A LOVER AND HIS LASS.
Anthony strode along the way to Willsworthy. That way took him past
Cudliptown. The landlord was at the door of his inn.
"What! pass my house without a step inside?" asked 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 heard from within taking
up the strain, and Uncle Solomon's voice singing lustily:
An evening so clear
I would that I were,
To kiss thy soft cheek
With the faintest of air.
The star that is twinkling
So brightly above,
I would that I were
To enlighten my love!
Anthony walked on. His brow knitted, and he set his teeth. The innkeeper
had guessed that he was going to Willsworthy, and suspected the reason.
That idiot Solomon Gibbs had been talking.
As he strode along, the plaintive and sweet melody followed him; all
that was harsh in the voice mellowed by the distance; and Anthony sang
to himself low, as he continued his 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 how--only a few weeks agone--when he had been at the
tavern with some comrades, and songs had been called for, he had
expressed his impatience at this very piece, which he said was rank
folly. Then he had not understood the yearning of the heart for the
loved one, had not conceived of the desire to be all and everything to
its mistress. Now he was expelled from his father's house, threatened
with being disinherited, and was actually without money in his 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 invitation of the host. Yes--he had
suffered for Urith, and he rather plumed himself on 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 alive or dead--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 world run,
I'd lavish my pearls on thee,
Not keeping of one.
If I were the summer,
My flowers and green
I'd heap on thy 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, who 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 applying 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 manor house were
flushed a delicate pink, as though the heather were in bloom. Alas! this
year no heather would wrap the hills in rose flush, for it had been
burnt in the great fire. High aloft the larks were shrilling. She could
hear their song in broken snatches between the strophes of Anthony'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
Round 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 eyes and glowed in
his lips and cheek.
She drew back proudly.
"You have had my message?"
"I take no messages--certainly none sent through parsons. 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 bounding 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 promised 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 cousinship 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 have made the promise 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 right. Your father
is against our--acquaintance----" She hesitated.
"Go on--he is against our 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, by some chance, all went
wrong, and each got wed to the wrong person. Neither was happy 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--the 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 fancy 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 yourself
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 accustomed
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 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 Anthony, "let us see what her prayer avails. Stand
aside, Urith."
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 walking 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 standing 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. Here am I on the hearthstone, alive and well.
Now--will you fear an idle threat?"
He laughed aloud, and broke out into a snatch of song.
"If I were a 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 way, and that shall not be I."
"Nor I," he said, resolutely, and the blood rose in his cheeks; "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 folly, mad folly," said Anthony, with violence; "my
happiness--my everything depends 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 cannot have you, I have nothing 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 Malvine will
have naught to say to me because of Squire Cleverdon. This is too
laughable--it would be laughable 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."
"Whither?"
"Nay, that is for you to decide. I should say, were I a man, that I
could always find a where--in the King's army."
Anthony laughed scornfully. "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 something--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 announcement.
"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."