"You cannot suppose for one moment, brother, that I would do anything against you."

"I cannot say. Since Anthony revolted I have lost all confidence in everyone. But I have no time to squander. Understand me. Persuade Bessie, should she show tokens of disobedience—which is catching as the plague—a dislike to submit herself in all things to my wishes, then you may hold up Anthony as a warning to her, and let her understand that as I have dealt by him, so I will deal by her if she resists me. Now you will see what is my intention. When Bessie is married to Anthony Crymes, they will live with me, for Anthony and Julian will be much forward and backward between the two houses, as Bessie is her best of friends; and thus she will come to see much of me and of Hall, and will be the more ready insensibly, so to speak, to slide into my arms, and into the union of the two estates. Not that I suppose at present she has any objection to me, but, as Fox says, she will require some justification before the world for taking the father after having been rejected by the son. If she is often over at Hall, why—all wonder will cease, and it will come about with the smoothness of an oiled wheel."

"I suppose so, brother—but——"

The Squire started up with an oath. "I shall regard you as an opponent," he said, "with your eternal objections. Consider what I have said, act on it, and so alone will you maintain your place in my regard."

Then he left the house, grumbling, and slammed the door behind him, to impress on his sister how ill-pleased he was with her conduct.

Time had not filled the cleft between Anthony and his father; and Fox Crymes had done his best to prevent its being filled or being bridged over; for he now saw a good deal of the old Squire Cleverdon, and he took opportunity to drop a corrosive remark occasionally into the open and rankling wound, so as to inflame and anger it. Now it was a reported speech of Anthony, showing how he calculated on his father's forgiveness; or a statement of what he would do to the house, or with the trees, when his father died and he succeeded to Hall; or else Fox told of some slighting remark on the beggary of everything at Willsworthy, made by a villager, or imagined for the occasion by himself.

The old man, without suspecting it, was being turned about the finger of the cunning young Crymes, who had made up his mind to obtain the hand of Elizabeth and with it Hall. So could he satisfy his own ambition, and best revenge himself on Anthony and Urith.

The wit and malice of Fox acted as a grinding-stone on which the anger of the Squire was being constantly whetted, as if it had not at the first been sharp enough.

The old man could not endure the idea of his property ever falling to the daughter of Richard Malvine—of Malvine blood ever reigning within the walls of his mansion.

He had not yet altered his will, and he could not resolve how to do this. He did not desire to constitute Bessie his heiress. He could not reconcile himself to the thought of Hall passing out of the direct line, of another than a Cleverdon owning the estate where his ancestors had sat for centuries, and which he had made into his own freehold. All the disgust he had felt when Elizabeth was born, and he found himself father of a daughter as his first-born, woke up again, and he could not bring himself to constitute her his heiress. Yet, on the other hand, it was equally, if not more, against his will that it should pass to his revolted son and the daughter of his mortal enemy. As he was thus tossing between two odious alternatives, the idea of marrying Julian himself lightened on his mind, and he seized it with desperate avidity; yet not without a doubt he refused to give utterance to, or permit in another. In a vague manner he hoped that the union of Fox and Bessie might pave the way to his own marriage with Julian.

CHAPTER XXVIII. A WIDENING OF THE RIFT.

"Urith," said Anthony, "we are to go together to the dance at the Cakes; I have said we would."

"The dance, Anthony! It cannot be."

"Why not? Because I particularly desire it?"

"Nay—not so, assuredly; but the time is so short since my mother's death."

"But our marriage makes that as nought. It has turned the house of mourning into one of merriment—or—it should have done so. It suffices I intend to go, and I will take you with me."

"Nay—Anthony, I would not cross you——"

"You do—you object." He spoke with irritation. "Do you not see, Urith, that this life of seclusion is intolerable to me? I have been unaccustomed to the existence which befits a hermit. I have been wont to attend every merry-making that took place—to laugh and dance and sing there, and eat and drink and be happy. I protest that it is to me as displeasing to be without my amusement as it would be to a kingfisher to be without his brook, or a peewhit to be condemned to a cage."

"But cannot you go without me?" asked Urith, disconcerted.

"No; it will be noted and remarked on. You are my wife—you are a bride. You ought to, you must, appear where others are. Why should you spend all your life in the loneliness of this—this Willsworthy? Do you not feel as cramped by it as must have felt Noah in the Ark?"

"I do not, Anthony."

"You do not, because you have never been out of the Ark; bred in it, you are accustomed to its confined atmosphere. I am not. I love to meet with and be merry with my fellows, and I cannot go alone. Why, Urith, on the fair day I went to Kilworthy, and there was Bessie. What did she say to me, but—'You should not be here, be at any entertainment in a neighbour's house without Urith?'"

"Did Bessie say that?"

"Yes, she did."

"Then I will go with you to the Cakes, Anthony."

It was customary in former times for the gentlefolks of a neighbourhood to meet at each other's houses, at intervals, for dances and carouses—the young folks for dances, their elders for carouses. On such occasions the burden of entertainment did not fall wholly, or to any serious extent, on the host in whose house the assembly took place. Each guest brought with him or her a contribution to the feast—ducks, geese, capons, eggs, cheese, bottles of wines, pasties, honey, fruit, candles, flowers—very much as at a picnic nowadays, each party invited contributes something. The host actually furnished little more than the use of his house. Even the servants of the guests were expected to assist, and generally attended on their own masters and mistresses, behind whose chairs they stationed themselves.

The Cakes occupied a quaint old barton, named Wringworthy, in a central position for the neighbourhood; and they had an excellent hall for a dance, well appreciated by the young gentlefolks of the neighbourhood.

The evening for the dance arrived. Folk went early to a dance in those days, before the darkness had set in. Many were on the road; none in coaches; all on horseback—the young ladies seated on pads behind their grooms.

Clattering along at a good pace came Fox, riding alongside of Elizabeth Cleverdon. He had gone to Hall to fetch her. She was annoyed: she did not understand the attention, in her simple mind. The idea never entered that he had designs on her hand. She did not wish to feel prejudiced against him; at the same time she did not like him, and was unable to account to herself for this dislike.

Her father made much of him. Fox was now constantly at Hall, and he made himself companionable to the old man. Bessie with pain contrasted his conduct with that of her brother, who had never put himself out of the way to be agreeable to his father—had not courted his society and sought to be a companion to him. She was grateful to Fox for his efforts to relieve the old Squire of his desolation by giving him so much of his society.

Fox was her brother's friend, and she had no doubt that he was at Hall with the purpose of doing his utmost to further a reconciliation between Anthony and his father. For this she thanked him in her heart, yet she could not stifle the dislike that would spring up and assert itself notwithstanding. Nor did she like the look that Fox cast at her occasionally. He meant no harm, doubtless; he was but showing her that he was acting as her confederate in the cause which, as she trusted, both had at heart. Nevertheless, she wished he would not look at her with that cunning, wounding twinkle in his eyes.

Presently Fox and Bessie caught up Anthony riding with Urith on pillion behind him. Fox greeted them boisterously, and Bessie threw him and Urith a kiss. Anthony acknowledged Fox's greeting with warmth, but that of his sister with a little coldness. He was annoyed with her for her tameness in submitting to her father. There was no opportunity for more than a word, as Fox urged on his horse and that of Elizabeth Cleverdon, with his whip, to a pace with which Anthony was unable to keep up. The old Willsworthy mare was a clumsy piece of horseflesh, not comparable in any way with the beasts from Hall and Kilworthy stables. Anthony was aware of this, and somewhat ashamed.

On reaching the house of the Cakes, the sound of music was audible—a couple of fiddles, a bass, and a clarionette; but, in the noise of voices, salutations, and laughter, the melody was drowned; only occasionally the deep grunt of the bass, and the shrill wail of the clarionette, like that of a teething babe, were audible.

The hall was full. It was not large, as we nowadays reckon size; but it was of sufficient size to accommodate a good many, and not so large as to make them feel chilled by the vastness of the space. From the hall opened a parlour, in which were set out card-tables for the elders.

Directly Anthony and his wife entered, Bessie signed to Urith to sit by her. She was uneasy at the pointed way in which Fox paid her attention, kept near her, and talked with her. She could see that his conduct had attracted notice, and that she was the subject of a good deal of remark. She was sad at heart—little inclined for merriment; but she had come as her father desired it; and always conscientious, and desirous to sink her own feelings so as not to disturb and distress others, she concealed her inner sadness, assumed a gentle, pleased manner natural to her when in company. She had been wont from early childhood to shut up her troubles within her heart from every eye, and to wear a composed exterior; consequently this was less difficult to her now than it might have been to others less self-disciplined.

Urith, moreover, was not best satisfied to find herself at a merrymaking so shortly after her mother's death; and, besides, was so wholly unaccustomed to one, that she felt frightened and bewildered. She snatched at once at the chance of sitting by Bessie, as a relief to the painful sense of loneliness and confusion in which she was, confused by the crowd that whirled about her—lonely in the midst of it, because strange to most of those composing it. Anthony was among friends. He knew every one, and was greeted heartily by all the young people, male and female; but she was thrust aside by them as they pushed forward to welcome him, and she was jostled outside the throng which had compacted itself around him.

At the most favourable time she would have felt strange there, for her mother had never taken her to any rout at a neighbour's house; she had been to no dances, no dinners—had been kept entirely aloof from all the whirl of bright and butterfly life that had made country life so enjoyable; and now she was oppressed with the inner consciousness of the impropriety of appearing at a dance at such a brief interval after the earth had closed over her mother. At once, with nervous self-consciousness, Urith rushed into self-exculpation.

"I would not have come—indeed, I did not wish to come; but Anthony insisted. He said he would not come without me; you had told him that, and—I did not wish to stand in the way of his pleasures. He has worked very hard; he has been cut off from his usual associates; he has had no holiday—so I thought it well to come."

"Yes, you did right. You will find Anthony exacting. That he always was, but good at heart," said Bessie.

"I do not dance myself—I cannot dance," said Urith, in further self-excuse; "so that it will not seem so very strange my being here, if I simply look on."

"You will have to dance—to open the ball with Anthony, I suppose, as you are the bride."

"I! Oh, but I do not know how to dance. I never have danced. I do not understand the figures. I do not distinguish between a brawl, a rant, and a jig."

"That is unfortunate—but it will serve to excuse you; yet I think you must essay to foot it once with Anthony. He is certain to insist on it."

"But I do not know——" Urith flushed. "How can I dance when I have never practised the measures and the paces?"

At that moment Anthony came up.

"Come, Urith," said he; "we must open the ball. All are waiting for you."

"But I cannot, Anthony."

He made a movement of impatience. "Nonsense, you must!" That was in his old imperious manner, which Bessie knew so well.

Bessie said aside to Urith, "Make the attempt. You cannot well go wrong."

Urith stood up—nervous, trembling, turning white and red, and with the tears very near the surface.

"Look here," said Anthony. "Father thinks, because I am thrust out of Hall, that everyone may kick at me—that I am of no account any more. Let us show that it is otherwise. Let them see that I am something still, and that my wife is not a nobody. Come!" He whisked her to her place at the head of the room.

Urith saw that all eyes were on her, and this increased her nervousness. As she passed Fox she caught his malicious eye, and saw the twirl of laughter and cruel jest on his lip.

"I cannot—and let me alone, Anthony," escaped her again. She was frightened.

"Have done. I do not want you here to make a fool of yourself and me; and that you will do if you slink back to your place."

"But I cannot dance, Anthony."

"Folly! I will put you to-rights. With half a pinch of wit you cannot go wrong."

The music struck up, the clarionette squealed, the violins sawed, and the bass grunted. In a moment Urith was caught away—felt herself swung, flying, she knew not where. She knew not what she was doing. She could neither keep step with the music, nor discover the direction in which she had to go. She saw faces—faces on every side—full of laughter, amusement, mockery. She was thrown adrift from Anthony, was groping for his hand; could not tell where he was, what she had to do; got in the way of other dancers, was knocked across the floor, knocked back again; ran between couples—then, all at once, she was aware of Anthony pushing his way to her, with an angry face, and an exclamation of, "You are no good at all; get back to your chair. I won't dance with you again and be made a laughing-stock of."

He left her, where he had thrust her out of the dance, to find her way back to Bessie, and strode off to Julian, caught her by the hand, and in a moment was fully engaged.

He was maddened with vexation. It was unendurable to him that he had been the occasion of laughter. Every other girl and woman in the room, however plain, could dance—only his wife not. She alone must sit against the wall! That it was his fault in forcing her to come against her wishes—his fault in making her attempt to do what she had protested her ignorance of—he did not recognise. The wife of Anthony Cleverdon ought to take a prominent place—ought to be able to dance, and dance well—ought to be handsomer, better dressed, more able to make herself agreeable, than any other woman! And there she was—helpless! Handsome, indeed; but with her beauty disguised by an unbecoming dress; silent, sulky, on the verge of tears. It was enough to make his heart fill with gall!

On the other hand, here was Julian Crymes in charming costume, bright of eye, fresh of colour, full of wit and banter, moving easily in the dance, light, confident, graceful. Julian was glowing with pleasure; her dark eyes flashed with the fire that burned in her soul, and the hot blood rolled boiling through her veins.

For some moments after she had taken her seat Urith was unable to see anything. The tears of shame and disappointment filled her eyes, and she was afraid of being observed to wipe them away.

But Bessie took her hand, and pressed it, and said, "No wonder you were agitated at this first appearance in company. No one will think anything of it, no doubt they will say you are a young and modest bride. There, do not be discouraged; the same would have happened to me in your circumstances. What—must I?"

The last words were addressed to Fox, who came up to ask her to dance with him. She would gladly have excused herself, but that she thought a dance was owing to him for his courtesy in coming to Hall to accompany her.

"I am not inclined for more than one or two turns this evening," she said to Fox; "for there are many here younger than I, and I would not take from them the dances they enjoy so much more than myself."

As the tears dried without falling in Urith's eyes, and her heart beat less tumultuously, she was able to look about her, and seek and find Anthony.

It was with a stab of pain in her heart that she saw him with Julian. They were talking together with animation, her great eyes were fixed on him, and he bent his head over her. Urith knew the heart of Julian—knew the disappointed love, the rage that consumed it; and she wondered at her husband for singling this girl out as his partner. Then she reproached herself; for, she argued, that this heart, with its boiling sea of passion, had been revealed to her, not to him. He was unconscious of it.

Urith followed him and Julian everywhere; noted the changes in his countenance when she spoke; felt a twinge of anguish when, for a moment, both their eyes met hers, and they said something to each other and laughed. Had they laughed at her awkwardness in the opening dance?

Elizabeth passed before her on Fox's arm, and, as they did so, she heard Fox say, "Yes, your brother is content now that he is with Julian. You can't root old love out with a word."

Bessie winced, turned sharply round, and looked at Urith, in the hope that this ill-considered speech had not been heard by her. But a glance showed that Urith had not been deaf: her colour had faded to an ashen white, and a dead film had formed over her sombre eyes, like cat-ice on a pool.

Bessie drew her partner away, and said, with agitated voice, "You should not have spoken thus—within earshot of Urith."

"Why not? Sooner or later she must know it—the sooner the better."

Bessie loosened herself from him, angry and hurt. "I will dance with you no more," she said. "You have a strange way of speaking words that are like burrs—they stick and annoy, and are hard to tear away."

She went back to take her place by Urith, but found it occupied. She was therefore unable at once to use her best efforts to neutralise the effect produced by what Fox had said.

Urith's face had become grave and colourless, the dark brows were drawn together, and the gloomy eyes had recovered some life or light; but it was that of a Jack-o'-Lantern—a wild fire playing over them.

Anthony danced repeatedly with Julian. The delight of being with him again, of having him as her partner—wholly to herself—if only for a few minutes, filled her with intoxication of pleasure, and disregard of who saw her, and what was said concerning her. Her heart was like a flaming tuft of gorse, blazing fiercely, brightly, with intense heat for a brief space, to leave immediately after a blank spot of black ash and a few glowing sparks; and Anthony stooped over her enveloped in this flame, accepting the flattering homage, forgetful of his responsibilities, regardless of the future, without a thought as to the consequences. Her bosom heaved, her breath came hot and fast, her full lips trembled.

Urith's eyes were never off them, and ever darker grew her brow, more sinister the light in her eyes, and the more colourless her cheek.

Suddenly she sprang up. The room was swimming around her; she needed air, and she ran forth into the night. The sky was full of twilight, and there was a rising moon. Though it was night, it was not dark.

She stood in the road, gasping for air, holding the gate. Then she saw coming along the road a dark object, and heard the measured tramp of horses' hoofs. It was a carriage. Along that road, at midnight, so it was said, travelled nightly a death-coach, in which sat a wan lady, drawn by headless horses, with on the box a headless driver.

For a moment Urith was alarmed, but only for a moment. The spectral coach travelled noiselessly; of this that approached the sound of the horse-hoofs, of the wheels, and the crack of the whip of the driver were audible.

The carriage drew up before the entrance-gates of the house, and a gentleman thrust forth his head.

"Ho! there! Do you belong to the house? Run in, summon Anthony Crymes. Tell him his father wants him—immediately."

CHAPTER XXIX. CAUTIONS.

Urith entered the hall again, and told Fox that his father was without, and wanted him.

"My father!" exclaimed young Crymes. "Oh! he is home from the Session of Parliament, where they and the King have been engaged in offering each other humble pie, for which neither party has a taste. What does he want with me?"

"I did not inquire," answered Urith, haughtily.

Mr. Crymes had not known her in the road, when he called out to her to send his son to him.

Fox was annoyed to have to leave the dance, but he could not disobey his father, so he took his hat and coat, and went forth.

Mr. Crymes was waiting for him, in the coach.

"I heard you were here, on my way. Stirring times, my boy, when we must be up and doing."

"So am I, father; you took me off from a saraband."

"Fie on it! I don't mean dancing. Come into the coach, and sit with me. I have much to say."

"Am I to desert my partners?"

"In faith! I reckon the maids will be content to find another better favoured than thee, Tonie."

Fox reluctantly entered the carriage, but not till he had made another effort to be excused.

"Julian is here, is she to be left without an escort?"

"Julian has her attendants, and will be rejoiced to be free from your company, as when together ye mostly spar."

When the coach was in movement, Mr. Crymes said, "I have come back into the country, for, indeed, it is time that they who love the Constitution of their country and their religion should be preparing for that struggle which is imminent."

"I thought, father," said Fox, "you were sent up to Westminster to fight the battle there. It is news to me that warfare is to be carried on by Cut and Run. I suppose you were in risk of being sent to the Tower?"

The old man was offended.

"It will oblige me if you reserve your sarcasms for others than your own father. I come home, and you sneer at me."

"Not at all; you mistake. I wondered how the Constitution was to be preserved here, when the great place of doctoring and drenching the patient, of bleeding and cupping, is at Westminster, and you were sent thither to tender your advice as to how that same Constitution was to be dealt with."

"The battle is not to be fought there," said Mr. Crymes, "nor with tongues. The field of conflict will be elsewhere, and the weapons keener and harder than words."

"The field of conflict is, I trust, not to be here," remarked Fox; "your sagacity, father, has assuredly taken you to the furthest possible distance from it. As soon as these weapons stronger than tongues are brandished, I shall betake me to Lundy or the Scilly Isles."

"You are a coward, I believe," said Mr. Crymes, in a tone of annoyance. "I expect to find in you—or, rather, but for my experience of you, I might have reckoned on finding in my son—a nobler temper than that of a runaway."

"But, my good father, what other are you?"

"If you will know," said Mr. Crymes, petulantly, "I have come into the country—here into the West—to rouse it."

"What for?"

"For the cause of the Constitution and Religion."

"And when the West is roused, what is it to do? Stretch itself, and lie down to sleep again?"

"Nothing of the kind. Tonie. I do not mind confiding to you that we expect a revolution. It is not possible to endure what is threatened. The country will—it must—rise, or will lose its right to be considered a free and Protestant country." Mr. Crymes waited, but, as his son said nothing, he continued. "The Duke of Monmouth is in the Low Countries, and is meditating an invasion. The Dutch will assist; he is coming with a fleet, and several companies levied in Holland, and we must be organised and ready with our bands to rise as soon as he sets foot in England."

"Not I," said Fox. "If you, father, venture your neck and bowels for Monmouth and the Protestant cause, I content myself with tossing up my cap for King James. Monmouth's name is James as well as his Majesty's, so my cap will not compromise me with either; and, father, I only toss up my cap—I will not risk my neck or bowels for either by drawing sword."

"You are a selfish, unprincipled rogue," said Mr. Crymes. "You have neither regard for your country nor ambition for yourself."

"As for my country, I can best care for it by protecting such a worthy member of it as myself, and my ambition lies in other lines than political disturbance. I have not heard that either side got much, but rather lost, by taking parts in the Great Rebellion, whether for the Parliament or for the King. The only folk who gained were such as put their hands in their pockets and looked on."

"By the Lord!" exclaimed the old gentleman, "I am sorry that I have such a son, without enthusiasm, and care for aught save himself. I tell you the Earl of Bedford secretly inclines to the cause of Monmouth, and has urged me to come down here and stir the people up. Now, when his Lordship——"

"Exactly," scoffed Fox. "Exactly as I thought, he keeps safe and throws all the risk on you. Nothing could so induce me to caution as the example of the Earl of Bedford."

In the meantime, Bessie, at the dance, was in some uneasiness. She had missed Urith when she went out of the house, and, after her return, noticed that her face was clouded, and that she was short of speech. Bessie took Urith's hand in her lap and caressed it. She did not fully understand what was distressing her sister-in-law. At first she supposed it was annoyance at her failure in dancing, but soon perceived that the cause was other. Urith no longer responded to her caresses, and Bessie, looking anxiously into her dark face and following the direction of her eyes, discovered that the conduct of Anthony was the occasion of Urith's displeasure. Anthony was not engaged to Julian for every dance, but he singled her out and got her as his partner whenever he could, and it was apparent that she took no pleasure in dancing with anyone else; she either feigned weariness to excuse her acceptance of another partner, or danced with him without zest, and with an abstracted mind that left her speechless.

Bessie Cleverdon, the last person in the room to think hardly of another, the most ready to excuse the conduct of another, was hard put to it to justify her brother's conduct. He did not come to his wife between the dances, treating her with indifference equal to a slight, and he lavished his attentions on Julian Crymes in a manner that provoked comment.

"They are old friends, have known each other since they were children, have been like cousins, almost as brother and sister," said Bessie, when she felt Urith's hand clench and harden within her own as Anthony and Julian passed them by without notice, engrossed in each other.

"You must think nothing of it—indeed you must not. Anthony is pleased to meet an old acquaintance and talk over old times. It is nothing other," again she protested, as Urith started and quivered. The bride had encountered Julian's eye, and Julian had flashed at her a look of scorn and gratified revenge. She was fulfilling her threat, she was plucking the rose out of Urith's bosom.

Presently, Julian came across the room to Bessie with eyes averted from Urith.

"Come with me," said she to Bessie Cleverdon, "I want a word with you. I am hot with dancing. Come outside the porch." She put her arm within that of Anthony's sister, and drew her forth on the drive, outside.

When there, Julian said, "Bessie, what is this I hear on all sides. Are you engaged?"

"Engaged! What do you mean?"

"Engaged to Fox. I am told of it by first one and then another; moreover, his attentions to you were marked, and all noticed them; that has given strength to the general belief."

"It is not true. It is not true!" exclaimed Bessie, becoming crimson with shame and annoyance; "who can have set such a wicked story afloat?"

"Nay, I cannot tell that. Who can trace a piece of gossip? But the talk is about, in the air, everywhere. There must be some foundation for it."

"None at all, I assure thee—most seriously, and most honestly, none at all. You pain me inexpressibly, Julian. Deny it whenever you hear it. Contradict it, as you love me."

"I do love thee," answered Julian, "and for that reason I have hoped it was false, for I pity the maid that listens to Fox's tongue and believes his words. If it be true——"

"It is not true; it has not a barleycorn of truth in it."

"But he has been much at Hall, every week, almost every other day."

"Because he is Anthony's friend, and he is doing what he can for him with my father."

Julian laughed. "Nay, never, never reckon on that. Fox will do no good turn to anyone, leastwise to Anthony. He go twice or thrice a week to Hall on other concern than his own! As well might the hills dance. Trust me, if he has been to Hall so oft, it has been that he sought ends and advantages of his own. I never knew Fox hold out the end of his riding-whip to help a friend."

"That may be," said Bessie Cleverdon. "But he has not come for me. I pray let my name be set aside. I have nothing to do with him. He has not so much as breathed a word touching such a matter to me. I pray you deny this whenever you hear it, and to whomsoever you speak concerning it."

Julian laughed.

"I am glad I have thy word that there is naught in it, as far as thou art concerned. I spoke of it to Anthony, and he also laughed me out of countenance thereat. But he trusts Fox. I would not trust him save to trip up or stab in the back, an enemy. Do'st know, Bess, what notion came on me? I fancied that Fox was seeking thee, because he reckoned that the strife between Anthony and his father would never skin over, and that the old man would make thee his heir."

"No! no!" exclaimed Elizabeth, in distress. "Do not say such things, do not think such things. I am certain that you mistake Fox. He is not so bad as you paint him."

"What! you take up the single-stick to fight in his defence?"

"I will fight in defence of any man who is maligned. I cannot think of Fox what you say. I pray say no more hereon. You pain me past words to express, and there really is no ground for what you do say."

"Take care! take care! Bess. I know Fox better than do you, better than does anyone else, and he may yet play you such a move as will checkmate you."

Elizabeth did not answer. The two girls took a turn on the lawn together, and Bessie drew Julian's arm tighter to her side; she even laid her disengaged hand on her shoulder, clinging to her as a supplicant.

The attitude, her manner was so full of entreaty, that Julian halted in her walk, turned to her, and asked, "What is it that you want, Bess?"

"My dear—dear Julian," Elizabeth stroked Julian's arm with her gentle hand, "O Julian! Do, I pray thee, not dance any more with Anthony."

"Why not, Bess?"

Elizabeth hesitated. She was unwilling, almost unable to express her reasons. An unrest was in her bosom, a fear in her heart, but nothing had taken distinct shape.

"My dear, dear Julian, I entreat you not. You should feel that it were fit that my brother should dance this evening with his wife—with Urith."

"She can no more dance than a goose," answered Julian, bluntly.

"That is true—I mean she cannot dance very well; but it is not seemly that she be left out altogether, and that he should be so much with you."

"Why not? We are old friends."

"Do you not feel, Julian, that it is unfitting? She—I mean Urith—must feel hurt."

"She is hurt!" repeated Julian, with a thrill of triumph in her voice; but this Bessie did not notice. It never for a moment occurred to her that it could give exultation to Julian to know that she had pained another.

"Indeed, you must consider," pursued Bessie. "The poor young thing has not had the chance of learning to dance, and Anthony is without much thought; he seeks his pleasure. Young men do not think, or do not understand the hearts of girls. I watched Urith, and I believe that every step you took trod on her heart."

"It did!" Her tone shocked Bessie, who for a moment released her arm and looked in her face, but in the darkness could not see the expression.

"Indeed it did," she continued; "for, as she could not dance, it seemed a slight to and forgetfulness of her that she was left to sit out, and Anthony amused himself with you and with others. He meant no harm, I know that very well; but, nevertheless, he hurt her much, and she bled with inward pain. She was shamed, and should not have been shamed before a great many people on her first appearance after her marriage, at a rout."

"You should administer your exhortations, Bess, to Anthony. I have not the custody and responsibility of that wild, vixenish colt, Urith."

"I cannot get a word with Anthony, and you, Julian, are dancing with him three times to any other partner's one."

"Would you have him sit down at her side and twiddle his thumbs, like a disgraced child in a corner?"

"I would have him and you think of the feelings of a young girl who is sad at heart," said Bessie, gravely. Julian's tone distressed her; a glimmer of the true condition of affairs entered her mind and filled it with horror and indignation.

"Julian," she said, in a firmer tone, with less of appeal in it and more of command, "at one time I used to think that we were like to become sisters——"

"What, by your taking Fox? It is not too late."

"Do not—do not banter on that subject. You know my meaning. I did suppose that Anthony would have sought his happiness in you. But it has pleased God to order it otherwise. Now he must find his happiness—not at Kilworthy, nor at Hall, but at poor little Willsworthy, that bleak moor farm, and not with you, but with Urith. He has sacrificed a great deal for her—lost his home, lost his father, almost lost me, has given up wealth and position, and he must be compensated for these losses in his own new home. It is not right that you—that anyone should do anything to spoil this chance, to rob him of his compensation in full. Anthony can be nothing to you for the future. Leave him alone. Do not play with him, do not draw him away from Urith. He has now already mighty odds against him; do not, for God's sake, do anything that may make the odds overwhelming, and blight and ruin his happiness here and for ever. For, Julian, it is now, in the first months of marriage, that his state will be determined one way or the other. Mar the concord between him and his wife now, and it may never again be found; and that concord lost, with it to wreck goes the whole life of my brother. If ever, Julian, you had any love for Anthony, if now you have any kindly feeling towards him, let him alone."

She paused and waited for an answer. None came, Julian walked faster, dragged her up and down the lawn as she clung to her.

"It was Anthony's doing that Urith came to-night; she was averse to appear, but he insisted on it. She told him she could not dance; he forced her to take her place with him at the head of the room for a measure. Did she ever seek him out? Never. He thrust himself upon her. When her mother died, she had no desire to be hurried into marriage, but he overruled all her objections. He, ever thoughtless, inconsiderate of others, has taken her up out of her old course of life——"

"Enough, enough about her," said Julian, "when you speak of her my anger foams. Speak of him, of his happiness jeopardised, and I cool. What! Has it come to this, that I—I in my gloveless hands hold the fortunes, hold the hearts of these two, to beat and batter them together, and crush and break them both? What if I threaten to do it?"

"You are too good at heart to make the threat, or, if made, to make it good."

Julian was silent again. She took several turns in front of the house. The sounds of revelry streamed out to them. Through the open porch door, along with the light, and occasionally in the porch itself, came a flash of colour as a girl stood there in her bright-tinted dress with the blaze of the candles upon her. Bats were wheeling, and their shrill scream pierced the ear.

"Let me alone, Bess," said Julian. "I cannot breathe, I cannot think when you are by me; my head is like a weir, and all my thoughts tumble, boiling, spattering over, beaten to foam."

Elizabeth withdrew to the porch, where she seated herself, and watched the excited girl on the lawn. She had put her hands to her head and was still pacing up and down, now fast, then slowly, according as her passion or her good nature prevailed.

Then out at the door came Anthony, shouting, "Where is Julian? She promised to dance the Mallard with me! Bessie, have you seen her? I claim her for the Mallard."

Julian heard his voice, and stepped back under the shade of a bank of yews. There was before her gravel, and in that gravel a piece of white spar that shone like a flake of snow in the dark. If she stepped out to that piece of spar he would see her, claim her, and—her evil nature would have got the upper hand. Whither would it lead her? She did not ask that. She saw before her now only the alternative of a half-hour's mad pleasure on the arm of Anthony, of cruel triumph over his already humiliated wife, and abandonment of the contest.

The struggle was over with unexpected brevity. The tune of the Mallard struck up, and Anthony went back into the hall without her, to seek for her there, or to find there another partner.

Then Julian heard the burst of voices in song, for the Mallard was a country dance led by two, with chorus by all the performers as they turned their partners, and went in chain with linked, reversed arms, down the room.

Julian came to the porch to Elizabeth.

"Go," said she, "tell my servants to make ready. I will return home. I will not go indoors again, till the horses are at the door. My father has returned, and Fox is with him. Be that my excuse."

Bessie put up both her hands to the face of Julian, drew down her head to her, and kissed her. Then she disappeared.

Julian remained without, listening to the ballet.

CHAPTER XXX. THE RIDE HOME.

When Julian Crymes had departed, it appeared to Anthony that the dance had lost its principal charm, and he wearied of it.

"Come, Urith," said he; "I think we will go. It is late." This was almost the only time he had spoken to her since the opening dance.

"I am ready," she answered; "have been for two hours."

He went forth to see after the horse, and had it brought round to the door. He took his place in the saddle, and Urith sat behind him. They rode forth from the grounds into the high road, along which their course lay for a mile and a half, after which it diverged over moor. Anthony did not speak, and Urith remained equally silent. She had her hand on his belt, and he felt the pressure. He was vexed with her; she had not done him credit that evening. She was uncouth, and unfit to associate with people accustomed to social intercourse—unable to take a part in the amusements such as is expected of every young person. She was decently dressed, but without richness and refinement of taste, and in an old-fashioned gown that had been her mother's. The blood rushed into his head as he thought of how folks must have laughed at him and her when she failed in the opening dance. She was the bride of the evening; every one was prepared to concede to her the place of pre-eminence, but she had shown herself wholly incapable of occupying the place offered her. Then how uninteresting she had appeared beside the other girls present! Their faces had been radiant with mirth, hers dull with discontent and ill-humour.

What if he had appeared there with Julian as his bride? How different all would have been! She would have been well, handsomely dressed, and in all the inherited jewelry of the Glanvilles. She would not have sat a whole evening mum against the wall. She would have shown herself queen of the revel. A warm breath, sweet as if laden with gorse essence, fanned his face at the thought, and was followed at once by a sharp and icy blast. Julian had been refused by him with all her wealth, her rank, her accomplishments, her beauty, and what had he acquired instead?

How could he have supposed that Urith was devoid of all those feminine delicacies of manner which enable a woman to place herself at ease in all society? She had thrown a cold, wet blanket over his joy on this first coming forth into the world from his seclusion at Willsworthy. Then Anthony went on spinning at the same dark thread of ideas. He asked himself what there was in Urith that had attracted him, why it was that he had been so infatuated as to throw his luck to the winds so as to possess her. When the head begins to reckon, then the heart is on the way to bankruptcy.

He counted over the advantages he had rejected, measured the sacrifices he had made for Urith's love, and he asked what she could throw into the scale to outweigh all this?

His hand twitched the bridle, and made the horse toss his head and plunge.

Urith also was occupied with her own thoughts. It had been a relief to her to get away from the laughter and music and revelry of Wringworthy; she thought that, could she be away from the heated room and swaling candles, in the cool night air, under the stars, her tranquillity of mind would return. But it was not so. Anthony's silence, her sense of having offended him by her clumsiness, her dread lest his love for her should be cooling; above all, the haunting spectre of a fear lest Julian should be fulfilling her threat, and be weaning from her the heart of her husband, followed her, and filled her blood with fever. But she strove against this fear, fought it with all the weapons at her command. It was impossible that his love, so strong, so unselfish, which had cost him so much, should evaporate, and that his heart should sway about like a weathercock. The resolution wherewith he had pursued his end, that proved him to have a strong character, and not one that is turned about in every direction.

He had some excuse for being out of humour. He was proud of her. He had desired to let all see what a woman he had got as his wife. He was disappointed, and the depth of his disappointment was the measure of his pride in her.

But then there rose up before her mind the picture of Julian on Anthony's arm, with burning cheeks and bright eyes, looking up in his face, and his eyes resting upon her with a warmth that should be in them only when fixed on the face of his wife. Did she not know that glow in his countenance? That fire in his eye? Had he not looked at her in the same way before they were married?

"Do you intend to drag me off my horse?" asked Anthony, "that you pull at my belt so roughly?"

"And you, that you draw the rein so short and make the mare rear?"

Urith knew nothing of the world. It had ever seemed to her inconceivable that after the bond and seal of marriage the thought of either should stray; that any one should dare to dream of loving a man who was pledged in heart and mind and soul to another woman. Yet Julian as much as told her she still loved Anthony, would use all her fascinations to draw him to her and away from his wife. Was Anthony so weak that his conscience would suffer him to be thus attracted from the place of duty? No—a thousand times, no. He was not so feeble, so lacking in moral strength as this.

They had turned off the high road upon the moor. Here was no stoned road, no road that lay white in the darkness before them, but turf, by daylight recognisable as a road by hoof marks, and the fret of feet over the turf. By night it could be followed only by observing stones set up at intervals and capped with whitewash. Stones had been picked off the roadway and thrown on one side, so that the turf was smooth almost as a racecourse. The head of the horse was turned now somewhat easterly. The sky above the rugged moor range was silvery, and from behind a rocky crest rose the moon, doubled in size by the haze that hung over the moor, and seemed like a mighty flame of the purest white light.

"There, there!" said Urith. "Do you see, Anthony; the moon is up above that old Lyke Way, along which we made our first journey together."

She disengaged her hand from his belt, and put it round his waist.

He raised his head and looked away to the east, at the ridge of moor and rock, black against the glittering orb. He remembered then how he had mounted her on his horse—how he had stood by her and looked into her eyes! He recalled the strange magic that had then come over him—a longing for her, mingled with a presentiment of evil—a fear lest she were drawing him on to destruction. That fear was verified—she had lured him on to his ruin. He was a ruined man; he had lost all that he valued—the esteem of his fellows, the comforts and luxuries of life. Then began again the odious and monotonous enumeration of the sacrifices he had made.

Why did Urith remind him of that ride? Did she want to find occasion to reproach him? Was it not enough that he was scourging himself with the whips of his own thoughts for his precipitate folly in marrying her?

But Urith was not at that moment thinking of reproach. She breathed moor air, was beyond hedges and enclosures, in the open, vast, uncultivated heather-land, and there her brain had cooled, and her heart had recovered composure. The atmosphere was other than that of a ball-room, which had filled her with intoxication, and had bred phantoms that had affrighted her.

As he rode on, with the light of the rising moon on his face, Anthony felt the pressure of Urith's hand below his heart. The pressure was slight, and yet it weighed heavy on him, and interfered with his breathing; that light hand, as it rose and fell with the motion of the horse, and at each inhalation, seemed to strike reproachfully against his side, to knock, and bid him open to better thoughts.

How was it that he was so changed—that he, who had forced himself on the reluctant Urith, had not let her alone till she had yielded to his persistency to precipitate the marriage—that he should be trying to shift the blame on her? If he had made sacrifices to win her, she had not invited him to do so; he had done it with his eyes open—he had done it moved by no other influence, urged by his own caprice solely.

It had never occurred to him that Urith had made sacrifices on her part; that he had demanded them of her, and given her no rest till they were made. He had made her marry him against her conscience and wishes, too quickly after her mother's death, and against her mother's dying orders. But he considered that what was done could not be undone, that as he had made his bed, so must he lie, as he had laden himself, so he must trudge. What then was the use of repining, and fretting over the past?

"Yet—it was the Lyke Way," he said, in a low tone, "the way of death, on which we set our feet together."

"No," she said, "not altogether." She released her hand from his heart, and placed it on the arm that held the bridle. "Stay the mare a moment, Tonie."

"Why?"

"I have something to tell you."

"Can you not say it as we ride on—it is late?"

"No—stay the mare."

He drew rein.

"Well—what is it?" he asked, a little impatiently.

She looked round.

"We are quite alone?"

"Yes—of course—who else could be here?"

Then she put her hand on his shoulder. "Turn your ear to me, Tonie. I will not say it aloud."

He did as required. But she did not speak for a few moments.

He showed signs of impatience.

Then she gathered resolution, and whispered something into his ear; only a word or two, but he started, and turned in his saddle.

"What! Urith—is it true?"

"I must not ride with you more after to-night," she said, and her eyes fell.

Then he put his arm round her, and drew her to him, and kissed her on one cheek, then on the other, then on her mouth, and laughed aloud.

"Hold tight!" he said. "Put both arms round me, both hands on my heart! O Urith! Urith! What will my father say when he knows this? He will relent. He must."

CHAPTER XXXI. FAMILY JARS.

"What is the meaning of the strange talk that is about concerning thee and Elizabeth Cleverdon?" asked Julian of her brother, at breakfast next morning.

"Nay, that is putting on me more than I can do. I should be sorry to account for all the idle talk that blows and drifts about on the stream of conversation, like leaves of autumn on a trout pool."

"I heard it yesterday, and you certainly showed her great attention so long as you were at the dance."

"Did I show her more attention than you showed to one I do not name? Faith! if I had listened to and picked up the scraps of scandal cast about, I might have filled an apron with what wanton words I heard concerning thee."

He looked hard at Julian, and their eyes met. She coloured, but shook off her embarrassment, and turned to her father and said: "The saying is that my brother is setting his cap to catch Bessie Cleverdon."

Mr. Crymes became grave, and looked at his son. He was a stern and Puritanical man, who had kept himself aloof from his children, never entering into their amusements, and concerning himself with what they did. Julian's fortune was assured to her, and his son would inherit something, the relics of the paternal estate, and what he had saved when managing for Julian.

"Is there anything in this, Anthony?" he asked. "On my honour, I am surprised."

"There is truth and there is falsehood in it," answered Fox, carelessly. "It has come to this, that as Julian cannot be Anthony Cleverdon's wife, it lies open to her to become his mother. Old Master Cleverdon is nothing loth, and, if she will accept him, she will have the opportunity of bringing the father to good terms with the son, for, from what I have seen, the happiness of Tonie lies very near to my sister's heart. If she declines the old man, I shall try my fortune with his daughter."

"This is absurd, Fox," said Julian, highly incensed.

"Absurd it may be—but the old gentleman has his head full of it, and has commissioned me to sound his way with you."

"Be silent," said Julian, very red, very angry, "I do not believe one word of this; but that you are aiming at Bessie, that I do believe, though when I asked her about it, she had no knowledge of anything of the kind."

"Before we proceed to consider my affairs, let us settle yours," said Fox. "Am I to tell Squire Cleverdon of Hall that you will not favour his suit, being already too deep gone in attachment to the son?"

"Silence to that slanderous tongue!" said Mr. Crymes, wrathfully. "Julian at one time was thought of in reference to young Tony Cleverdon, but he did not fancy her, but took Urith Malvine. From that moment the name of Tony Cleverdon, in connection with my daughter and your sister, is not to be employed in jest or earnest, by you or any other. Understand that."

"Then," said Fox, with his eye on his father, out of the corner, "let her keep herself out of folks' mouths, and not be like a rat I saw 'tother day, that ran into the jaws of my terrier, mistaking his open mouth for a run."

"What is he aiming at?" inquired Mr. Crymes, turning to his daughter. "I know he has a wicked tongue, but I cannot think he can speak without some occasion."

"There is nothing—that is to say—" Julian became confused. "Why may I not speak to—why not dance with an old, old friend?"

"I have no command to lay on you not to speak to, not to dance with an old friend," said her father, "but everything in moderation; take notice from your brother that evil eyes look out for occasion, therefore give none. If Ahab had no weak places in his armour, the bow drawn at a venture would not have sent an arrow to him with death at the point. No bluebottles are bred where carrion is not found."

Julian looked down abashed, then, with woman's craft, shifted the subject.

"It is nonsense that Tony speaks. I do not believe for an instant that Master Cleverdon has any suit for me in his head—if he has, no marvel if folk talk, but God be wi' me, it will not be I who occasion it."

"What do you mean by this?" asked the father, now turning to his son. "Has my friend Cleverdon said aught to justify you?"

"My dear father, if you wish it, and Julian does not object, he will step from the position of good friend into son. He has cast an eye on Kilworthy, and as Kilworthy cannot be had without Julian, i' faith, he will take both."

"Let him dare to offer this to me!" exclaimed Julian, "and until he does, pass it over. I refuse to accept any message through such a go-between."

"It is no fault of mine," said Fox, "if the father thinks that some of the overspill of love and languishment for his son may rebound to him. I do not see how Jule, if she desire to chastise her faithless lover for having despised her charms, can do so more effectually and more cuttingly than by taking his father. Then Tony Cleverdon is in her hands absolutely. She can reconcile her father to him or tear them apart for ever. She can bring him, if she will, to bite the dust at her feet, to fawn at her knee, and to a woman such power is precious."

"That suffices," said Mr. Crymes; "you heard what was her answer. She will speak no more on this matter with you. If Cleverdon comes to me with the suit, I will know what reply to make; if he goes to Julian, she can answer him herself. Meanwhile do you keep silence thereon. I but half trust what thou sayst. Such fancies breed in thy perverse mind. Come now to the other matter. Is it true that you see Elizabeth Cleverdon? For her sake I trust not, for I esteem her exceeding well, as much as I reckon thee below the general level of good men. If I thought there was aught mendable in thee that could be shaped by the hands of a good wife, I would say God prosper thee. But I fear me thou art over-rotten at the heart to be ripened to any good, over-hard to be moulded to a vessel of honour."

"I do not see why you should think so ill of me, father," said Fox, sullenly; "unless it be that your ear has drunk in all the complaints Julian has poured out against me. What she says you accept, what I say you cast away. Then, I fancy, the time is come when you will be glad to have me married and got rid of."

"You do seek marriage?"

"I seek to be away from those who flout and despise me, who cross me and mistrust me. At least Squire Cleverdon and I understand each other, and regard each other."

"Yes," broke in Julian; "for in each is the same yeast of sourness."

"Be silent, Julian," commanded her father. "Let me hear the boy out."

"What concern me the quirks and hints I hear concerning Jule?" pursued Fox, unable, in spite of his father, to contain himself from a stroke at his sister; "let them fly about thick as midges, they are naught to me—they do not sting me. Why, father, you should grudge me Bessie Cleverdon, I cannot see. If you respect her so highly—think so excellent well of her—I doubt but no other maid would so content you as a daughter-in-law as she."

"A better girl does not exist," answered Mr. Crymes. "I would desire her a better fate than to be united to thee."

"She is not comely, that is a fact," continued Fox, "but she will be the richest heiress in all the Tavistock district—between here and Plymouth and Exeter. Now that Master Cleverdon has fallen out with his son, and that there is no riddance by Anthony of the wife with whom he has saddled himself, not to please his father, or himself—or Jule yonder——"

Mr. Crymes brought his fist down on the table.

"I will drive thee out of the room at another word against thy sister."

"Do you notice, father," exclaimed Julian, with flaming cheeks, "it is poor Bessie's money and the lands of Hall that he covets, and he seeks this by levering out of his place his best friend and old comrade."

"Did I lever him out of his place?" retorted Fox. "He did it himself, and never a little finger did I put to help in his upsettal."

"No, but you are ready to profit by his loss; ready, if you could, to get me as your confederate in fencing every inlet by which he might return to his father," said Julian, vehemently.

"Because one man is a fool, is that reason why his friend—as you choose to term me—should not be wise? Because one man throws away a diamond, why his comrade should not pick it up and wear it on his finger?"

"The case is not the same. It is taking the jewel, and smiting the rightful owner in the face when he puts forth his hand to reclaim it, and that rightful owner—your friend."

"My friend!" exclaimed Fox, angrily. "Why should you call Anthony Cleverdon 'my friend?' Was it an act of a friend—a dear, considerate friend—to strike me in the eye and half blind me? Look!" Fox turned his left side towards his sister. "Do I not carry about with me a mark of friendship—a pledge to be redeemed? Trust me, I shall return that blow with usury some day, when the occasion comes."

"And you will employ poor Bessie as your lash wherewith you filip him in the face. You are a coward—a mean——"

"Silence!" commanded Mr. Crymes. "There is no grain of brotherly love between you two——"

"Not a grain," threw in Julian, hotly.

Fox bowed sarcastically.

"You observe, father," he said, "that here I am at a disadvantage, between a sister who spars at me and a father who treads me down."

"I do not tread on you save when you grovel in the dirt," answered Mr. Crymes, "in base and dishonest matters, and I do esteem this suit of Elizabeth Cleverdon as one such."

"Opinions vary. You make me willing to leave my home, though it be not mine, nor thine neither, father, but that of sister Julian, who stuffs my pillow with thorns and the seats of her chairs with nettles. I would be away at any price, and if I can go to Hall and live there with Squire Cleverdon, I doubt not I shall be more content than I be here."

"You will live there?" said his father.

"No doubt. Master Cleverdon has ever had his daughter Elizabeth with him. He might have sent her packing, as he sent his own sister packing, when he needed her no more, and that would have been when Anthony brought home a wife to his taste. As he has not—if Julian still persists in declining to be my mother-in-law—why, I reckon that Bess will remain at Hall. A man must leave father and mother and cleave to his wife—so it will be scriptural, and that should content thee, father."

The old man drew forth his 'kerchief and wiped his face.

"I suppose, father," continued Fox, "that you will hardly let me go penniless out of the house? That would be a pretty comment on your professions. You must have saved something, and there is that little scrap of land still ours in Buckland——"

Mr. Crymes again wiped his face. He did not know what answer to make.

"Or, is the fashion set by Squire Cleverdon of cutting his son off without a shilling infectious, that my father has taken it, and will follow suit, and sicken into the same green infirmity?"

"No," said Mr. Crymes, "I will do what is right; but you spring this on me, I am taken aback——"

"I did not spring it on you. That is one of the many kindnesses I have received from Jule."

"I do not know what to say. You must give me time to consider. This journey to London has cost me a considerable sum of money."

"There comes the usual excuse for shirking out of a money obligation which cannot be enforced by law. Say on, father—the times have been bad, the hay was black with rain, the corn did not kern well, the mottled cow dropped her calf, the tenants have not paid, and so my poor boy gets nothing but advice in bushels and exhortations in yards."

"Having insulted your sister, now you throw your jibes at me. That is not encouraging to me to deal handsomely towards you."

"I did not think, father, that you needed to be coaxed and caressed to do an act of justice."

"I do not ask that of thee, but I must consider. It ill pleases me that you should have thought of Bessie Cleverdon."

"If I had chosen some worthless wench without a penny to bless herself withal, you would have shaken the head and broken the staff over me. Now that I have chosen one who is in all ways unexceptional, who is a wealthy heiress of irreproachable manners of life, the favourite of everybody, a dutiful daughter, it is all the same—you disapprove. Is there aught I could do—any change that I could make—that would give thee pleasure?"

"None—till I saw there was an amendment in thyself."

"If I can give satisfaction in no way to thee, father, I may assuredly make choice for myself. Bess may not be beautiful, but she pleases me—she has what is better than beauty, all Hall estate on her back. It will be to your advantage and to that of Jule that I should take her—you will thus be rid of me, who content neither of you, simply because my tongue has a point to it, and I do not suffer it to lie by and be blunted."

Then Julian laughed out.

"What avails all this reckoning and debating over a matter that cannot be settled till the main person concerned has been consulted? Bessie, I am very sure, has not the faintest waft of a notion that such schemes are being spun about her, or had not till I spoke with her yestreen. She will never take thee, Fox. Bessie has a good heart and a shrewd understanding, and neither will suffer her to take thee."

"You think not?" asked Fox, superciliously.

"I am sure she will not," answered Julian.

"We shall see," said Fox. "She is not as was her brother, one to fly in the face of a father. He has set his mind to it, and if Julian will not have him, then he will yet have an Anthony Cleverdon to sit on his seat, and reign in his stead, when he has been gathered to his old yeoman fathers."