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."