Some days passed. Mistress Malvine had been buried. No direct communication had taken place between Anthony and his father. The gentle Bessie, full of distress at the breach, had done what she could to heal it; but ineffectually. Each was too proud and obstinate to make the first advance. Bessie's influence with her father was of the slightest—he had never showed love towards his plain daughter; and Anthony was too much of a man, in his own idea, to allow himself to be guided by a woman. Luke was perplexed more than ever. Urith was now left wholly without proper protection. Her uncle was worse than useless—an element of disorder in the household, and of disintegration in the pecuniary affairs of the family. The estate of Willsworthy did not come to him. It had belonged to his mother, and from his mother had gone to his sister, and now passed to his niece. It was a manor that seemed doomed to follow the spindle. But, though it had not become his property, he was trustee and guardian for his niece till she married; and a more unsatisfactory trustee or improper guardian could hardly have been chosen. He was, indeed, an amiable, well-intentioned man; but was weak, and over-fond of conviviality and the society of his social inferiors, from whom alone he met with deference. He had been brought up to the profession of the law; but, on his father's death, had thrown up what little work had come to him that he might be with his mother and sister, as manager of the estate. When his sister married Richard Malvine he was again thrown on his own resources, and lived mainly on subventions from his sister and friends, and a little law business that he picked up and mismanaged, till his brother-in-law died, when he returned to Willsworthy, to the mismanagement of that property which Richard Malvine had barely recovered from the disorder and deterioration into which it had been brought by Solomon Gibbs's previous rule. The old fellow was unable to stick to any sort of work, to concentrate his thoughts for ten minutes on any object, was irresolute, and swayed by those with whom he associated. His sister lectured and scolded him, and he bore her rebuke with placid amiability, and promises of amendment; promises that were never fulfilled. One great source of annoyance to his sister was his readiness to talk over all family matters at the tavern with his drinking comrades, to explain his views as to what was to be done in every contingency, and dilate on the pecuniary difficulties of his sister, and his schemes for the remedy of the daily deepening impecuniosity. This public discussion of the affairs of the family had done much to bring it into disrepute. Those who heard Mr. Gibbs over his cups retailed what they heard to their friends and wives with developments of their own, and the whole neighbourhood had come to believe that the Malvines were a family irretrievably lost, and that Willsworthy was a poor and intractable estate. Those who used their eyes—as Crymes—did not share in this latter opinion, they saw that the property was deteriorated by mismanagement, but they all readily accepted the opinion that bankruptcy was inevitable to the possessors at that time of Willsworthy.

Luke Cleverdon, knowing all the circumstances, and having gauged the character and abilities of Solomon Gibbs, was anxious concerning the future of Urith. She had tendered a dubious, sullen, and irregular submission to her mother, but was not likely to endure the capricious, unintelligent domination of her uncle. His sister had, moreover, exercised a very considerable restraint on Solomon. He always lived in wholesome dread of her tongue; when relieved of every restraint, there was no reckoning on what he might do with the money scraped together. Urith herself was unaccustomed to managing a house. Her mother had been an admirable disciplinarian in the house, and kept everything there in order, and Urith had run wild. Her mother had not attempted to join her with herself in domestic management, and had driven the girl into a chronic condition of repressed revolt by her unceasing fault-finding. The girl had kept herself outside the house, had spent her time on the moors to escape the irritation and rebellion provoked by her mother's tongue.

The only tolerable solution would have been for Luke to have made Urith his wife, and taken on himself the management of the property, but such a solution was now impossible, for Urith's heart was engaged. It had never been a possibility to Luke's imagination, for he had sufficient cool judgment to be quite sure that he and Urith would never agree. He was quiet, reserved, devoted to his books or to antiquarian researches on the moor, and she had an intractable spirit—at one time sullen, at another frantic—with which he could not cope.

Besides this uncongeniality of temperament, he had no knowledge of or taste for agricultural pursuits, and to recover Willsworthy a man was needed who was a practical farmer and acquainted with business. If he were, moreover, to live at Willsworthy and devote himself to the estate, he must abandon his sacred calling, and this Luke could not justify to his conscience. The choice of Urith, fallen on Anthony, was unobjectionable as far as suitability for the place went. Anthony had been reared on a farm, and was familiar with all that pertained to agriculture. He had energy, spirit, and judgment. But the strong unreasoning opposition of old Squire Cleverdon, and the refusal of Urith's mother to consent to it, made Luke resolve to do nothing to further the union.

Luke spoke to Anthony on the matter, but was met with airy assurance. The old man must come round, it was but a matter of time, and as Mistress Malvine was but recently dead, it could not be that the daughter should marry at once. There must ensue delay, and during this delay old Cleverdon would gradually accustom himself to the prospect, and his anger cool.

Time passed, and no tokens of yielding on the part of the father appeared. Luke spoke again to his cousin. Now Anthony's tone was somewhat altered. His father was holding out because he believed that by so doing he would prevent the marriage, but he was certain to relent as soon as the irrevocable step had been taken. Just as David mourned and wept as long as the child was sick, but washed his face, and ate and accommodated himself to the situation when the child was dead, so would it be with the Squire. He would sulk and threaten so long as Anthony was meditating matrimony, but no sooner was he married than the old man would ask them all to dinner, kiss, and be jolly.

Luke by no means shared his cousin's sanguine views. Mistress Penwarne was in the house, and from her he learnt the circumstances of the marriage and subsequent disagreement of old Anthony and Margaret; and he could to some extent understand the dislike the old Squire had to his son's marrying the daughter of his rival. He knew the hard, relentless, envious nature of the man, he had suffered from it himself, and he doubted whether it would yield as young Anthony anticipated. It was true that Anthony was the Squire's son and heir, that he was the keystone to the great triumphal Cleverdon arch the old man had been rearing in imagination; it was certain that there would be a struggle in his heart between his pride and his love. Luke was by no means confident that old Cleverdon's affection for his son would prove so mastering a passion as to overcome the many combined emotions which were in insurrection within him against this union, and impelling him to maintain his attitude towards his son of alienation and hostility.

When Luke spoke to Anthony of the difficulties that stood in his way, Anthony burst forth impatiently with the words, "It is of no use you talking to me like this, cousin. I have made up my mind, I will have Urith as my wife. I love her, and she loves me. What does it matter that there are obstacles? Obstacles have to be surmounted. My father will come round. As to Urith's mother, the old woman was prejudiced, she was angry. She knows better now, and is sorry for what she said."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh! of course it is so."

"But do you suppose that Urith will go in opposition to her mother's dying wish?"

"She will make no trouble over that, I reckon. Words are wind—they break no bones. I appeal from Alexander drunk to Alexander sober, from the ill-informed and peppery old woman, half-crazed on her death-bed, to the same in her present condition. Will that content you?"

"You have not spoken to Urith on this matter?"

"No—I have not seen her since the funeral. I have had that much grace in me. But I will see her to-day, I swear to you. I will tell you what I think," said Anthony, with vehemence. "You are as cold-blooded as an eel. You have never loved—all your interest is in old stones, and pots and pans dug up out of cairns. You love them in a frozen fashion, and have no notion what is the ardour of human hearts loving each other. So you make one difficulty on another. Why, Cousin Luke, if there were mountains of ice I would climb over them, seas of fire, I would wade through them, to Urith. Neither heaven nor hell shall separate us."

"Do not speak like this," said the curate, sternly. "It is a tempting of Providence."

"Providence brought us together and set us ablaze. Providence is bound to finish the good work and unite us."

"There has been neither consideration nor delay in this matter, and Providence, maybe, raises these barriers against which you kick."

"I will kick them over," said Anthony.

"Yes," said Luke, with a touch of bitterness; "always acting with passion and inconsideration. Nothing but headlong folly would have led you to do violence to Master Malvine's grave. The same rash impetuosity made you injure Fox Crymes' eye; and now you will throw yourself headlong into a state of life which involves the welfare of another, just because you have a fancy in your head that may pass as quickly as it has arisen."

"I am not going to listen to a sermon. This is not Sunday."

"I do not believe you will make Urith happy."

"No, not in the fashion you esteem happiness. Certainly not in that. In grubbing into barrows after old pots and counting grey stones on the moor. No. Urith would gape and go to sleep over such dull happiness as this. But I and she understand happiness in other sort from you. We shall manage somehow to make each other happy, and I defy my father and the ghost of old Madam Malvine to stand between us and spoil our bliss."

Luke bowed his head over the table, and put his hand before his eyes, that his cousin might not observe the emotion that stirred him at these cutting but thoughtlessly uttered words of his cousin. He did not answer at once. After some pause he said, without looking up, "Yes, you may be happy together after your fashion, but something more than passion is wanted to found a household, and that is, as Scripture tells us, the blessing of the parents."

"My father is all right," said Anthony. "He has set his head on my uniting Kilworthy to Hall, and trebling the family estate. He can't have that, so he is growling. But Urith does not come empty; she has Willsworthy. If we do not extend the kingdom of Cleverdon in one direction, we shall in another. My father will see that in time, and come round. The weathercock does not always point to the east; we shall have a twist about, a few rains, and a soft west, warm breeze of reconciliation. I will make you a bet—what will you take?"

"I take no bets; I ask you to consider. In marriage each side brings something to the common fund. What do you bring? Urith has Willsworthy."

"And I Hall."

"No; recollect your father's threat."

"It was but a threat—he never meant it."

"Suppose he did mean it, and perseveres; you will then have to be the receiver, not the giver."

"The place is gone to the dogs. I can give my arms and head to it, and bring it round from the kennel."

"That is something, certainly. Then, again, you are wilful, and have had your way in all things. How will you agree with a girl equally wilful and unbending?"

"In the best way; we shall both will the same things. You don't understand what love is. Where two young creatures love, they do not strive, they pull together. It is of no profit talking to you, Luke, about love; it is to you what Hebrew or Greek would be to me—an unintelligible language in unreadable characters. I will be off to see Urith at once."

"No," said Luke, "you must not go to Willsworthy; you will cause folks to talk."

"I care nothing for their talk."

"If you care nothing for what people say, how is it you fell out with and struck Fox? You must consider others besides yourself. You have no right to bring the name of Urith into discredit. Do you not suppose that already tongues are busy concerning the cause of your quarrel with your father?"

"But I must see her, and come to some understanding."

"I will go to Willsworthy at once, and speak to her of your matter. I have not done so hitherto—I have only sought to comfort her on the death of her mother."

"I do not desire a go-between," said Anthony, peevishly. "In these concerns none can act like the principals."

"But I cannot suffer you to go. You must think of Urith's good name, and not have that any more put into the mouths of those who go to the pot-house. It has been done more than enough already. Stay here till I return."

Luke took up his three-corner hat and his stick and went forth. On reaching Willsworthy he did not find Urith in the house, but ascertained from a maid-servant that she was in the walled garden. Thither he betook himself across the back courtyard. The rooks were making a great noise in the sycamores outside.

He found the girl seated on the herb-bank in the neglected garden, with her head on her hand, deep in thought. She was pale, and her face drawn; but the moment she saw Luke she started up and flushed.

"I am so glad you are come. You will tell me something about Anthony?"

She was only glad to see him because he would speak of Anthony, thought Luke; and it gave a pang to his heart.

"Yes," said he, taking a seat beside her, "I will speak to you about Anthony."

She looked him full in the face out of her large, earnest, dark eyes. "Is it true," she asked, "what I have been told, that he has fallen out with his father, and is driven from Hall?"

"He has taken himself off from Hall," answered Luke, "on your account. His father refuses to countenance his attachment to you."

"Then where is he? With you?"

"Yes, with me. I have come to know your mind. He cannot always remain with me and at variance with his father."

"On my account this has happened?" she said.

"Yes, on your account. How is this to end?"

She put her hands to her brow, and pressed her temples. "I am pulled this way and that," she answered, "and I feel as if I should go mad. But I have made my resolve, I will give him up. I have been an undutiful daughter always, and now I will obey my mother's last wishes. In that one thing that will cost me most, I will submit, and so atone for the wrong I did all the years before."

"Then you determine to give up Anthony, wholly?"

The colour came and went in her cheek, then deserted it entirely. She clasped her hands over her knee—she had reseated herself—and she said in a low voice, "Wholly."

"You give me authority to tell him this?"

"Yes. It can never be that we can belong to each other after what my mother said. You heard. She hoped if he ever passed through this door, that he might be struck dead on the hearth."

"They were awful words," said Luke, "but——"

"They were her last words."

Luke returned to his home and found Anthony there, pacing his little parlour, to work off his impatience. When he heard what Luke had to say, he burst into angry reproach. "You have spoken like a parson! It was wrong for you to meddle, I knew no good would come of it! I will not hear of this! I will go to Urith myself!"

"You must not."

"I will! Nothing shall stay me." He caught up his hat and swung out of the room.