Urith: A Tale of Dartmoor

by S. Baring-Gould

Timid and humble-minded as Luke was, he had never considered that he could win the affections of any girl, leastways of one such as Urith. But it was a delight to him to see her, to watch the unfolding of her mind, and character, and beauty, to know that she was a wild moor-flower, regarded by no one else but himself, sought by none, or, if sought, rejecting such seekers with disdain. He was so simple and single in his aims, that it would have well contented him to merely admire and humbly love Urith, never revealing the state of his heart, asking of her nothing but friendship and regard. But—when, all at once, he saw another stand beside her, take her hand, and seize on her heart with bold temerity, and by his boldness win it—that was too much for Luke to endure without infinite pain, and a battle with himself. If he had formed any ideal picture of the future, it was the harmless one of himself as the friend, the gentle, unassuming, unasserting friend of Urith, suffered by her, after some little resistance, to divert her headlong character, brighten the gloomy depths of her strange mind. He knew how greatly she needed an adviser and guide, and his highest ambition was so to help her that she might become a noble and generous woman. That he had not formed this hope out of pure pastoral zeal he knew, for he who taught others to search their own consciences, not lightly, and after the manner of dissemblers with God, had explored his own heart, and measured all its forces; but till this moment he had never realized that there was a selfishness and jealousy in his love, a selfishness which would have kept back Urith from knowing and loving anyone, and a jealousy intense and bitter against the man who obtained that place in Urith's heart to which he himself laid no claim, but which he hoped would be forever empty.

He tried to pray, but was unable to do more than move his lips and form words. Prayers did not appease the ardor, lessen the anguish within. As he looked up at the moor he saw now that it was still smoking. The storm of rain in the night had not quenched the fires, nor could the dews of Divine consolation put out that which blazed within his breast.

He had never envied Anthony till now. When he had been at school, he had been but scantily furnished with pocket-money. There had been many little things he would have liked to buy, but could not, having so small a sum at his disposal; on the other hand, Anthony could at all times command his father's purse, had spent money as he liked, had wasted it wantonly, but Luke had accepted the difference with which they had been treated without resentment; yet, now that Anthony had stepped in between him and Urith, something very much like hatred formed like gall in his heart.

He tried to think that he was angry with his cousin for having given Mistress Malvine pain, with having been guilty of sacrilege, but he was too truthful in his dealings with himself to admit that these were the springs of the bitterness within.

Suddenly he looked up with a start, and saw Bessie before him, observing him with sympathetic distress. His pale forehead was covered with sweat-drops, and his long, thin hands were trembling. They had been clasped, the one on the other, on the altar-stone, and Luke's brow had rested on them, his face downward; thus he had not seen Bessie when she approached.

"What is it, Luke?" she said, in kindly tones, full of commiseration. "Are you ill, dear cousin?"

He looked at her somewhat vacantly for a moment, gathering his senses together. As in bodily pain, after a paroxysm, the mind remains distraught for a moment, and is unable to throw itself outward, so it is with mental pain to an even greater degree. As Bessie spoke, Luke seemed to be brought, or to bring himself, by an effort, out of a far-off world into that in which Bessie stood surrounded by the old chapel walls, hung with hartstongue leaves, still green, untouched by winter frost.

"What are you suffering from?" she asked, and seated herself at his side.

"It is nothing, cousin," he answered, and shook his head to shake away the thoughts that had held him.

"It is indeed something," she said, gently; "I know it is; I see it in your white and streaming face." She took his hand in hers. "I know it from your cold hand. Luke, you have had no one but me to talk to of your troubles in boyhood, and I had none but you to tell of my little girlish vexations. Shall we be the same now, and confide in each other?"