CHAPTER LVIII. 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."