Urith: A Tale of Dartmoor

by S. Baring-Gould

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."