ON THE WAY TO DEATH.
Anthony had seen Urith for the last time. They would meet again only in
Eternity. Though the moor was wide before him and he was free to escape
over it, yet he might not fly. Captain Fogg had taken his father
prisoner, had conveyed him to Lydford Castle, which he made his
headquarters, and had given out that, unless Anthony Cleverdon the
younger, the rebel, who had commanded the insurgent company from the
neighbourhood of Tavistock, surrendered himself within twenty-four
hours, he would hang the old man from the topmost window of the castle
keep.
This was the tidings that Mr. Solomon Gibbs had brought to Anthony. Mr.
Gibbs made no comment on it, he left Anthony to act on what he heard
unpersuaded by him, to sacrifice himself for his father, or else to let
the old man suffer in his stead.
There could be little doubt that Squire Cleverdon had done his utmost to
forfeit the love of his children.
All the unhappiness that had fallen on Anthony, Urith, and Bessie was
due in chief measure to his pride and hardness of heart; nevertheless,
the one great fact remained that he was the father of Anthony, and this
fact constituted an ineradicable right over the son, obliging him to do
his utmost to save the life of his father.
Moreover, the old man was guiltless of rebellion. Anthony's life was
forfeit, because he had borne arms against his rightful sovereign, and
his father had not compromised his loyalty in any way. Anthony had
never, as a boy, endured that a comrade should be punished for his
faults, and could he now suffer his father to be put to death for the
rebellious conduct of the son?
Not for one moment did Anthony hesitate as to his duty. But a struggle
he did undergo. He thought of Urith. He had sinned against her, led
astray by his vanity and love of flattery; and, after having suffered,
he had worked his way to a right mind. And at the very moment of
reunion, when his love and exultation over his recovered wife shot up
like a flame--at that very moment he must pronounce his own sentence of
death; at the moment that he had felt that she forgave him, and that all
was clear for beginning a new and joyous life together, he must be torn
from her, and exchange the pure and beautiful happiness just dawning on
him for a disgraceful death, and the grave.
He knew that Urith's grief over his death would be intense, and, maybe,
bring her down almost into the dust; but he knew, also, that the day
would come when she would acknowledge that he had acted rightly, and
then she would be proud of his memory. On the other hand, were he to
allow his father to die in his room, he would remain for ever
dishonoured in his own sight, disgraced before the world, and would lose
the respect of his wife, and with loss of respect her love for him would
also go.
The worst was over: he had bidden her farewell without betraying to her
that the farewell was for ever. He took his way to Lydford, there to
hand himself over to the Royal officers.
He had not left the moor, but was on the highway that crosses an
outlying spur of it, when he suddenly encountered Julian Crymes.
Julian had heard of the return of Anthony before Captain Fogg and his
soldiers arrived. She heard he was at Willsworthy, but he had not been
to see her; and yet he had an excellent excuse for so doing--he must be
able to tell her about her father. She had waited impatiently, hourly
expecting him, and he had not come. She did not like to leave the house
for a minute, lest he should come whilst she was away. Every step on the
gravel called her to the window, every strange voice in the house caused
her heart to bound. Why did not he come?
She went to the window of her little parlour and looked forth; and as
she looked, her hot, quick breath played over the glass, and in so doing
brought out the interwoven initials "A" and "U." They had long ago
faded, and yet under the breath they reappeared.
When she had heard a rumour of his return, the life blood had gushed
scalding through her veins, her eye had flashed, and her cheek flamed
with expectation. Her father was dead, but the sorrow she felt for his
loss was swallowed up in the joy that Anthony was home and in safety.
Now all was right again, and in glowing colours she imaged to herself
their meeting. She could hardly contain the exultation within; yet her
reason told her that he could be no nearer to her than he was; he was
still bound to Urith. The reproaches of Bess had stung her, but the
sting was no longer felt when she heard that he was back.
But as she breathed on the window-pane, and first the interwoven
initials "A" and "U" reappeared, and then the smirch where Anthony had
passed his hand over her own initials linked to his, it sent a curdle
through her arteries. He came not near her. He loved her no more--he had
forgotten her. Little by little the suspicion entered, and made itself
felt, that he did not love her. It became a conviction, forming as an
iron band about her heart, rivetted with every hour, firmer,
contracting, becoming colder. She was too haughty to betray her
feelings, and she had not suffered a question relative to Anthony to
pass over her lips.
Then she heard that Captain Fogg had arrived, and was searching the
neighbourhood for Anthony, and was arresting every returned insurgent.
The Captain visited Kilworthy, and explored the house for treasonable
correspondence, but found none.
The anxiety and alarm of Julian for the safety of Anthony became
overmastering. She could no longer endure imprisonment in her own house.
Moreover, there was now no need for her to remain there. Anthony was in
hiding somewhere, or he was taken--she knew not which--and could not
come to her.
She had not slept all night, and when morning dawned she rode forth,
unattended, to obtain some tidings about him. She would not go to
Willsworthy. She could not face Urith, but she would hover about between
Willsworthy and Hall, and wait till she could hear some news concerning
him.
In this restless, anxious condition of mind, Julian Crymes was
traversing the down when she lit on Anthony himself.
She greeted him with an exclamation of joy, rode up to him, sprang from
her horse, and said, "But surely, Tony! this is reckless work coming on
to the highway when they seek thy life."
"They will not have long to seek," said he.
"What do you mean?"
He made no answer, and strode forward to pass her, and continue his
course to Lydford.
"Anthony!" exclaimed Julian, "you shall not meet and leave me thus. I
have not seen you since your return."
"I cannot stay now."
"But you shall!" She threw herself in his road, holding the reins of her
horse with one hand, and extending her whip in the other. "Anthony! what
is the meaning of this?"
"I must pass," said he, stepping aside to circumvent her.
"Anthony!" she cried--there was pain and despair in her tone--"where are
you going? and why will you not speak to me?"
He stood still for a moment, and looked steadily at her; then she saw
how pale he was.
"Julian," said he, quietly, "you have acted towards me in a
heartless----"
"Heartless, Tony!"
"In an utterly cruel manner, and have brought me to this. It was you who
sowed the seeds of strife between Urith and me; you who drove her off
her mind; you who forced me to leave home and go to the standard of the
Protestant Duke; and it is you now who bring me to the gallows."
"The gallows!"
"The captain at the head of the troopers has taken my father, and
threatens to hang him within a day unless I surrender to the same fate."
"But, Anthony!" She could hardly speak, she was trembling, and her
colour flying about her face like storm-driven cloudlets lit by a
setting sun, red and threatening. "Anthony!--not to--to death?"
"To death, Julian!"
She uttered a cry, let go the bridle, dropped her whip, and ran to him
with extended arms. "Anthony!--O Anthony!"
He put forth his hand and held her from him. No; not on his breast where
his Urith had just lain, that should never be touched by another--not by
such another as Julian Crymes.
"Stand back," he said, sternly.
"Anthony! say you love me! You know you have--have always loved me."
"I never loved you, Julian. No--never."
She shook herself free, drew back, pressed her clenched fists against
her bosom. "You dare to tell me that--you!"
"I never loved you," he said.
Her face became white as that of a corpse. She drew on one side and
said, "Go--and may you be hanged! I hate you. I would I were by to see
you die."