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' 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. 2erious 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 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 <"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