 
 Now be began to tell her of his adventures — of how he 
 had joined the Duke, and been appointed Captain of the 
 South Devon band ; of how they had been received in 
 Taunton ; how they had marched to Bristol, and almost 
 attacked it ; and then of the disastrous day at Sedge- 
 moor. 
 
 "Come ! " said Anthony, "let us have a fire. AVith the 
 mists of the morning rising, the smoke from the hut will 
 escape notice." 
 
 The air of morning was cold. 
 
 Holding Urith still to his side, he went with her into the 
 hut. It was without furniture of any sort. Blocks of 
 stones served as seats ; but there was a crook over the 
 hearth, and an iron pot hanging from it. A little collec- 
 tion of fuel stood in a corner — heather, furze-bushes, dry 
 turf — that had been piled there by a shepherd in winter, 
 and left unconsumed. 
 
 Urith set herself to w^ork to make a fire and prepare. 
 They were merry as children on a picnic, getting ready for 
 a breakfast. Urith had brought up what she could in a 
 basket from Willsworthy, and soon a bright and joy-in- 
 spiring fire was blazing on the hearth. 
 
 Anthony rolled a stone beside it and made Urith sit 
 thereon, whilst he threw^ himself in the fern at her feet, 
 and held her hand. They talked watching and feeding 
 the fire, and expecting the pot to boil. They did not laugh 
 much, they had no jokes with each other. Love had ceased 
 to be a butterfly, and was rather the honey-bearing bee, 
 and the honey it brought was drawn out of the blossoms 
 of sorrow. 
 
 To Urith it gave satisfaction to see how changed An- 
 thony was from the spoiled, wayward, dissatisfied fellow 
 who had thought only of himself, to a man resolute, tender, 
 and strong. As she looked at him, pride swelled in her 
 heart, and her dark eyes told what she felt. But a little 
 time had passed over both their heads, and yet in that 
 little while much had been changed in both. How much 
 in herself she did not know, but she marked and was glad 
 to recognise the change in him. 
 
 As they talked, intent in each other, almost unable to 
 
410 URITII: jl TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 withdraw their eyes from each other, the door opened, and 
 Mr. Solomon Gibbs entered. 
 
 "There! — there! "said he, "a pretty sharp watch 3-011 
 keep. You might have been surprised for aught of guard 
 3'ou \ie])i." 
 
 *' Come here," said Anthonj" ; *' sit by the fire and tell 
 me what is being done below." 
 
 Mr. Solomon Gibbs shook his head. " You cannot re- 
 main here, Tony ; you must be off — over the seas — and I 
 will take care of Urith, and have the windows patched at 
 AYillsworthy." 
 
 " I know I must," said Anthony, gloomih', and he took 
 Urith's hand and drew it round his neck ; never had she 
 been dearer to him than now, when he must part from 
 her. 
 
 "Oh! uncle !" exclaimed Urith, "he must not indeed 
 go hence now that he has returned to me." 
 
 "I am safe here for a while," said Anthony, and he 
 pressed his lips to Urith's hand. 
 
 "Canyon say that, with the rare look-out you keep?" 
 asked Mr. Gibbs. Tlien he gazed into the fire, putting up 
 his hand and scratchino' his head under the wi^,'. He said 
 no more for a minute, l^ut presently, without looking at 
 Anthony, he w^ent on. "Those fellows under their CajDtain 
 — Fogg is his name — are turning the place upside down ; 
 they have visited pretty nigh every house and hovel in 
 quest of rebels, as they call them. Tiio confounded nuis- 
 ance is that they have a list of the young fellows wlio w-ent 
 from these parts. As fast as any of them come home, if 
 they have escaped the battle, they drop into the hands of 
 the troopers." 
 
 Anthon}^ said nothing, he was troubled. Urith's large 
 dark eyes were fixed on her uncle. 
 
 " The Duke of Monmouth has been taken, I hear ; ho 
 hid in a field, in a ditch among the nettles. No chance 
 for him. His Majesty, King James, will have no bowels 
 of compassion for such a nephew. For the Protestants of 
 England there is now no hope save in the Prince of 
 Orancje." 
 
 Then Uncle Solomon put his hand round behind An- 
 thonv and nudged him, so as not to attract the attention 
 of Urith. 
 
URITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 411 
 
 "And "vvliilst we are waiting we may be consumed, " 
 said Anthony. 
 
 Then Solomon nndged Anthony again, and winked at 
 him, and made a sign that he desired to have a word witli 
 him outside the door. 
 
 " 'Fore Heaven, Tony ! " said he, " we are as careless as 
 before. I who bade you keep a watch have forgotten my- 
 self in talking with you. Go forth, lad, and cast a look 
 about thee." 
 
 Anthony rose from the fern, and went to the door. He 
 stood in it a moment, looking from side to side, then closed 
 the door, and went further. 
 
 Mr. Gibbs took off his wig and rubbed his head. "The 
 mist in the valley has taken the curl out, Urith. I wish 
 you would dry my wig by the blaze, and I will clap my 
 hat on and go out and help Anthony to see from which 
 quarter the wind blows, and whether against the wind mis- 
 chief comes." 
 
 Then he also went forth. 
 
 Urith at once set herself to prepare the food for break- 
 fast ; her heart was heavy at the thought of losing Anthony 
 again as soon as she had recovered him, when all the love 
 of their first passion had rebloomed with, if not greater 
 beauty, yet with more vigour. 
 
 When Anthony re-entered the hut, he v,as alone, very 
 pale, and graver than before ; Urith saw him as he passed 
 the ray of light that entered from one of the loop-holes, 
 and she judged at once that some graver tidings had been 
 given him than Uncle Sol had cared to communicate in 
 her presence. 
 
 She uttered a half- stifled cry of fear, and started to her 
 feet. " O Anthony ! What is it ? Are the soldiers draw- 
 ing near? " 
 
 " No, my darling, no one is in sight." 
 
 "But what is it, then ? Must I lose you? Must you go 
 from hence ? " 
 
 She threw herself on his breast and clung to him. 
 
 "Yes, Urith, I must go. You must be prepared to lose 
 me." 
 
 "But I shall see j^ou again — soon? " 
 
 '• We shall certainly meet again." 
 
 She understood that he was no longer safe there, that 
 
412 milTIl: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 lie must fi}' f nrtlier, and that she could not accompany him 
 on his flight ; but her heart could not reconcile itself to 
 this conviction. 
 
 He spoke to her with great affection, he stroked her 
 head, and kissed her, and bade her take courage and gath- 
 er strength to endure what must be borne. 
 
 " But, Tony !— for how long? " 
 
 " I cannot say." 
 
 " And must you cross the seas? " 
 
 He hesitated before he answered. "I must go to a 
 strange land," he replied in a low tone, and bowed his 
 head over hers. She felt that his hand that held her head 
 was trembling. She knew it was not from fear, but from 
 the agony of parting with her. She strove to master her 
 despair when she saw what it cost him to say " Farewell " 
 to her. If she might not share his fate, she could save it 
 from being made more heavy and bitter by her tears and 
 lamentations. 
 
 "Tony," she said, "you gave me that other half-token, 
 take it again ; hang it about j-our neck as a remembrance 
 of me, and I will wear the other half — wherever we may 
 be, jon or I, it is to each only a half, a broken life, an im- 
 perfect life, and life can never be full and complete to 
 either again till we meet." 
 
 "No," he said, and took the token, "no, only a half life 
 till we meet." 
 
 He hung the ribbon round his neck, and placed the half 
 token in his breast. Then he said : 
 
 "I must go at once, Urith. Come with me a part of the 
 way. Uncle Sol will take you from me." 
 
 They left the hut together. Urith pointed to the food, 
 but Anthony's appetite was gone. He drew her to his 
 side, and so, silently, folded together with interlaced arms, 
 they walked over the dewy short grass without speaking. 
 After a while they reached a point where Solomon Gibbs 
 Avas awaiting them, a point at which their several wa^'s 
 parted. 
 
 There Anthony staved his feet. Overcome by her grief 
 Urith again cast herself into his arms. He put his hands 
 to her head and thrust it back, that he might look into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Urith!" he said. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 413 
 
 *' Yes, Authony ! " She raised her eyes to liis. 
 
 He was pale as death. 
 
 " Urith, your forgiveness for all the sorrow I have 
 caused you." 
 
 " Oh, Anthony ! " she ckmg to him, quivering with emo- 
 tion. " It is I — it is I — who must " 
 
 "We have been neither of us free from blame. One 
 kiss — a last — in token of perfect reconciliation." 
 
 A kiss that was long — which neither liked to conclude — 
 but Anthony at length drew his lips away. 
 
 " We shall meet again," he said, "and then to part no 
 
 more." 
 
 CHAPTER LYin. 
 
 ON THE WAY TO DEATH, 
 
 Anthony had seen Urith for the last time. They would 
 meet again only in Eternity. Though the moor was wide 
 before him and he was free to escape over it, yet he 
 might not Hy. Captain Fogg had taken his father prisoner, 
 had conveyed him to Lydford Castle, which he made his 
 headquarters, and had given out that, unless Anthony 
 Cleverdon the younger, the rebel, who had commanded the 
 insurgent company from the neighbourhood of Tavistock, 
 surrendered himself within twenty-four hours, he would 
 hang the old man from the topmost window of the castle 
 keep. 
 
 This was the tidings that Mr. Solomon Gibbs had brouefht 
 to Anthon}'. Mr. Gibbs made no comment on it, he left 
 Anthony to act on what he heard unpersuaded by him, to 
 sacrifice himself for his father, or else to let the old man 
 suffer in his stead. 
 
 There could be little doubt that Squire Cleverdon had 
 done his utmost to forfeit the love of his children. 
 
 All the unhappiness that had fallen on Anthony, Urith, 
 and Bessie w^as due in chief measure to his pride and 
 hardness of heart ; nevertheless, the one great fact re- 
 mained that he w^as the father of Anthony, and this fact 
 constituted an ineradicable right over the son, obliging 
 him to do his utmost to save the life of his father. 
 
414 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Moreover, the old man was guiltless of rebellion. An- 
 thony's life was forfeit, because he had borne arms against 
 iiis rightful sovereign, and his father had not comj)romised 
 his loyalty in any way. Anthony had never, as a bo}', en- 
 diired that a comrade should be ^^unished for his faults, 
 and could he now suffer his father to be put to death for 
 the rebellious conduct of the son ? 
 
 Not for one moment did Anthony hesitate as to his 
 duty. But a struggle he did undergo. He thought of 
 Urith. He had sinned against her, led astray by his 
 vanity and love of flattery ; and, after having suffered, he 
 had worked liis way to a right mind. And at the very 
 moment of reunion, when his love and exultation over his 
 recovered wife shot up like a flame — at that very moment 
 he must pronounce his own sentence of death ; at the 
 moment that he had felt that she forgave him, and that 
 all was clear for beginning a new and joyous life together, 
 he must be torn from her, and exchange the pure and 
 beautiful happiness just dawning on him for a disgraceful 
 death, and the grave. 
 
 He knew that Urith's grief over his death would be 
 intense, and, maybe, bring her down almost into the dust ; 
 but he knew, also, that the day would come when she 
 would acknowledge that he had acted rightly, and then 
 she would be proud of his memory. On the other hand, 
 were he to allow his father to die in his room, he would 
 remain for ever dishonoured in his own sight, disgraced 
 before the world, and would lose the respect of his 
 wife, and with loss of respect her love for him would 
 also go. 
 
 The worst was over : he had bidden her farewell without 
 betraying to her that the farewell was for ever. He took his 
 way to Lydford, there to hand himself over to the Koyal 
 officers. 
 
 He had not left the moor, but was on the highway that 
 crosses an outlying spur of it, when he suddenly en- 
 countered Julian Crymes. 
 
 Julian had heard of the return of Anthony before Cap- 
 tain Fogg and his soldiers arrived. She heard he was at 
 Willsworthy, but he had not been to see her ; and yet he 
 had an excellent excuse for so doing — he must be able to 
 tell her about her father. She had waited impatiently, 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 415 
 
 hourly expecting him, and he had not come. She did not 
 like to leave the house for a minute, lest he should come 
 whilst slie was away. Every step on the gravel called her 
 to the window, every strange voice in the house caused her 
 heart to bound. Why did not he come ? 
 
 She went to the window of her little parlour and looked 
 forth ; and as she looked, her hot, quick breath played over 
 the glass, and in so doing brought out the interwoven ini- 
 tials "A" and " U." They had long ago faded, and yet 
 under the breath they reaj^peared. 
 
 When she had heard a rumour of his return, the life blood 
 had gushed scalding through her veins, her eye had flashed, 
 and her cheek flamed with expectation. Her father was 
 dead, but the sorrow she felt for his loss was swallowed up 
 in the joy that Anthony was home and in safety. Now 
 all was right again, and in glowing colours she imaged to 
 herself their meeting. She could hardly contain the ex- 
 ultation within ; yet her reason told her that he could be 
 no nearer to her than he was ; he was still bound to Urith. 
 The reproaches of Bess had stung her, but the sting was no 
 longer felt when she heard that he was back. 
 
 But as she breathed on the window-pane, and first the 
 interwoven initials "A" and "U" reappeared, and then the 
 smirch where Anthony had passed his hand over her own 
 initials linked to his, it se]it a curdle through her arteries. 
 He came not near her. He loved her no more — he had 
 forgotten her. Little by little the suspicion entered, and 
 made itself felt, that he did not love her. It became a con- 
 viction, forming as an iron band ^bout her heart, rivetted 
 with every hour, firmer, contracting, becoming colder. 
 She was too haughty to betray her feelings, and she had 
 not suffered a question relative to Anthony to i^ass over 
 her lips. 
 
 Then she heard that Captain Fogg had arrived, and was 
 searching the neighbourhood for Anthony, and was arrest- 
 ing every returned insurgent. The Captain visited lul- 
 worthy, and explored the house for treasonable correspond- 
 ence, but found none. 
 
 The anxiety and alarm of Julian for the safety of An- 
 thony became overmastering. She could no longer endure 
 imprisonment in her own house. Moreover, there was 
 now no need for her to remain there. Anthony was in 
 
416 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 hiding somewliere, or he was taken — she knew not which 
 — and could not come to her. 
 
 She had not slept all night, and when morning dawned 
 she rode forth, unattended, to obtain some tidings about 
 him. She would not go to Willsworthy. She could not 
 face Urith, but she would hover about between Wills wor- 
 thy and Hall, and wait till she could hear some news con- 
 cerning him. 
 
 In this restless, anxious condition of mind, Julian 
 Crymes w^as traversing the down when she lit on Anthony 
 himself. 
 
 She greeted him with an exclamation of joy, rode up to 
 him, sprang from her horse, and said, ''But surely, Tony! 
 this is reckless work coming on to the highway when they 
 seek thy life." 
 
 "They will not have long to seek," said he. 
 
 *' What do you mean ?" 
 
 He made no answer, and strode forward to pass her, and 
 continue his course to Lydford. 
 
 *' Anthony ! " exclaimed Julian, "you shall not meet and 
 leave me thus. I have not seen you since your return." 
 
 "I cannot stay now." 
 
 " But vou shall ! " She threw herself in his road, hold- 
 ing the reins of her horse wdth one hand, and extending 
 her whij) in the other. " Anthony ! what is the meaning 
 of this ? " 
 
 "I must pass," said he, stepping aside to circumvent 
 her. 
 
 " Anthony !" she cried — there was pain and despair in 
 her tone — "w4iere are you going? and why will you not 
 speak to me ? " 
 
 He stood still for a moment, and looked steadily at her ; 
 then she saw how pale he was. 
 
 " Julian," said he, quietly, " you have acted towards me 
 in a heartless " 
 
 "Heartless, Tony!" 
 
 "In an utterly cruel manner, and have brought me to 
 this. It was 3^ou who sowed the seeds of strife between 
 Urith and me ; you who drove her off her mind ; you who 
 forced me to leave home and go to the standard of the 
 Protestant Duke ; and it is you now who bring me to the 
 gallows." 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 417 
 
 "The gallows! " 
 
 "The captain at the head of the troopers has taken my 
 father, and threatens to hang him within a day unless I 
 surrender to the same fate." 
 
 "But, Anthony!" She could hardly speak, she was 
 trembling, and her colour Hying about her face like storm- 
 driven cloudlets lit by a setting sun, red and threatening. 
 " Anthony !— not to— to death ? " 
 
 "To death, Julian!" 
 
 She uttered a cry, let go the bridle, dropped her whip, 
 and ran to him with extended arms. " Anthony ! — O 
 Anthony ! " 
 
 He put forth his hand and held her from him. No ; not 
 on his breast where his Urith had just lain, that should 
 never be touched by another — not by such another as Ju- 
 lian Crymes. 
 
 " Stand back," he said, sternly. 
 
 "Anthony! say you love me! You know you have — 
 have always loved me." 
 
 "I never loved you, Julian. No — never." 
 
 She shook herself free, drew back, pressed her clenched 
 fists against her bosom. " You dare to tell me that — 
 
 you I " 
 
 " I never loved you," he said. 
 
 Her face became white as that of a corpse. She drew 
 on one side and said, " Go — and may you bo hanged ! I 
 hate you. I would I were by to see you die." 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 A LAST CHANCE. 
 
 Julian was left alone. She watched Anthony depart, till 
 he had disappeared round a turn of the road and a fall of 
 the hill ; then she cast herself upon the heather in a par- 
 oxysm of agony. She drove her fingers into the bushes 
 of dwarf goi"se, and the needles entered her flesh and drew 
 the blood ; but she heeded it not. The rough heather was 
 against her cheek, a storm of sobs and tears shook and 
 wetted the harsh, dry flowers. He did not love her 1 He 
 37 
 
418 UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 never Lad loved her ! She had fought against this convic- 
 tion that, hke a cold, gliding snake, had stolen into her 
 heart and dripped its poison there. 
 
 Now she could resist it no more. It was not told her by 
 Bessie — it was not a new conjecture formed on certain 
 scribbliugs on the glass ; it had been proclaimed by his 
 own lips, and at a solemn moment when he would not lie 
 — when he was on his way to death. 
 
 He had trifled with her heart, and he dared to reproach 
 her ! She had loved him before ever he had known Urith, 
 and then he had shown her attention. Had she mistaken 
 that attention for love ? Had not her own flaming passion 
 seen in the reflection it called up in him a real reciprocal 
 flame? 
 
 After he was married she could not hide from her con- 
 science that she had made a struggle to win back his heart 
 — had disregarded the counsels of prudence and the teach- 
 ings of religion in the furious resistance she had oflered to 
 the established fact that he had been given to another, and 
 belonged to that other. 
 
 He did not love her ! He never had loved her ! And 
 his life had been to her precious only because she loved 
 him, and believed that he loved her. 
 
 She drew herself up in the heather ; her cheeks were 
 flaming, scratched by the heather branches, and her hair 
 dishevelled. Her great dark e^-es were like a storm-cloud 
 full of rain, and yet with fire twinkling and flashing out of 
 it. He was on his way to death. He would be no more 
 in this life to be fought for, to be won bv her or bv Urith. 
 
 "I am glad he is going to die ! " she cried, and laughed. 
 Then she threw herself again on the ground in another 
 convulsive fit of sobs. 
 
 Urith had won. She — Julian, had dared her to the 
 contest for the prize. Each had come off ill ; but Urith 
 had gained the object — gained it only to lose it — w^on An- 
 thony's heart, only to have it broken as her own brain was 
 broken. 
 
 "It is wed," moaned Julian, catching at the tufts of 
 heath and tearing at them, but unable either to break them 
 or root them up. "It is well! I would never have suf- 
 fered her to regain him. I would have killed her ! " 
 
 Rage and disappointment tore her, as the evil spirit tore 
 
UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 41D 
 
 the possessed under Tabor, and finally left her, exhausted 
 and sick at heart. A cool air came down off the moor and 
 fanned her hot cheek, and dried the tears that moistened 
 them. 
 
 A few hours — perhaps only an hour — and Anthony would 
 be dead. She saw the gallows set up below Lydford Castle, 
 and Anthony brought forth, in his shirt ; his eyes band- 
 a""ed : his hands bound behind his back. She heard the 
 voices of the soldiers, and the hum of compassion from the 
 b3^standers. She saw the rope fastened about his neck, and 
 cast over the crosstree of the gallows. Then one of the 
 soldiers leaped, and caught the free end of the rope, and 
 began to haul at it. Julian uttered a cry of horror, strug- 
 gled to her knees, clasped her palms over her eyes, as 
 though to shut out a real sight from them, and swayed 
 herself to and fro on her knees. 
 
 The black 'kerchief, Avith the jei'k, fell from his eyes, and 
 he looked at her. Julian threw up her hands to heaven, 
 and screamed, with horror, "My God, save him ! " 
 
 Then she saw, indistinctly, through her tears, and out of 
 her horror-distended eyes, some one standing before her. 
 She could not see who it was ; but, overmastered by her 
 terror, she cried, " Save him ! Save him ! " 
 
 "Julian ! " said a voice ; and it had a composing effect at 
 once on her disordered feelings. 
 
 "Bess! O, Bess! is that you? O, Bessie! do you 
 know ? He has given himself up. Anthony ! Anthony ! " 
 She cowered no more ; her bosom labored, and she bowed 
 herself, with her head in her lap, and wept again. 
 
 Bessie put her hand under her arm, and raised her. 
 
 "Stand up, Julian. I did not know it; but I was 
 quite sure he would do this. I am glad he has. It was 
 right." 
 
 "Bess, you are glad?" 
 
 "It is like himself ; he has done right. He is my own 
 dear, dear Anthony." 
 
 " O Bess !— such a death ! " 
 
 '' The death does not dishonour ; to live would have dis- 
 honoured. He has done right." 
 
 "He has betrayed my love!" gasped JuHan, "and I 
 should be glad he died, yet — I cannot bear it. Indeed — 
 indeed, I cannot. O Bess ! I would that it were I who was 
 
420 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 
 
 to die — not he. Bess ! will tliey take me and let liim go ? 
 He lias been false to me, and I am true to him." 
 
 "He has not been false to you," said Bessie; "he has 
 come to a sense of the wrong course he was engaged in, 
 into which you drew him. But he never was false to you, 
 for he never cared for you. Come ! poor unhappy girl. I 
 know how full of sorrow you must be — so must all who 
 love Tony." 
 
 " But, Bess ! is there no way of saving him?" 
 
 Elizabeth shook her head, and said : — 
 
 "I do not suj^pose so. It is true that Gloine has got off, 
 and there is a whisper that his uncle saw the captain, and 
 some money passed, but- 
 
 Oh ! if money were all- 
 
 (( 
 
 But, remember, Gloine was only a common soldier, 
 and Anthony was the captain who led the men from these 
 parts. I do not think any money could save him," 
 
 "Let us try." Julian sprang to her feet. 
 
 "Where is money to be had? Enough, I mean. You 
 know the state we are in." 
 
 "But Fox has it." 
 
 " Fox !" Bessie considered ; then, turning colour, said, 
 "I do not think that even to save Anthony's life I would 
 ask a favour of Fox." 
 
 " Then I will. He can and must save Anthony. Where 
 is he ? " 
 
 "At Hall. He has gone over there ; that is why I left, 
 and I was on my way to Willsworthy when I saw your 
 horse ; I caught him by the bridle, I knew whose it was, 
 and came in search of you. I feared some accident. But, 
 Julian, I am very certain nothing can be done for Anthony, 
 save by our prayers. I have heard that special orders were 
 issued that he was to be hung. The captain came here on 
 purpose to take and execute him. He cannot, he dare not 
 spare him." 
 
 "O Bess !— we will try ! " 
 
 " Prayer alone can avail," said Bessie, sadly. 
 
 " Come with me. Come back to Hall. You must be 
 with me. I w^ill see Fox. He alone can heljD us." 
 
 " I will go with you," said Bessie. " But I know that it 
 is hopeless." 
 
 " He must be saved. He must not die ! " gasped Julian. 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DAIIT^IOOU, 421 
 
 She remounted her horse, mechanically, and Bessie 
 walked at her side. 
 
 Julian said no more. She was a prey to conflicting 
 emotions. A little while ago she had wished Anthony's 
 death, and now she was seeking to save it. If she did suc- 
 ceed in saving it, it was for whom? Not for herself. He 
 did not love her — he never had loved her. For Urith — for 
 her rival, her enemy ! She knew that Urith was in a 
 strange mental condition. She did not know that she was 
 recovered from it. But she gave no heed to the state in 
 which Urith was. She thought of her as she had seen her, 
 handsome, sullen, defiant. That was the girl Anthony had 
 preferred to herself, and she would save Anthony to give 
 him to the arms of Urith, that Urith might take him by the 
 neck, and cover his face with kisses, and Aveep tears of joy 
 on his breast. Julian set her teeth. Better that he should 
 die than this ! But, next moment, her higher nature pre- 
 vailed. She had loved Anthony — she did love Anthony — 
 and true love is unselfish. She must forget herself, her 
 own wrongs, real or imagined, and do her utmost for him. 
 How could she love him, and let him die an ignominious 
 death ? How could she let him die, when, by an effort, she 
 might save him, and bear to live an hour longer? She 
 would feel as though his blood lay at her door. 
 
 " Bessie, I cannot stay. You walk. I must ride on as 
 fast as I can. Time must not be wasted. Every moment 
 is important." 
 
 Then she struck her horse, and galloped in the direction 
 of Hall. Her hair, wild and tangled, flew about her ears. 
 Her hands were full of gorse-spikes, and every pressure on 
 the bridle made the pain great, but she did not regard this. 
 Her mind was tossed with waves of contrary feeling, and 
 yet, as in a storm, when the surges seem to roll in every 
 direction, there is yet a prevailing set, so was it now. 
 There had been a conflict in her heart, but her nobler, 
 truer nature had won the day. 
 
 As she drew up in the courtyard of Hall, Fox came out, 
 and uttered an exclamation of surprise at seeing her. 
 
 He was in a high condition of excitement. Without 
 waiting to hear her speak, he burst forth into a torrent of 
 complaint. 
 • ,,"I will have the law of them — soldiers though they be, 
 
422 UPJTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 aud with a search-waiTant, they are not entitled to rob — 
 we have been treated as though we were foreigners, and 
 subjected to all the violence of a sack. They have torn 
 open every cupboard, broken into every drawer and cabinet, 
 thrown the books and letters about — I can hnd nothing, 
 and what is worst, I cannot lav mv hands on the monev. 
 To-morrow is the last day, to-morrow the mortgage must 
 be paid, and I know that my father-in-law had some coin 
 in the house. By the Lord ! I wonder whether he had 
 the wit to secrete it somewhere, or left it where an}' plun- 
 derer would go straight in c^uest of it. And he is to be 
 hanged in an hour, and I cannot ask him." 
 
 " Fox, it is not true ; Master Cleverdon escapes." 
 
 ''I know he will be hanged, and I do not suppose that 
 set of ruflians will let me see him and find out where the 
 monev is. I have searched evervwhere, and found nothin"' 
 but broken cabinets and overturned drawers, account- 
 books, title-deeds, letters, bills, all in confusion along with 
 clothing. It drives me mad. Aud — unless the money be 
 forthcoming to-morrow, Hall is lost. I have heard that the 
 agent of the E:irl of Bedford will offer a price for it — and 
 that there is like to be another offer from Sir John Morris. 
 They would out-bid me. The mortgage must be j^aid, or 
 Hall lost, and if the old man be hanged to-day. Hall is 
 mine bv this eveninpf. It will drive me crazed — where can 
 the money be ? He was fool enough for anything — to put 
 it in his cabinet, or in a box under his bed, or in the chim- 
 ney, tied in an old nightcap like as would have done any 
 beldame. If he has done that — then the soldiers have 
 taken it. "Who was to interfere ? "Who to observe them ? 
 They drove all the servants out. They took the Squire in 
 custody, and I was not here. I was at Kilworthy, as you 
 know." 
 
 "Fox," said Julian. ''It is no matter to me whether 
 Hall be saved or lost. Anthony has surrendered, and the 
 Squire is free." 
 
 "Anthony surrendered!" Fox fell back and stared at 
 her, then laughed. " 'Fore heaven ! we live in crack- 
 brained times when folk take a deli^'ht in running" their 
 heads into nooses. There was mv father did his best to 
 get hung, drawn, and quartered. A merciful Providence 
 sent him into the other world with a bullet in his heart, 
 
URITJI: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 423 
 
 and saved the honour of the famity, and made a more easy 
 exit for him. And now there is Ton}' — runs to the gibbet 
 as though to a Maj^-dance ! Verily ! there are more fools 
 than hares. For them 3'ou must liide the snare, for the 
 fools expose it, cross-piece, loop, and rope, and all complete, 
 and ring a bell and call — come and be hanged ! Come ! " 
 
 "Fox, we must save Anthony." 
 
 '' Save him ? Why, he will not be saved ! He had the 
 world before him, and he might have run where he would ; 
 now he has gone where he ought not, and must take the 
 consequences. Save him ! Let him be hanged. I want his 
 father. I want to know what money he has, and where it 
 is. I can't find the whole amount. I know he has, or had, 
 some hundreds of sovereigns somewhere." 
 
 "Fox, you must assist me to save Anthony ; we cannot 
 let him die. I will not ! I will not ! He must not die ! " 
 Her passion overcame her, and she burst into tears. 
 
 "Pshaw ! He is past salvation. If he is in the hands of 
 Captain Fogg, he is in a trap that has shut on him and will 
 not let him go. Besides — nothing can be done." 
 
 "Yes, there can. Gloine escaped. His uncle, the rich 
 old 3'eoman at Smeardon, bought him off." 
 
 "No money will buy Anthony off. Besides, where is 
 the money to come from ? " 
 
 "You have some. Fogg let off Gloine, and he will let 
 Anthony off if he be paid a sufficient sum. If he was a 
 j-ascal in small game, he will be rascal in great." 
 
 "'I do not care to have Tony escape ; I owe him a grudge. 
 Besides, and that is just as well, his father is not here ; what 
 money the old fellow has is hidden in some corner or other, 
 where I cannot find it, unless it has been carried off by 
 those vultures, those rats." 
 
 " If this is not available yon must help." 
 
 "I ! pshaw ! I cannot, and I will not." 
 
 "You can ; 3'ou have a large sum at your disposal." 
 
 Fox turned mottled in face. He stared at his sister with 
 an uneasy look in his eye. 
 
 "What makes you suppose that?" he said. "It is a 
 folh' ; it is not true. I am poor as the 3'ellow clay of North 
 Devon. No small sum would serve, and I have but a couple 
 of groats and a crown in my pouch." 
 
 " You have the money ; you yourself admitted it, two 
 
424 TTRTTH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 minutes ago. You said tiiat if you could find the money 
 Squire Cleverdon had laid by, you would be able to make 
 up the rest." 
 
 " Oh ! that was talk ! I would mortgage my Buckland 
 estate." 
 
 " You have the mone}'. Fox, this is evasive." 
 
 " What will satisfy you ? Here is a crown, and here two 
 groats, and, by Heaven — there is a penny as well. Take 
 this and go — try your luck with Captain Fogg." 
 
 " I will have nothing under five hundred pounds. Fox, 
 you can help me, and you will." 
 
 " I have not the coin. If I had I would not spare it. I 
 will not throw Hall away. "What is Tony to me ? If he 
 puts his neck into the noose, who is to blame if the roj^e 
 be pulled and he dangles ? No ; here is the extent of my 
 help — a crown, two groats, and one penny." 
 
 "Fox! I will sell vou all my rights in Kilworthy. I 
 will make over to you everything I have there — land, house — 
 all — all — if you will give me five hundred pounds in gold." 
 
 Fox looked down, considered, then shook his head. 
 
 " There is not time for it. By the time we had got the 
 transfer engrossed and signed, all would be over. Fogg 
 won't let the grass grow under his feet, nor the rope rot for 
 lack of usage. No ; if there were time, I might consider 
 your offer ; but, as there is not, I will not. Let Tony hang : 
 it is his due. He ran his head into the loop." 
 
 " Y'^our final answer is — j^ou will not help ? " 
 
 *' To the extent of one crown, two groats, and a penny." 
 
 *' Then, Fox, I shall help myself." 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 EXIT "ANTHONY CLEVERDON." 
 
 Old Squire Cleverdon had spent the night in Lj'dford 
 Castle. The Castle was more than half ruinous ; neverthe- 
 less, there were habitable rooms still in it, and one or two 
 of these served as prison cells. The walls were damp, and 
 the glass in the windows broken ; but it mattered not, he 
 
TTRITII: A TALE OF DART MO Oil. 425 
 
 had but that uight longer for earth, and the season was 
 summer. 
 
 The Squire did not lose his gravity of deportment. He 
 had held up his head before the world when things went 
 well with him ; he would look the w^orld defiantly in the 
 face as all turned against him. He knew that he must die. 
 He did not entertain a hope of life ; it may also be said 
 that he was indifterent whether he lived or died. His only 
 grievance was that the manner of his death wonld be ig- 
 nominious. It was hardly likely that the news of his capt- 
 ure and of Caj^tain Fogg's threat should reach Anthony. 
 Where his son was he did not know, but he supposed that 
 he had taken refuge in the heart of the wilderness of moors, 
 and how could lie there receive tidings of what menaced 
 his father? Or, if the news did reach him, almost certainly 
 it would reach him when too late to save his father. But, 
 supposing he did hear, and in time, w4iat was menaced, 
 was it likely that he would give himself up for his father ? 
 His life was the more valuable of the two ; it was young 
 and fresh, he had a wife dependent on him, he had an 
 estate — his wife's — to live on ; and the old man w\as near 
 the end of his natural term of life, was friendless, he had 
 cast from him his children, and was acreless, he had lost 
 his patrimony. Anthony would be a fool to give himself 
 up in exchange for his father. What did the Squire care 
 for the scrap of life still his ? So little that he had been 
 ready to throw it away ; and if the mode of passage into 
 eternity was ignominious, why it was the very method he 
 had chosen for himself at the sawpit. He was an aged 
 ruined man, who had failed in everything, and had no place 
 remaining for him on earth. He did not ask himself 
 whether he had been blameworthy in his conduct to his 
 children, in his behaviour to Anthony. He slept better that 
 night in Lydford Castle than he had for many nights, but 
 woke early, and saw the dawn break over the peaks of the 
 moor to the east. He would not be brought before the 
 captaiu and sent to execution for a few more hours. From 
 his cell he had heard and been disturbed by the riot and 
 revelry kept up by the captain and some boon comrades 
 till late. 
 
 The morning was well advanced when Julian Crymes rode 
 to the Castle gates, followed by a couple of serving men 
 
42G UEITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 and laden horses. At her command the men removed the 
 vahses from the backs of the beasts and threw them over 
 their own shoulders. The -weight must have been consid- 
 erable, judging by the way in which the men walked under 
 their burdens. 
 
 Julian asked for admittance. She would see Captain 
 Fogg. The sergeant at the gate hesitated. 
 
 "Captain Fogg was at Kil worthy yesterday in search of 
 papers— my father's papers. I have found theni, and bring 
 them to him — corresj^ondence that is of importance." 
 
 The sergeant ascended to the room where was the cap- 
 tain, and immediatel}' came down again with orders for the 
 admission of Julian. 
 
 Followed by the men, she mounted the stone flight that 
 led to the upper story, where Captain Fogg had taken up 
 his quarters, and bade the servants lay their valises on the 
 table and withdraw. 
 
 Captain Fogg sat at the table with a lieutenant at his 
 side ; he was engaged on certain papers, wliich he looked 
 hastily over, as handed to him by the lieutenant, and 
 scribbled his name under them. 
 
 Julian had time to observe the captain ; he was a man of 
 middle height, with very thick light eyebrows, no teeth, a 
 blotched, red face, and a nose that gave sure indication of 
 his being addicted to the bottle. He wore a sandy scrubby 
 moustache and beard, so light in colour as not to hide his 
 coarse purple lips, "When he did look up, his eyes were of 
 the palest ash colour, so pale as hardly to show any colour 
 beside the flaming red of his face, and they had a watery 
 and languid look in them. His appearance was anything 
 but inviting". 
 
 He took no notice of Julian, but continued his work with 
 a sort of sulky impatience to have it over. 
 
 Not so the younger officer, who looked at Julian, and wa& 
 struck with her beauty. He turned his eyes so often upon 
 her that he forgot what he was about, and Fogg had to call 
 him to order. Then Foq-q- condescended to observe Julian. 
 
 "Well," said he, roughly, "what do you want? Are 
 these papers ? "What is your name ? " 
 
 "I sent up my name," answered Julian. 
 
 "Ah ! to be sure — the daughter of that rebel. I know — • 
 I know. What do you want ? " 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOll. 427 
 
 "I have come to ask the life of Anthony Cleverdon," she 
 answered. " He does not deserve death ; it was all my fault 
 that he joined the Duke. He was no rebel at heart ; but I 
 drove him to it. See what a man he is — to come and sur- 
 render himself in order to save his old father from death." 
 
 "Bah! A rebel ! He commanded — a chief rebel ! He 
 shall die," answered Fogg, roughly. 
 
 " I im23lore you to spare him ! Take my life, if you will. 
 It was all my doing. But for me he never would have 
 gone. I sent him from his home — I drove him into the 
 insurgent ranks. I alone — I alone am guilty." 
 
 " And who are you that you plead for him so vehement- 
 ly? "asked the Captain, his watery eye resting insolentty 
 on her beautiful, flushed face. " Are you his wife ? " 
 
 " No — no ; I am not." 
 
 ''Ah, you are his sweetheart." 
 
 Julian's colour chanq-ed. "Ho does not love me. He is 
 innocent, therefore I would buy his life." 
 
 ''Buy ! " echoed the Captain. 
 
 " Yes— buy it." 
 
 " It cannot be done. It is forfeit. In a quarter of an 
 hour he dies ! Look here, pretty miss : I have my orders. 
 He is to die. I am a soldier : I obey orders. He dies." 
 
 He put his hand to his cravat and drew it upwards. The 
 action showed how Anthony was to die. 
 
 "I have brought you here something worthy of your 
 taking," said Julian, lowering her voice — "documents of 
 the highest value. Documents, letters, and lists — what you 
 have been looking for, and worth more than a poor lad's 
 life. What is his body to you when you have driven out 
 of it the soul ? A cage without a bird. Here, in these 
 valises, I have something of much more substantial value." 
 
 " Let me look," said Fogg. 
 
 "By heaven ! " he swore, after he had leaned across the 
 table and taken hold of one. " Weighty matters herein." 
 
 Julian gave him the key, and he oj^ened ; but not iuWj. 
 Some suspicion of the contents seemed to have crossed his 
 mind. He peered in and observed bags, tied up. 
 
 "Ah! " said he. "State secrets — State secrets only for 
 those in the confidence of the Government. Friswell ! " he 
 turned to the lieutenant, "leave me alone for a few min- 
 utes with this good maiden. She has matters of impor- 
 
42S UBITH: a tale of DAHTMOOn. 
 
 taDce to communicate that concern many persons higliup — 
 high M]) — and young ears like yours must not hear. Wait' 
 till you have earned the confidence of your masters." 
 
 The lieutenant left the room. 
 
 Then Captain Fogg signed to the soldiers at the door to 
 stand without as well. 
 
 "So — matters of importance concerning the Govern- 
 ment," said Fogg. "In confidence, tell me all — I mean 
 about these valises and their contents." 
 
 "I have come here," said Julian, "to implore you to 
 save the life of Anthony Cleverdon. I am come with five 
 hundred guineas, some in silver, some in gold — some in 
 five-guinea pieces, the rest in guineas ; they are yours free- 
 ly and heartily, if you will but grant me the life of your 
 prisoner." 
 
 "Five hundred guineas !" exclaimed the Cajotain ; and 
 his pale eyes watered, and his cheeks became redder. 
 "Let me look." 
 
 He thrust his hand into the saddle-bag before him on 
 the table, and drew forth a canvas bag that was tied and 
 sealed. He cut the string and ran out some five-guinea 
 pieces on the table. A five-guinea piece was an attractive 
 — a beautiful coin. James I. had struck thirty-shilling 
 pieces, and Charles I. three-pound gold pieces, but the five- 
 guinea coin had been first issued by Charles H. Xoble 
 milled coins, on the reverse with the shields arranged 
 across, and each crowned. Captain Fogg took three in his 
 hand, tossed them, rubbed one with his glove, put his 
 hand into the bag and drew forth more. 
 
 "'Five hundred guineas ! " he said. "Uj^on my soul, it 
 is more than the cocksparrow is worth. I wish I could do 
 it. By the Lord, I wish I could. Give me up that other 
 bag." 
 
 Julian moved another over the table to him. 
 
 " Why," said he, "what do you reckon it all weighs? " 
 
 "I cannot say for certain; one of my men thought 
 about eighty pounds." 
 
 " More, I'll be bound ; and mostly gold. Why, how 
 come you by so much down here ? You country gentry 
 must be well off to put by so much ; and all coins of his 
 late Majesty. You may have been nipped and scraped un- 
 der Old Noll, but under the King you have thriven. Five 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 429 
 
 Inmdred pounds ! Where the foul fiend did you get it ? 
 You have not robbed the Exchequer? " 
 
 Juhan made no answer. 
 
 The Captain continued to examine, rub, weigh, and try 
 the coins ; he ranged them in rows before him, he heaped 
 them in piles under his nose. 
 
 " Upon my w^ord, I never was more sorry in my life," he 
 said. " But I can't do it. My orders are peremptory. If 
 I do not hang him I shall get into trouble myself. But I'll 
 tell you what I'll do— give him a silk sash, a soldier's sword- 
 sash, and hang him in that. It's another thing altogether 
 —quite respectable. Will that do ? " After a pause. 
 
 " Now look at me," said the Captain ; "it is cursed un- 
 pleasant and scurvy treatment we gentlemen of the sword 
 meet with. I know very well that such prisoners as we de- 
 liver over to be dealt with by the law, supposing they be 
 found guilty and sentenced to transportation or death, will 
 be given the chance of buying off. Why, I've known it 
 done for ten or fifteen pounds. Look at me and wonder ! 
 Ten or fifteen pounds in the pocket of this one or that — 
 may be a Lady-in-Waiting. But here be I— an honest, 
 blunt, downright soldier, and five hundred guineas, and 
 many of them five-guinea pieces, too, that smile in one's 
 face as innocent as a child, and as inviting as a wench, and, 
 by my soul ! I can't finger them. Orders are peremptory, 
 I must hang him. 'Tis enough to make angels weep ? " * 
 
 He wiped his watery eyes. 
 
 ''By the Majesty of the King, I'll do my best for you, 
 saving my honour. I'll hang the old man, the father, and 
 let the young one go free." 
 
 " Sir," said Julian, " Anthony will never accept life on 
 4-i->/-vqp tfirms 
 
 " Then, by my sword and spurs, I can't help you ! But 
 I'll do what I can for you— I will, upon my soul ! I'll make 
 him dead drunk before I hang him. Will that do ? Then 
 he won't feel. Not a bit. He'll go off asleep, and wake m 
 
 * This was the case. Among those sentenced by Judge Jeffreys, 
 the majority escaped with a payment. The Queen had 98 delivered 
 to her order, Jerome Nimo had 101, Sir Wm. Booth 195, Sir Chris- 
 topher Musgrave 100, Sir Wm. Howard 205, and so on. They paid 
 sums varying in amount, and got off clear. See Inderwick's "Side- 
 lights on the Stuarts," 1889, 
 
430 UBITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 kingdom come, as easy as if he ^Yere rocked in a cradle. 
 No unpleasantness at all, and I'll stand the liquor. He 
 shall have what he likes. By Heaven, they're making noise 
 enough outside ! Here, help to put this money into the 
 valise. I will call to order." 
 
 He set to work and pocketed as many five-guinea pieces 
 as he could, then thrust the rest into the bags. 
 
 Having assumed a grave manner, he knocked with the 
 hilt of his sword on the table, and roared to the sentinel to 
 oj^en the door. 
 
 He was at once answered. The commotion without had 
 not ceased. 
 
 "I will go in. I insist ! — I must see Caj)tain Fogg." 
 
 ""W'ho is without?" asked the Captain. ""Who is that 
 creating such an uproar ? " 
 
 "It is some one who desires to be admitted into your 
 presence, Captain ! " said the Lieutenant. '' He says he has 
 been robbed ; he claims redress." 
 
 "I can't see him — I am busy State secrets? Very 
 
 well, let him in," 
 
 He changed his order as Fox burst into the room in spite 
 of the efforts of the sergeant and sentinel to stay him. 
 
 "Who are you? What do you here?" asked Fogg. 
 " Stand back. Guard, hold his hands. Take him into cus- 
 tody. What is the meaning of this?" 
 
 " I have been robbed," said Fox, his face streaming with 
 sweat and red with heat. "I have had my money taken ; 
 she has brought it here ; she is trying to bribe you with 
 it ; she would buy oft' that fellow ; he deserves to be hung. 
 I will denounce you if you take the money ; it is mine. 
 You have come here to hang him, and hanged he shall be. 
 You shall not take my money and let him escape," He 
 gasped for breath ; he had been galloping, and galloping 
 in a state of feverish excitement and rage. Some time after 
 Julian had left him at Hall, her final remark had occurred 
 to him, " Then I shall help myself," and he asked himself 
 what she could mean by that, what she possibl}' could do. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered his doubts about whether she 
 had seen him in the pigeon-cote, and at once he was over- 
 whelmed with fear. He mounted his horse and rode to 
 Kilworthv, to hear that his sister had left an hour before 
 with servants and horses. He flew to the dove-cote and 
 
UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 431 
 
 explored the pigeon-holes. Every one hatl been rifled. 
 Sick, almost fainting with dismay, with balHed avarice and 
 ambition, he remounted his horse, and rode at its fastest 
 pace to Lydford. 
 
 "You are an impudent scoundrel," said Captain Fogg; 
 "an impudent scoundrel to dare insinuate — but, who are 
 you, what is your name ? " 
 
 " I am Anthony Crymes of Kilworth}^" said Fox. 
 
 " It is a lie ! " exclaimed Julian, starting forward. "Cap- 
 tain Fogg, take him, if you must have a victim. Take him. 
 He is Anthony Cleverdon, son of the old Squire, and heir 
 to Hall." 
 
 " AVhat is that ? — what is that? Clear the room," shout- 
 ed Fogg. "Stand back you rascal! — traitor! — rebel! 
 Sergeant, keep hold of him till you can get a j^air of man- 
 acles — or stay, take your sash, bind his hands behind his 
 back, and leave the room. Friswell, you need not stay ; 
 I will call you when wanted. Matters of State importance, 
 secrets against the Government and his sacred Majesty the 
 King, are not for ears such as ^^ours — till tried, tried and 
 proved worthy. Go." 
 
 When the room was cleared of all save Julian and Fox, the 
 Captain said, "Now, then, what is the meaning of this?" 
 
 "I have been robbed," said Fox, trembling between ap- 
 prehension and rage. " My sister has taken advantage of 
 having seen where I keep my money, and has carried it off 
 — therewith to bribe you to let off " — he turned fiercely at 
 Julian, his white teeth shining, his lips drawn back, and 
 his eyes glittering with hate — " to let off — her lover." 
 
 " You are quite mistaken," said Fogg, stroking his mous- 
 tache. " These saddle-bags and valises contain documents 
 of importance, correspondence of the rebels " 
 
 " They contain my money," screamed Fox — " five hun- 
 dred pounds." 
 
 "Five hundred guineas," said the Captain, and thrust 
 his hand into his pocket, " and some of them five-guinea 
 pieces .'' 
 
 "Even so. They are mine." 
 
 " And you are ? " 
 
 " Anthony Crymes. Most people know me as Fox 
 Crymes." 
 
 " Captain Fogg," said Julian, " that is false. I do not 
 
432 CRITH: A TALE OF BARTMOOn. 
 
 deny that he was once called Crymes, hut he obtained a royal 
 license to change his name ; he is Anthony Cleverdon." 
 
 " Anthony Cleverdon ! " echoed Captain Fogg. " By the 
 Lord, you seem to be a breed of Anthony Cleverdons down 
 here ! How many more of you are there ?" 
 
 " There are three," said Julian — '^ the father, the old 
 squire ; there is his son, an outcast, driven by his father 
 from his home ; and there is the Anthony Cleverdon of 
 Hall, who has assumed the name, stepped into the rights 
 and place of the other, and walks in his shoes." 
 
 "And, by Heaven! — w^hy not wear his cravat? You 
 swear to this." 
 
 " I will swear." 
 
 " Come — I must have another to confirm your word." 
 
 "Call up the old father, if he be not already dis- 
 charged." 
 
 Fox for a moment was stunned. He realized liis danger. 
 He had run his head into the noose prepared for Anthony, 
 and that five hundred pounds had saved Anthony and sold 
 him. 
 
 The paralyzing effect of this discovery lasted but for a 
 moment. Then he burst forth into a torrent of explana- 
 tion, confused, stuttering in his rage and fear, now in a 
 scream, then in a hoarse croak. 
 
 Captain Fogg rapped on the table. 
 
 " Gag him," ordered he, " stop his mouth. We have 
 made a mistake — locked up the wrong man. This is the 
 veritable Anthony Cleverdon, the rebel. Stop his mouth 
 instanth'. He deafens me." 
 
 Fox— writhing, plunging, kicking, struggling to be free 
 — was quickly overmastered, his mouth gagged, his feet 
 bound as well as his hands. He stood snorting, his eyes 
 glaring, the sweat pouring from his brow, and his red hair 
 bristling. 
 
 In another moment old Squire Cleverdon was introduced, 
 looking deadly j)ale. He had not been released — had not 
 as yet heard that his son had delivered himself up. He 
 looked with indifference about him. He believed he was 
 brought up to receive sentence, and he was prepared to 
 receive it with dignity. 
 
 "Old man," said the Captain, "a word with you. 
 Friswell, you may stay. Sergeant, keep at the door. I 
 
tJRlTIl: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 433 
 
 want a short and direct answer to a question I put to you. 
 Prisoner, do you know that fellow there, with his hair on 
 end and his mouth stopped ? " 
 
 " T know him very well. I have good reason to know 
 him," answered the Squire. 
 
 " What is his name ? " 
 
 "His name is the same as mine — Anthony Cleverdon." 
 
 "And his place of residence ? " 
 
 " Hall." 
 
 "Is he your son? " 
 
 " He is my son-in-law ; he " 
 
 " Enough. He is j'our son ? " 
 
 "Yes ; that is to say " 
 
 " Exactly," interrupted Captain Fogg. "I want to hear 
 no more ; the lady says the same. Say it again. This is 
 
 your assert " . rr n ,. • t t v 
 
 "Anthony Cleverdon, the younger, of Hall, said Julian. 
 
 " Sergeant," said Fogg, " is the beam run out?" 
 
 "Yes, your honour ?" 
 
 " And the rope ready ? " 
 
 " It is, your honour." 
 
 " Then take this prisoner— Anthony Cleverdon the 
 youno-er— and hang him forthwith. The two other pris- 
 oners'' are discharged. They were apprehended, or gave 
 themselves up, by mistake. That is the true Anthony 
 Cleverdon. Hang him— at once. He who steps into 
 another man's shoes may wear as well his cravat." 
 
 CHAPTER LXL 
 
 EXEUNT — OMNES. 
 
 Anthony was in his cell He expected every moment to 
 be called forth, and to hear his doom. He was perfectly 
 calm, and thought only of Urith. He had the half-token 
 about his neck, and he kissed it. Urith had given it to 
 him : it was a pledge to him that she would ever be heart- 
 aching for him, living in the love and thought of him. 
 Time passed without his noticing it. i • i. 
 
 Steps approached his cell, and he rose from his seat, 
 ready to follow the soldier who would lead him forth to 
 death. But, to his astonishment, in the door appeared 
 
 28 
 
434: URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Julian, with the Keutenant. Anthony's face darkened, and 
 he stepped back. Why should this girl — this girl who had 
 poisoned his life — come to torment and disturb him at the 
 last hour ? 
 
 Perhaps she read his thoughts in his face by the pale ray 
 of light that entered from the window ; and, with a voice 
 trembling with emotion, she said, "Anthony, you are 
 free ! " 
 
 He did not stir, but looked questioningiy at her. She 
 also was pale, deadly pale, and her whole frame was quiv- 
 ering. 
 
 "It is true," said Friswell. ''You are free to depart, 
 you and the old man ; both are discharged. There has 
 been a mistake." 
 
 "I do not understand. There can have been no mis- 
 take," said Anthony. 
 
 " Come, quick ; follow me," said Julian. Then, in a low 
 tone, turning to the lieutenant, she said, " Suffer me one 
 moment to speak to him alone." 
 
 " You may sj^eak to him as much as you will," said the 
 young man. " I only wish I were in his place." 
 
 "Anthony," said she, "say not another word to anyone 
 here. I have delivered j^ou." 
 
 "You, Julian! But how?" 
 
 "I have bought your life, with gold and " 
 
 " And with what ? " 
 
 " With but I will tell you outside, not here. Come, 
 
 youi' father awaits you." 
 
 " I thank you for what yo\x have done for me, Julian. 
 If I have wronged you in any way hitherto, I ask your for- 
 giveness. Indeed, we have been in the wrong on all sides 
 — none pure, none — save Bessie." 
 
 "None, save Bessie," repeated Julian. 
 
 " Come with me," she added, after a silence ; and he 
 obeyed. 
 
 Near the castle stands the weather-beaten church of St. 
 Petrock, with its granite-pinnacled tower. Outside this 
 church, on a tombstone, sat the old Squire. He first had 
 been released, not at all comprehending how he had escaped 
 death ; not allowed to ask questions, huddled out of the castle, 
 and sent forth into the street, bewildered and in doubt. 
 
 Now, with wide-opened eyes, he stared at Julian and his 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 435 
 
 son as they came to liim, as though he saw spirits from the 
 dead. 
 
 "He is free, he is restored to you! " said Julian. The 
 old man tried to rise, but sank back on the stone, extended 
 his arms, and in a moment was locked in those of his son. 
 
 He could not understand what had taken place. He 
 knew only that both he and xVnthony were free, and in no 
 further danger, but how that had come about, and how it 
 was that Fox was in bonds, he could not make out. The 
 reaction after the strain on his nerves set in. Great tears 
 rolled out of his eyes, and he sobbed like a child on the 
 breast of Anthony. 
 
 Then Julian told him how that his son had come and had 
 surrendered himself to save his father. The old man lis- 
 tened, and as he listened, his pride, his hardness gave way. 
 He put his hand into that of his son and pressed it. He 
 could not sjDcak, his heart was overfull. 
 
 But how had Anthony escaped ? That he could not im- 
 derstand. 
 
 Then Julian told how that she had discovered that Fox 
 had a hidden store of gold in the i^igeon-cote at Kilworthy. 
 She was convinced that this was the money that her father 
 had lost, the money he was conveying to Monmouth at 
 Taunton. Fox must have robbed the coach, robbed his 
 own father, secreted the bags near the place where he had 
 stolen them, and conveyed them by night, one by one, to 
 the pigeon house at Kilworthy, where he had supposed they 
 were safe, as the cote w\as deserted and no one ever entered 
 it, least of all ascended a ladder to explore the pigeon- 
 holes. She, by accident, had observed him, but had not 
 allowed him to suppose that he had been seen. 
 
 When Anthouy gave himself up, then Julian had en- 
 treated Fox to use this money to obtain the freedom of his 
 friend and brother-in-law. As he had refused to do so, 
 Julian had gone home, and taken the gold, brought it to 
 Lydford, and with it had purchased Anthony's freedom. 
 
 As they spoke, the sexton passed them, rattling the keys 
 of the church. He took no notice of them, nor they of 
 him. They, indeed, were immersed in their own concerns. 
 
 "But," said Anthony, "you said something more to me. 
 You had sacrificed something for me besides the gold. 
 "What was it ? " 
 
436 UBITII: A TALE OF DARTMOOB. 
 
 " A life," answered Julian, in a low tone. 
 
 Hark ! as she said the word, the bell of the church began 
 
 to toll. 
 
 "There is some one dying," said the old man, rising 
 from the gravestone. " Let us pray for him as he passes." 
 
 There was a noise of voices in the street, exclamations, 
 heard between the deej) deafening notes of the bell. 
 
 Presently the old man said. " AVhat did you say, Julian ! 
 A life — whose life ? " 
 
 She did not answer. He looked round. She was gone. 
 
 "And what did the Captain mean," he added, " when he 
 said — he who has stepped into another man's shoes must 
 wear his cravat ? " 
 
 As he looked about, searching for Julian — he saw his 
 question answered ; understood why the bell tolled, why 
 the whole of the pox^ulation of the little place was in the 
 street, talking, gesticulating, crying out, and looking at the 
 tojDmost window of the Castle. 
 
 He who had stepped into Anthony's shoes, assumed his 
 name, occupied his place, was wearing the cravat intended 
 for his neck. 
 
 But where was Julian ? 
 
 That w^as a question asked often, repeatedly, urgently, 
 and it was a question that was never answered. 
 
 A shepherd boy declared that he had seen her going over 
 the moor in the direction of Tavy Cleave. Search was 
 made for her in every direction, but in vain. 
 
 "When the writer was a boy, he was with a party at a pic- 
 nic at Tavy Cleave, and was bidden descend the precipitous 
 flank to the river to bring up water in an iron kettle. He 
 went down — jumping, sliding, scrambling, and suddenly 
 slid through a branch of whortleberry plants between some 
 masses of rock that had fallen together, wedging each other 
 up, and found himself in a pit under these rocks. To his 
 surprise he there found a number of bones. His first im- 
 pression was that a sheep had fallen from the rocks into 
 this place, and had there died, but a little further examina- 
 tion convinced him that the remains were not those of a 
 sheep at all. Among the remains, where were the little 
 bones of the hand, was a ring. The ring was of gold and 
 delicately wrought. It probably at one time contained 
 hair, but this had disappeared, and the socket was empty, 
 
URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 437 
 
 within the hoop was engraved "Ulalia Crymes, d. April G, 
 1665." It was clearly a mourning ring. Now Ulalia 
 Glanville was the last of that famil}^, the heiress who married 
 IFerdinando Crymes, and the day of her burial was April 
 10th, therefore, probably she died about April 6th, in that 
 very year, 1665. And this was the mother of Julian. Can 
 this have been the ring commemorative of her mother worn 
 by Julian Crymes, and does this fact identify the bones as 
 the remains of that unhappy girl ? If so she must have 
 either slipped or precipitated herself from the rocks over 
 head, and fallen between these masses of stone, where her 
 crashed body escaped the observation of all searchers, and 
 of accidental passers-by. 
 
 As already said in an earlier chapter, the parish church 
 of Peter Tavy has gone through that process which is 
 facetiously termed " restoration," on the principle of the 
 derivation of Lucus a non lucendo ; restoration meaning, 
 in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases the utter destruction 
 of every element of interest and loveliness in an ancient 
 church. Among the objects on which one of those West 
 of England wreckers, the architects, exhibit their destruc- 
 tive energies are the tombstones. 
 
 Now, in Peter Tavy Church, previous to its restoratiou, 
 there were — in the interest of my story — two tombstones, 
 fortunately transcribed before the wrecker began his work. 
 
 Here is one, cut on a slate slab let into the floor : — 
 
 '*To THE Memory of 
 ANTHONY CLEVERDON, Gent., 
 
 [Then a pair of clasped right hands] 
 
 AND URITH, HIS Wife, 
 
 Daughter and Heiress op 
 
 RICHARD MALVINE, of Willsworthy, Gent." 
 
 Under this stone the corps of them abide 
 What lived and tendeny cud love, and dyed. 
 Wedlock and Death had with the Grave agreed 
 To make for them an everlasting marriage bed. 
 Where in repose their mixed dust might lye. 
 Their souls be goue up hand iu hand on high. 
 
438 URITH: A TALE OF DARTMOOR. 
 
 Curiously enough, there was no date to this tomb. 
 
 It would appear that for a hundred years the descendants 
 of Anthony and Urith remained at Willsworthy, and then 
 the family became extinct. It would also appear that Hall 
 passed completely out of the family of Cleverdon, the old 
 Anthony Cleverdon, on his death, being entered in the 
 register as "Anthony Cleverdon the Elder, once of Hall, 
 but now of Willsworthy, Gentleman ; '' and the date of his 
 burial was 1689, so that he just survived the accession of 
 the Prince of Orange. 
 
 It cannot be doubted that the few remaining years of his 
 life saw him an altered man, and that he had discovered 
 that with the loss of Hall he had gained something, as Luke 
 had said, far more precious — the love of his children, and 
 the knowledge how precious it was. 
 
 In the floor of the chancel, below the Communion-rails, 
 was another Cleverdon monument, but not one of a Clev- 
 erdon of Willsworthy, but of a rector of Peter Tavy. His 
 Christian name was Luke. We may therefore conclude 
 that Luke from being curate became incumbent of the 
 church and parish he had served so faithfully. Beneath 
 his name stood a second. The inscription ran thus : — 
 "Also of Elizabeth, his true helpmeet, daughter of Anthony 
 Cleverdon, formerly of Hall." There was no mention on it 
 of the marriage with Fox. Below stood the text from 
 Proverbs : — 
 
 "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far 
 above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust 
 in her. She will do him good, and not evil, all the days of 
 her life." 
 
 THE END 
 
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 Author of 'The Conflicts of Capital and Labour.' [Ready. 
 
 2. THE CO-OPERATIVE MOVEMENT OF TO-DAY. G. J. 
 
 HOLYOAKE, Author of 'The History of Co-operation.' [Ready. 
 
Messrs. Metlmens Annoimceuients. 
 
 3. MUTUAL THRIFT. REV. J. FRO ME WILKINSON, J/. A., 
 
 Author of 'The Friendly Society ]\Iovement.' [Ready. 
 
 4. PROBIiEMS OF POVERTY : An Inquiry into the Industrial 
 
 Conditions of the Poor. /. A. HOBSON, M.A. [Ready. 
 
 5. POVERTY AND PAUPERISM. REV. L. R. PHELPS, M.A., 
 
 Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford. 
 
 6. ENGLISH SOCIALISM OF TO-DAY. HUBERT BLAND, 
 
 One of the Authors of ' Fabian Essays.' 
 
 7. THE COMMERCE OF NATIONS. C. F. BASTABLE, M.A., 
 
 Professor of Economics at Trinity College, Dublin, and Author of 
 ' International Commerce.' [Nearly ready. 
 
 8. ENGLISH LAND AND ENGLISH MEN. REV. C. W. 
 
 STUBBS, ALA., Author of 'The Labourers and the Land.' 
 
 9. MODERN LABOUR AND OLD ECONOMICS. H. de B. 
 
 GIB BINS, M.A. (Editor), Author of 'The Industrial History 
 of England.' 
 
 10. CHRISTIAN SOCIALISM IN ENGLAND. REV. J. CAR- 
 
 TER, MA., of Pusey House, Oxford, Editor of 'The Economic 
 Review.' 
 
 11. LAND NATIONALIZATION. HAROLD COX, M.A. 
 
 12. THE EDUCATION OF THE PEOPLE. /. R. DIGGLE, M.A., 
 
 Chairman of the London School Board. 
 
 UNIVERSITY EXTENSION SERIES. . 
 
 Under the above title Messrs. Methuen are publishing a series of books 
 on historical, literary, and scientific subjects, suitable for extension students 
 and home-reading circles. The volumes are intended to assist the lecturer 
 and not to usurp his place. Each volume will be complete in itself, and the 
 subjects will be treated by competent writers in a broad and philosophic 
 
 spirit. 
 
 Edited by J. E. SYMES, MA., 
 
 Piincipal of University College, Nottingham. 
 Crown 8vo, 2s. 6(i. 
 
 The following vohwies are already arratiged, and others will be announced 
 
 shortly. 
 THE INDUSTRIAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND. H. de B. GIB- 
 BINS, M.A., late Scholar of Wadham Coll., Oxon., Cobden Prizeman. 
 With Maps and Plans. [Ready. 
 
 " A compact and clear story of our industrial development. A study of his concise but 
 luminous book cannot fail to give the reader a clear insight into the principal phenomena of 
 our industrial history. The editor and publishers are to be congratulated on this first volume 
 of their venture, and we shall look with expectant interest for the succeeding volumes of the 
 series. If they maintain the same standard of excellence the series will make a permanent 
 place for itself among the many series which appear from time to time." — University 
 Extension Jojiynal. . ,, . • „ 
 
 "The writer is well-informed, and from first to last his work is profoundly interesting. — 
 Scots Observer. "-f^ careful and lucid sketch." — Times. 
 
lo Messrs. Methuens Announcements. 
 
 A HISTORY OF ENGLISH POLITICAIj ECONOMY. L. L. 
 
 PRICE, A/. A., Fellow of Oriel Coll., Oxon., Extension Lecturer in 
 Political Economy. [Read/. 
 
 PROBIiEMS OF POVERTY: An Inquiry into tbe Industrial Con- 
 ditions of the Poor. /. A. HOBSON, M.A., late Scholar of Lincoln 
 Coll., Oxon., U. E. Lecturer in Economics. [Ready. 
 
 VICTORIAN POETS. A. SHARP, formerly of Newnham College, Cam- 
 bridge. [Ready. 
 
 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. /. E. SYMES, M.A., Principal of 
 UniverMty Coll., Nottingham. [In the Press. 
 
 PSYCHOLOGY. F. S. GRANGER, M.A., Lecturer in Philosophy at 
 University Coll., Nottingham. [Ready. 
 
 ENGLISH SOCIAL REFORMERS. H. de B. GIBBINS, M.A., 
 late Scholar of Wadham Coll., Oxon., Cobden Prizeman. 
 
 NAPOLEON. E. L. S. HORSBURGH, M.A., Camb., U. E. Lecturer 
 
 in History. 
 ENGLISH POLITICAL HISTORY. T. J. LAJVREiVCE, M.A., late 
 
 Fellow and Tutor of Downing Coll., Cambridge, U. E. Lecturer in 
 
 History. 
 SHAKESPEARE. F. H. TRENCH, M.A., Fellow of All Souls' Coll., 
 
 Oxon., U. E. Lecturer in Literature. 
 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. G. C. MOORE-SMITH, M.A., Camb., 
 
 U. E. Lecturer in Language. 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY. /. SOLOMON, M.A., 
 Oxon., late Lecturer in Philosophy at University Coll., Nottingham. 
 
 ENGLISH PAINTERS. D. S. MACCOLL, M.A., Oxon., Fellow of 
 Univ. Coll., London, U. E. Leeturer in Art and Literature. 
 
 ENGLISH ARCHITECTURE. EARNEST RADFORD, M.A., 
 Camb,, U. E. Lecturer in Art. With Illustrations. 
 
 THE EVOLUTION OF PLANT LIFE : Lower Forms. G. MASSEE, 
 Kew Gardens, U. E. Lecturer in Botany. With Illustrations. [I>i October. 
 
 THE CHEMISTRY OF LIFE AND HEALTH. C. W. KIMMINS, 
 M.A., Camb., U. E. Lecturer in Chemistry. 
 
 GENERAL LITERATURE. 
 
 ^^or^s by S. BARING GOULD, 
 Author of 'Mehalah,' &c. 
 OLD COUNTRY LIFE. With Sixty-seven Illustrations by W. Parkin- 
 son, F. D. Bedford, and F. Masey, Large Crown 8vo, cloth super 
 extra, top edge gilt, 10s. 6d. Third Edition. [Ready. 
 
 " ' Old Country Life,' as healthy wholesome reading, full of breezy life and movement, full 
 of quaint stories vigorously told, will not be excelled by any book to be published throughout 
 the year. Sound, hearty, and English to the core." — IVortt. 
 
 " i\Ir. Baring Gould is well knoivn as a clever and versatile author; but he never wrote 
 a more delightful book than the volume before us. He has described English country life 
 with the fidelity that only comes with close acquaintance, and with an appreciation of its more 
 attractive features not surpassed even in the pages of Washington Irving. The illustrations 
 add very much to the chann of the book, and the artists in their drawings of old churches and 
 manor-houses, streets, cottages, and gardens, have greatly assisted the author." — Manchester 
 Cuardia7i. 
 
Messi^s. Metlmcn s Announcements. 1 1 
 
 HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. Demy 8vo, 
 lOs. 6d. Second Edition. Clieap Etlition, 6s. 
 
 "A collection of exciting and entertaining chapters. The whole volume is delightful 
 read i ng ." — Times. 
 
 " The work, besides being agreea' le to read, is valuable for purposes of reference. The 
 entire contents are stimulating and delightful." — Xotcs aud Queries. 
 
 FREAKS OF FANATICISM. (First published as Historic Oddities, 
 Second Series.) Demy 8vo, 10s. 6d. Cheap Edition, 6s. 
 
 " Mr. Baring Gould has a keen eye for colour and effect, and the subjects he has chosen 
 give ample scope to his descriptive and analytic faculties. A perfectly fascinating book. 
 Whether considered as merely popular reading or as a succession of studies in the freaks of 
 human history, it is equally worthy of perusal, while it is marked by the artistic literary 
 colouring and happy lightness of style." — Scottish Leader. 
 
 SONGS OF THE WEST : Traditional Ballads and Songs of the 
 West of England, with their Traditional Melodies. Collected 
 by S. Baring Gould, M.A., and II. Fleetwood Sheppard, M.A, 
 Arranged for Voice and Piano. In 4 Parts (containing 25 Songs each), 
 3s. each. Part I., Fourth Edition. Part II., Second Edition. Part III,, 
 ready. Part IV., 5s. In one Vol., roan, 15s. 
 
 "A rich and varied collection of humour, pathos, grace, and poetic fancy." — Satwday 
 
 Revieiv. 
 
 YORKSHIRE ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. Fourth 
 
 Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. \Ready, 
 
 JACQUETTA, and other Stories. Crown 8\o, 3s. 6d. Boards, 2s. 
 
 ARMINELL: A Social Romance. New Edition. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 " To say that a book is by the author of ' Mehalah' is to imply that it contains a story cast 
 on strong lines, containing dramatic possibilities, vivid and sympathetic descriptions of Nature, 
 and a wealth of ingenious imagery. All these expectations are justified by ' Arminell.'"— 
 
 Speaker. 
 
 URITH : A Story of Dartmoor. New Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. 
 
 " The author is at his best." — Times. 
 
 " He has nearly reached the high water-mark of ' Mehalah.'"— Avzil/^wa/ Observer. 
 
 MARGERY OF QUETHER, and other Stories. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 [Ociok-r, 1 89 1. 
 
 MESSRS. METHUEX'S NEW & RECENT BOOKS. 
 
 FICTION, 
 
 £. LYN.y LINTON. 
 THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON, Christian and 
 Communist. By E. Lynn Lixtox. Eleventh and Cheaper Edition. 
 Post 8vo, Is. 
 
 G. MANVILLE FENN 
 A DOUBLE KNOT. By G. iNlAXViLLE Fexx, Author of ' The Vicar's 
 People,' &c. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 
12 Messrs. Methuens Annotmcements. 
 
 HISTORY AND POLITICS. 
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 THE LIFE OF ADMIRAL LORD COLLING\VOOD. By W. ClarK 
 Russell, Author of ' The Wreck of the Grosvenor.' With Ilkistrations 
 by F. Brangwyn. 8vo, 15s. 
 
 " A surprisingly good book." — Manchester Guardian. 
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 " A most excellent and wholesome book, which we should like to see in the hands of every 
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 HANNAH LYNCH. 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH : A Study. By HANNAH LYNCH. With 
 
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 E. LYNN LLNTON. 
 
 ABOUT IRELAND. By E. LvNN LiNTON. Second Edition. Crown 
 
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 "A brilliant and justly proportioned view of the Irish Question." — Standard. 
 
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 IRISH POLITICS: An Elementary Sketch. By T. RALEIGH, M.A. 
 
 Fellow of All Souls', Oxford, Author of 'Elementary Politics.' Foolscap 
 Svo, paper boards, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 "A very clever work." — Mr. Gladstone. 
 
 " Unionist as he is, his little book has been publicly praised for its cleverness both by Mr. 
 Gladstone and Mr. I\Iorley. It does, in fact, raise most of the principal points of the Irish 
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 the reader." — The Speaker. 
 
 "Salient facts and clear expositions in a few sentences packed with meaning. Every one 
 who wishes to have the vital points of Irish politics at hfs finger's end should get this book 
 by heart." — Scotsman. 
 
 F. MABEL ROBINSON. 
 IRISH HISTORY FOR ENGLISH READERS. By F. MABEL 
 Robinson. Fourth Edition. Crown Svo, boards, Is. 
 
 GENERAL LITERATURE. 
 
 EDITED BY F. LANGBRIDGE, M.A. 
 BALLADS OF THE BRAVE : Poems of Chivalry, Enterprise, 
 Courage, and Constancy, from the Earliest Times to the 
 Present Day. Edited, with Notes, by Rev. F. Langbridge. 
 
 Crown Svo. 
 " A very happy conception happily carried out. These ' Ballads of the Brave' are intended 
 to suit the real tastes of boys, and will suit the taste of the great majority. It is not an 
 ordinary selector who could have so happily put together these characteristic samples. Other 
 readers besides boys may learn much from them." — Spectator. 
 
 " The book is full of splendid things."— IV orld. 
 Presentation Edition. Handsomely Bound, 3s. 6d. (School Edition, 2s. 6d.) 
 
 Or, in Three Parts, Is. each, for School Readers. 
 L Troy to Flodden. IL Bosworth to Waterloo. IIL Crim^ea to 
 
 Khartoum. 
 
Messrs. MetJmens Anno2inceme7its. 13 
 
 p. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A. 
 OUR ENGLISH VILLAGES : Their Story and their Antiquities. 
 
 By P. H. DiTCHFiELD, M.A., F.R.H.S., Rector of Barkham, Berks. 
 
 Post 8vo, 2s. 6d. Illustrated. 
 
 " A pleasantly written little volume, giving much interesting information concerning villages 
 and village life."— /"«// Mall Gazette. 
 
 "The object of the author is fiot so much to describe any particular village as_ to give a 
 clear idea of what village iife has been in England from the earliest historical times. An 
 extremely amusing and interesting little book, which should find a place in every parochial 
 library." — Guardian. 
 
 P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A. 
 
 OLD ENGLISH SPORTS. By P. H. DiTCHFIELD, M.A. Crowii 8vo, 
 
 2s. 6d. Illustrated. 
 "A charming account of old English Sports."— ilft^Tvw'Wjg- Post. 
 
 A. M. M. SPED MAN, M.A. 
 OXFORD : Its Life and Schools. Edited by A. M. M. Stedman, 
 M.A., assisted by members of the University. New Edition. Crown 
 
 8vo, 5s. 
 
 " Offers a full and in most respects a satisfactory description of the country through which 
 students must travel, and affords to parents who are desirous of calculating the expenses and 
 rewards of University education, a mass of useful information conveniently arranged and 
 brought down to the most recent date." — Athenceinn. 
 
 " We can honestly say of Mr. Stedman's volume that it deserves to be read by the people 
 for whom it is intended, the parents and guardians of Oxford students, present and to come, 
 and by such students themselves." — Spectator. 
 
 J. B. BURJSTE, M.A. 
 PARSON AND PEASANT : Chapters of their Natural History. 
 
 By J. B. BURNE, M.A., Rector of Wasing. Crown Svo, 6s. 
 
 " 'Parson and Peasant' is a book not only to be interested in, but to learn something from 
 — a book which may prove a help to many a clergyman, and broaden the hearts and ripen the 
 charity of laymen." — Derby Merairy. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 
 
 W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
 MASTER ROCKAFELLAR'S VOYAGE. By W. ClarK RuSSELL, 
 Author of 'The Wreck of the Grosvenor,' &c. Illustrated by Gordon 
 Browne. Crown Svo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 " Mr. Clark Russell's story of ' Master Rockafellar's Voyage ' will be among the favourites 
 of the Christmas books. There is a rattle and ' go ' all through it, and its illustrations are 
 charming in themselves, and very much above the average in the way in which they are pro- 
 duced. Mr. Clark Russell is thoroughly at home on sea and with boys, and he manages to 
 relate and combine the marvellous in so plausible a manner that we are quite prepared to 
 allow that Master Rockafellar's is no unfair example of every midshipman's fust voyage. We 
 can heartily recommend this pretty book to the notice of the parents and friends of sea-loving 
 boys." — Guardian. 
 
 " In the frank and convincing narrative of Master Rockafellar there happens to be set a short 
 story which should make the fortune of the book. ' La Mulette' is as fine a piece of story- 
 telling as ever Mr. Russell has given us, and we heartily commend it to any boy who has the 
 sense to distinguish between the author who has a story to tell, and the author who has to tell 
 a story." — Speaker. 
 
14 Messrs. Methuen s Announcements. 
 
 G. MANVILLE FEXN. 
 
 SYD BELTON : Or, The Boy who Tvould not go to Sea. By G. 
 
 Manville Fe-XN", Author of ' In ihe King's Name,' &c. Illustrated by 
 Gordon Browne, Crown Svo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 " \\Tio among the j-oiing story-reading public will not rejoice at the sight of the old combina- 
 tion, so often proved admirable — a story by Manville Fenn, illustrated by Gordon Browne ! 
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 gins well and goes on better, and from the time Syd joins his ship exciting incidents follow 
 each other In such rapid and briLiant succession that nothing short of absolute compulsioa 
 would induce the reader to lay it down." — Joiin.al of Educaiio7i. 
 
 " The pick of the adventure-books for this season. 1 here is not a dull page in it. ' Syd Eelton ' 
 is a capital book." — Speak-r. 
 
 " From beginning to end the b jok is a \nvid and even striking picture of sea-life." — Spectator. 
 
 MRS. PARR. 
 DUMPS. By Mrs. Parr, Author of 'Adam and Eve,' 'Dorothy Fox,' 
 &c. Illustrated by W. Parkinson. Crown Svo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 " One of the prettiest stories which even this clever writer has given the world for a long 
 tim^."— World. 
 
 " A very sweet and touching story." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 L. T. MEADE. 
 A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By L. T. Meade, Author of 'Scamp 
 and I,' (S:c. Illustrated by R. Barnes. Crown Svo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 " An excellent stor>'. Vivid portraiture of character, and broad and wholesome lessons 
 about Y\ic."— Spectator. " One of Mrs. Meade"s most fascinating books." — Daily Neu'S. 
 
 EDUCATIONAL WORKS. 
 
 METHUEN'S SCIENCE SERIES. 
 
 Messrs, Methcen propose to issue a Series of Science Manuals suitable 
 for use in schools. They will be edited by Mr. R, Elliot Steel, M.A., 
 F.CS., henior Natural Science Master in Bradford Grammar School, and 
 will be published at a moderate price. The following are ready or in 
 preparation — 
 
 THE WORLD OF SCIENCE. Including Chemistry, Heat, Light, Sound, 
 Magnetism, Electiici-.y, Botany, Zoology, Physiology, Astronomy, and 
 Geology, By R. Elliot Steel, M.A., F.CS,, Senior Natural Science 
 Master in Bradford Grammar School. 147 Illustrations, Second Edition. 
 Crown Svo, 2s. 6d, 
 "Mr. Steel's Manual is admirable in many ways. The Book is well calculated to attract 
 and retain the attention of the young." — Saturday Rez-ie'a}. 
 
 " If Mr. Steel is to be placed second to any for this quality of lucidir\-, it is only to Huxley 
 himself; and to be named in the same breath with this master of the craft of teaching is to be 
 accredited with the clearness of style and simplicity of arrangement that belong to thorough 
 mastery of a subject." — Parents Rez'iew. 
 
 Elementary Light with numerous Illustrations. Crown Svo. 3s. 
 Electricity and Magnetism. 
 Heat. 
 Other Volumes will be announced in due course. 
 
 it 
 
 R. E. STEEL, M.A. 
 
 REVISED FOR NEW SESSION, 
 
 PRACTICAL INORGANIC CHEMISTRY, For the Elementary' Stage 
 of the South Kensington Examinations in Science and Art, By R. E. 
 Steel, M.A., Senior Natural Science Master at Bradford Grammar 
 School. Crown Svo, cloih. Is, 
 
Messrs. MetJmeiis Annottn cements. 15 
 
 R. y. MORICH. 
 A GERMAN PRIMER. With Exercises. By R. J. MoRiCir, Chief 
 Modern Language Master at Manchester Grammar School. \In the Press. 
 
 H. de B. GIB BINS, M.A. 
 COMPANION GERMAN GRAMMAR. By 11. DE B. GiBBINS, M.A., 
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 E. McQueen gray. 
 
 GERMAN PASSAGES FOR UNSEEN TRANSLATION. By E. 
 
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 CLASSICAL WORKS. 
 
 TACITUS : The Agricola. With Introduction, Notes, &c. By R. F. 
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 [7;^ the Press. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM HERODOTUS. With Introduction, Notes, and 
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 High School. Fcap. Svo. [/« preparation. 
 
 CICERO. De Oratore I. Translated into English by N. P. Moor, 
 M.A., Assistant Master at Clifton. Crown Svo. {.yovctnber, 1891. 
 
 WORKS by A. IVl. M. STEDIVIAN, M.A. 
 
 WADHAM COLLEGE, OXON. 
 
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 FIRST LATIN READER. With Notes adapted to the Shorter Latin 
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1 6 Messrs. Alethuens Annoitnceinents. 
 
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 SCHOOL EXAMINATION SERIES. 
 
 /T 
 
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