"One word more. Hold up your hand to Heaven and swear that he dared—dared to put his arms round and kiss my sister! He—he—Anthony Cleverdon!"
"I will do it! It is true!"
Fox remained in the midst of the road, and his hand convulsively caught and played with his hunting-knife that hung to his belt. His red, thick brows were knitted.
As old Cleverdon looked at his mottled face, he allowed to himself that Bess would have bad taste to choose such an one wittingly; and that, unwilling, it would take some compulsion to drive her to accept him.
"And, if Anthony does not come within three days, all remains as heretofore?" again asked Fox, looking furtively up at the father, and then letting his eyes fall again.
"Yes, all as heretofore. Should he dare to disappoint me in this, not a thread from my coat, nor a grass-blade from my land, shall fall to him."
Fox waved his hand. "That will do," he said, and turned away.
He was at the junction of the road or track that led from Willsworthy with the main highway along which Squire Cleverdon had been riding. He remained at this point, waiting till the old man had remounted, and had trotted away, with Bessie behind him. There he stood, still playing with the handle of his hunting-knife, his red, lowering brows contracted over his small eyes, watching till the riders disappeared over the hill. Then he turned along the track-way that led to Willsworthy, with his head down against the drizzling rain, which had come on again, after having ceased for an hour; which came on again thick, blotting out the scenery—all prospect within a hundred feet—as effectually as though veils of white gauze had been let down out of the heavens, one behind another.