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 ineffectually. 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 was 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 with his mother and
sister, as manager of the estate. When his sister married Richard
Malvine he was again thrown on his own resources, and lived mainly on
subventions from his sister and friends, and a little law business that
he picked up and mismanaged, till his brother-in-law died, when he
returned to Willsworthy, to the mismanagement of that property which
Richard Malvine had barely recovered from the disorder and deterioration
into which it had been brought by Solomon 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 amiability, and promises 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 to bring it into disrepute. Those who heard Mr. Gibbs over his
cups retailed what they heard to their friends and wives with
developments of their own, and the whole neighbourhood had come to
believe that the Malvines were a family irretrievably lost, and that
Willsworthy was a poor and intractable estate. Those who used their
eyes--as Crymes--did not share in this latter opinion, they saw that the
property was deteriorated by mismanagement, but they all readily
accepted the opinion that bankruptcy was inevitable to the possessors at
that time of Willsworthy.
Luke Cleverdon, knowing all the circumstances, and having gauged the
character and abilities of Solomon Gibbs, was anxious concerning the
future of Urith. She had tendered a dubious, sullen, and irregular
submission to her mother, but was not likely to endure the capricious,
unintelligent domination of her uncle. His sister had, moreover,
exercised a very considerable restraint on Solomon. He always lived in
wholesome dread of her tongue; when relieved of every restraint, there
was no reckoning on what he might do with the money scraped together.
Urith herself 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. Her mother had not attempted to join her
with herself in domestic management, 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 by her mother's
tongue.
The only tolerable solution would have been for Luke to have made Urith
his wife, and taken on himself the management of the property, but such
a solution was now impossible, 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 cope.
Besides this uncongeniality of temperament, he had no knowledge of or
taste for agricultural pursuits, and to recover Willsworthy a man was
needed who was a practical farmer and acquainted with business. If he
were, moreover, to live at Willsworthy and devote himself to the estate,
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
unreasoning opposition of old Squire Cleverdon, and the refusal 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 believed that by
so doing he would prevent the marriage, but he was certain to relent as
soon as the irrevocable step had been taken. Just as 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 Anthony 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 spoke 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 you 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 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 Urith 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, with 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 would 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 barriers 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 headlong folly would have led
you to do violence to Master Malvine's grave. The same rash impetuosity
made you injure Fox Crymes' eye; and now you will throw yourself
headlong into a state of life which involves the welfare of another,
just because you have a fancy in your head that may pass as quickly as
it has arisen."
"I am not going to listen to a sermon. This is not Sunday."
"I do not believe you will make Urith happy."
"No, not in the fashion you esteem happiness. Certainly not in that. In
grubbing into barrows after old pots 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 father and
the ghost of old Madam Malvine to stand between us and spoil our bliss."
Luke bowed his head over the table, and put his hand before his eyes,
that his cousin might not observe the emotion 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 will 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 kennel."
"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."
"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 Willsworthy 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-between," 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 sycamores outside.
He found the girl seated on the herb-bank in the neglected 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 you 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 you."
"Then where is he? With you?"
"Yes, with me. I have come to know your mind. He cannot always remain
with me and at variance with his father."
"On my account this has happened?" she said.
"Yes, on your account. How is this to end?"
She put her hands to her brow, and pressed her 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, wholly?"
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 low voice, "Wholly."
"You give me authority to tell him this?"
"Yes. It can never be that we can belong to each other after what my
mother said. You heard. She hoped if he 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 home and found Anthony there, pacing his little
parlour, to work off his impatience. When he heard what Luke had to say,
he burst into angry reproach. "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 out of
the room.