ON THE BRIDGE.
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.
"One for Urith," he said, "one for myself, and then one for Julian."
Before he could strike he was caught by the neck and dragged away.
Luke Cleverdon was in the hall; he had entered unobserved. 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 strength 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
raising 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 Anthony, 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.
When Luke had finished his 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 intelligence of Fox's suit, and of
the old Squire's resolution, to Luke, and he at once started for
Willsworthy, 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
would 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 his head into danger.
That he was audacious he knew, but this was a piece of audacity of which
he did not suppose 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 infrequent
among the young men, and these led to blows and sword thrusts, as a
matter of course.
The surgeon 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.
"It is a curious fact," said Surgeon Pierce, "but his Lordship the Earl
of Bedford had been sending down a large quantity 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 fit up a hall there with pikes, and guns, and
casques, and breastplates, for all the world like the ancient halls in
the days before Queen Elizabeth. Things do happen 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 Duke,
that there were all these weapons in his Lordship'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 Willsworthy 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 marrying her.
Well, was he to be cut off from all his old acquaintances because he
was the husband of Urith? 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--tenfold. He was in
toils--entangled hand and foot--and he sought in vain to break through
them. But he could not remain thus bound--bound by obligation to Urith,
whom he did not love--bound by old association to Julian, whom he once
had 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 way 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 Tavy, 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.
Now he recalled that half-challenge 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 exasperated
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 believes 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," said Luke,
falteringly. "Did you first strike Fox?"
"No--no. I had my hands behind me. I stood at the hearth."
"But the quarrel was yours with him, rather than his with you. If you
did not strike him, why did he aim at you?"
"Luke, there were matters passed of which you need know naught--at least
no more than this. My father had offered to receive me back into his
good-will once more, to let the past be blotted out, no longer to insist
on Bess being wed to Fox, and to return to live at Hall."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Luke, joyously. "Now can I see why Fox came to you,
and why he struck you."
"It was on one condition."
"And that was----"
"That I should leave Urith, and never speak to her again."
"Anthony!" Luke's tone was full of terror and pain. "Oh, Anthony! Surely
you never--never for one moment--not by half a word--gave consent, or
semblance of consent, to this! It would--it would kill her! Oh,
Anthony!"
Luke put up both his hands on the pommel of the saddle, and clasped
them. What light there was fell on his up-turned, ash-grey face.
"Anthony, answer me. Has she been informed of that? She never thought
you could be so cruel--so false; and she has loved you. My God! her
whole heart has been given to you--to you, and to no one else; and you
have not valued it as you should have done. Because you have had to lose
this and that, you have resented it on her. She has had to bear your
ill-humour--she has suffered, and has been saddened. And now--no! I
cannot think it. You have not let her know that this offer was made."
The sweat drops poured and rolled off Luke's brow. He looked up, and
waited on Anthony for a reply.
"She did know it," answered the latter, "but that was Fox's doing. He
told her; and told her what was false, that I intended to accept the
offer, and leave her. No, Luke, I have done many things that are wrong,
I have been inconsiderate, but I could not do this. And now I bid you go
to-morrow to my father, see him, and tell him my answer. That is
expressed in one word--Never."
Luke seized his hand, and wrung it. "That is my own dear cousin
Anthony!" he said, and then added, "But why away at once, and Urith so
ill?"
"I must away at once. I cannot return to her." Anthony hesitated for
some while; at last he said, in a low tone, "I will tell you why--she
thinks me false to her, and in a measure I have been so. She thinks I no
longer love her--and it is true. My love is dead. Luke--I cannot
return."
"Oh, Urith--poor Urith!" groaned the curate, and let his hands fall.
"Now I go. Whatever haps, naught can be worse than the state of matters
at present. If you can plead in any way for me, when I am away, do so. I
would have her think better of me than she does--but I love her no
more."
Then he rode away.
Luke remained on the bridge, looking over into the rushing water--the
river was full.
"Poor Urith! My God--and it was I--it was I who united them." Then he
turned into the direction of Hall. "I will go there, and bear Anthony's
message to his father at once."