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 humour was not pleasant. 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
bandaged, 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?"
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 with rapiers, 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 amiability 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--young 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 every
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,
controlling himself; "I did not mean to injure Fox, on that you 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."
"I can quite understand," said the father, "that Fox Crymes was jealous
and did not measure words. He can pepper and spice his speeches till
they burn as cantharides. What is he beside you? 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 you 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
marriage. 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 Julian?"
"About Julian? Certainly 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," answered Anthony, with
coolness, "though 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
Anthony. "It was that of Urith Malvine."
"Urith Malvine!" scoffed old Cleverdon, his eyes 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 against her. I will not
bear that from you or from any man."
"You will not bear it!" almost screamed old Anthony. "You--you! make
yourself champion of a beggar brat like that?"
"Did you hear my words?" said the young man, standing up. "No one--not
even you--shall speak against her. It was because Fox sneered at her
that I struck him; he might have scoffed at me, and I would have passed
that over."
"And you threaten me? You will knock out my eye with your tags?"
"I merely warn you, father, that I will not suffer her 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 whom I choose."
"I am to marry--not you, father; accordingly, 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 excitement. "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," snapped 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 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 enemy, 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 me, and I greatly prefer Urith to Julian. Indeed, I will not have
the latter at any price--not if she inherited all the Abbey lands of
Tavistock. 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. By heaven! I will
have you shut up in a mad-house along with your wench. I will have a
summons out against her at once. I will go to Fernando Crymes for it--it
is sheer witchcraft. You have not seen her to speak 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
have 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 appealingly to her brother, but Anthony did
not catch her eye.
"I do not see what you have against Urith," said Anthony, after a long
pause, during which the old man sat quivering 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 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. Well, you have
put out Fox's eye. Patch that up by marrying his sister." The old man's
voice shook with anger.
Anthony exercised unusual 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 invariably, 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 our 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 was 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
woman'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 elsewhere than in this 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 yourself the laughing-stock of the
whole country! I will save you from yourself. Do you hear me? I tried
the sport, and it did not answer. I had wealth and she beauty, and
beauty alone. It did not answer. We were cat and dog--your mother and I.
Bessie knows it. She can bear me witness. I will not suffer this house
to be made a hell of again."
"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 warn you not to do the same thing. Urith and I love
each other, and will have each other."
"I tell you I hate 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 flinging 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-treated her when you had her in 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-day." Then to her brother: "Anthony! do not forget that he is
your father, to whom reverence is due."
Anthony remained silent for a couple of minutes, then he stood up from
his chair, and went over to the old man. "I was wrong," he said. "I
should not have spoken thus. Come, father, we have had little puffs
between us, never such a bang as this. Let it be over; no more about the
matter between us for a day or two, till we are both cool."
"I will make an end of this affair at once," said Squire Cleverdon.
"What is the good of putting off what must be said?--of expecting a
change which will never take place. You shall never--never obtain my
consent. So give up the hussy, or you shall rue it."
"Nothing is gained, father, by threatening me. You must know that. I
have made up my mind." He folded his arms on his breast.
"And so have I mine," answered old Cleverdon, folding his arms.
Father and son stood opposite each other, hard and fixed in their
resolves--both men of indomitable, inflexible determination.
"Hear mine," said the Squire; "you give the creature up. Do you hear?"
"I hear and refuse. I will not, I cannot give up Urith. I have pledged
my word."
"And here I pledge mine!" shouted the old man.
"No--no, in pity, father! Oh, Anthony, leave the room!" pleaded Bessie,
again interposing, but again ineffectually; her brother swept her aside,
and refolded his arms, confronting his father.
"Say on!" he said, with his eyes fixed on the old man.
"I swear by all I hold sacred," exclaimed the father, "that I will never
suffer that beggar-brat to cross my threshold. Now you know my
resolution. As long as I am alive, she shall be kept from it by my arms,
and I shall take care that she shall never rule here when I am gone.
Now you know my mind, marry her or not as you please. That is my last
word to you."
"Your last word to me!" repeated Anthony. He set his hat on his head,
the hat in which hung the utterly withered marsh marigolds. "Very well;
so be it." He walked to the door, passed through, and slammed it behind
him.