IN TEMPTATION.
Anthony entered the little parlour, or bower, of Kilworthy. 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
offensive. Outside, everything 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 by Bessie at that very time in the
little parlour of Aunt Magdalen's house, beside her cold, cheerless
hearth.
Anthony had thrown off his wet cloak and sopped hat; and was fairly dry
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 spoke. 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 conduct, 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 accepted. The contest was a fair
and open one; each used what weapons she had. If men might call each
other out and fight, 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 adversary. She could not take
the prize over to herself, and wear it as her own; that she knew well
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 sufficient 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
well-being, hardly more compunction for the torture she was
administering than has the child that plays 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 Anthony entered it was at a moment when she had almost
resolved to give up the contest, satisfied with what she had gained.
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 closeness of the day. He was,
moreover, in no good mood, dissatisfied with himself, discontented with
the world, and at a loss what to say, now that he found himself in the
company of the girl he had come 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, whose 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
evasively. She had, as already said, almost 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, on 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,
who 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 an opposite
direction, and each with a shoulder turned to the other. Anthony had
come hoping to be received with pleasure; but Julian showed no alacrity
in receiving his visit, and this helped to depress him.
Presently Julian turned her face over her shoulder, and said, "I suppose
you do not know where Fox is, or you would 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 pane "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, listlessly; 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
Cudliptown, and Sol Gibbs is dull company at Willsworthy."
"You have other company there than Sol Gibbs."
"Whom do you mean?"
"There is Urith--your wife," with a sharp 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 discerned something
like a sneer.
"Your wife."
"One cannot be talking to a wife all day," he said, peevishly, 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
you would never have lacked material for talk. Flames, darts--hymeneal
altars smoking."
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,
"You are mocking me. You!--and I came here for comfort from you--you,
Julian!"
There 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 when
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, Anthony, have a
good and kind nature--you are too ready to trust any one. Always upright
and straightforward yourself, never thinking evil in your heart, never
putting forth a foot to trip up an enemy--certainly never a friend."
Anthony'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 may 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 them. 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 this or not I
cannot say; but Fox has dangled the prospect before him, whilst he
snatched at something for himself--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 Willsworthy--not metaphorically only, but actually 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
persuasion to the commands of your father to induce Bessie to 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. When 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 inheritance, my everything?"
"Not everything," said Julian, maliciously. "He does not stretch a hand
for your Urith and for Willsworthy--only for what you 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 his 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 vastly altered. Her woman's eye detects a
difference in his 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
trimness 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
merriment, none of the self-conscious swagger, none of the old assurance
of manner in him. He had become morose, peevish; he showed a diffidence
which was the reverse of his former self. It was a diffidence mingled
with resentment, the product of his consciousness 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 disconsolate 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, feeling 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 alienated from him his
wife; his aunt was in league against him; the servants at Willsworthy
would 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 him. 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? What drawn on
the glass?"
He slightly coloured, put his hand to the panes and covered 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 old Anthony Cleverdon.