What was to become of Urith if she lived? Best of all that Anthony should fall on the battle-field fighting for liberty and his religion. That would ennoble a life that lacked dignity, that had been involved in one disaster after another, that had alienated the hearts most attached—his father's, his own, Luke's, and, lastly, his wife's. But what if it were so? What if Urith were left a widow?
Luke's heart gave a leap, and then stood still and grew faint. She would then be free. Dare he—he, Luke—think of her, love her, once more? He had the strength of moral power to think out the situation, and he saw now that it must ever remain impossible that they should unite. He had his sacred calling, that brought on him obligations he dare not cast aside; and Urith's husband must be one to live at Willsworthy, and recover her property from the ruin into which it had fallen by devoting thereto all the energies of his mind and body. Moreover, the radical difference in their characters, in the entire direction of their minds, must separate them, and make them strangers in all that is best and stoutest in the inner nature. No, not even were she left a widow, could Luke draw nearer to her.
With his delicate conscientiousness, he took himself to task for having for a moment anticipated such a contingency springing out of the possible death of Anthony. Then Luke turned his thoughts to Bessie, and saw almost as dark a cloud over Hall as that which hung upon Willsworthy. If Anthony and Urith were unsuited for each other, far greater was the difference which existed between Fox and Bessie. Luke knew Fox—knew his unscrupulousness, his greed, his meanness, his moral worthlessness; and he valued no woman he knew higher than he did Bessie, for her integrity, her guilelessness, and self-devotion. By no right could Fox claim the hand of Bessie, for by no possibility could he make her happy. To unite her to him was to ensure the desolation of her whole life, the blighting of all that was beautiful in her. It was to consign her to inevitable heartbreak. She would take an oath to do what was impracticable; she could neither honour nor love such a man as Fox; she would strive to do both, but must fail. Luke vowed that nothing would induce him to pronounce the marriage benediction over their heads.
Luke was still up and awake, but kneeling at his table, and with his head in his hands, when a rattle of gravel at his window-panes brought him to his feet with a start, and he went to see who was in want of him. He opened the casement and looked out, to see Mr. Solomon Gibbs below. Luke descended and unfastened the door.
"Is Urith worse?" was his breathless question.
"Whew! I can say nothing," answered Mr. Gibbs. "I am cold. Always dullest before dawn, it is said, and daybreak cannot be a bowshot off. What dost think? High-way robbery on Black Down—this night Justice Crymes plundered whilst on his way to Exeter in his glass coach. The rascals prised open the boot behind, and though there were six men with the carriage, no one either saw the robber or heard him at work. It must have been done whilst they were urging the horses up the ascent; but it is passing strange. The highwayman must have been mounted, for he could not have escaped with the plundered goods had he not bestrid a horse. How it was done, when it was done, by whom, no one can tell anything, and by cock they're all talking, and every one has an opinion."
"Where is Mr. Crymes now?"
"Gone on. He was as one distraught—what with losing his money, and the call of the business he was on."
"His money taken!"