Squire Cleverdon gave no token of relenting towards his son. Bessie had her brother's interests so at heart that she ventured, without sufficient tact, to approach him on the subject, but was roughly repelled. The old man was irritated when she spoke, and irritated when she was silent; for then her eyes appealed to him in behalf of Anthony. The father held out, believing that by so doing he would break down Anthony's resolution. He did not believe in the power of love, for he had never experienced love. His son had taken a fancy, a perverse fancy for this Urith, as a child might take a fancy for a new toy. When the lad had had time to feel how ill it was to be an exile from his father's house, without money, without authority over serving-men, hampered and clipped in every direction and all sides, he would come to a better sense, laugh at his folly, and return to obedience to his father and to the suit for Julian Crymes and Kilworthy.

His heart overflowed with gall against Urith. The thought of having a poor daughter-in-law could never have been other than distasteful to him, when he had set his mind on the wealthy Julian; but there were special reasons which made the acceptance of Urith impossible to him. She was the daughter of the man over whom he had gained a triumph in the eyes of the world, but it was a triumph full of shame and vexation inwardly. It was due to that man that his married life had been one of almost intolerable wretchedness. Not for a moment did he consider himself to blame in the matter; he cast all the responsibility for his unhappiness on Richard Malvine; on him he heaped all the hate that flamed out of envy at the personal superiority of the latter, jealousy because he had won the heart of his wife, and held it so firm that he—Anthony Cleverdon—had never been able to disengage it and attach it to himself; revenge for all the slights and insults he had received from her unsparing, barbed tongue, slights and insults she had known well how to administer, so as to leave rankling wounds which no time would heal. Even now, as he brooded over his quarrel with Anthony, the sneers, the mockery she had launched at him for his meanness, his pride, his ambition, rose up fresh in his memory, charged with new poison, and rankled in him again. But he did not feel anger against his dead wife for that, but against him who had used her as his instrument for torturing him; and as Richard Malvine was dead, he could but retaliate on his daughter.

Old Cleverdon attributed the worst motives to Urith. Margaret Penrose had married him for his money, and, naturally, Urith Malvine compassed the capture of Anthony, his son, for the same reason; he did not see how he involved himself in contradiction, in that he charged Urith with her attempt to become the wife of his son for the sake of his wealth, as if it were a deadly crime, whilst he himself acted on no other motive than ambition and money-greed. She had entangled the young fellow in her net, and he would tear this net to pieces and release him. He would break down his son's opposition. He was not one to be defeated in what he took in hand, and no better means could be chosen by him for his purpose than making Anthony feel what poverty and banishment signified. Anthony had hitherto had at command what money he needed, and now to be with empty pockets would speedily bring him to reason. To attempt gentle means with his son never occurred to him; he had been accustomed to command, not to persuade. He became harder, more reserved, and colder than before; and Bessie in vain looked for a gentle light to come into his steely eyes, a quiver to come on his firm-set lips, and a token of yielding to flicker over his inflexible features.

And yet the old man felt the absence of his son, and had little sleep at night thinking of him; but never for one moment did he suppose that he would not in the end triumph over his son's whim, and bring the young man back in submission to his usual place.

Luke had been to Hall to see his uncle, in behalf of, but without the knowledge of, young Anthony.

"Oh! tired of keeping him, are you?" asked the old Squire. "Then turn him out of the parsonage. I shall be the better pleased; so will he be the sooner brought to a right mind."

Nothing was effected by this visit. After it, with bent head, full of thought, Luke took his way to Willsworthy. On entering the house, he found Anthony there, in the hall, with Urith and Uncle Solomon, the latter on the settle smoking, with a table before him on which stood cider. The light from the window was full and strong on the toper's face, showing its blotched complexion. Mr. Gibbs appeared to his best when partially shaded, just as a lady nowadays assumes a gauze veil to soften certain harshnesses in her features.

Uncle Sol sang in subdued tones till he came to the tol-de-rol! when he drew the pipe from the corner of his mouth and sang aloud, rattling his glass on the table. He was not intoxicated, but in that happy, hilarious mood which was his wont, even out of his cups.

"Oh, uncle! do be silent," pleaded Urith. "Here comes Mr. Luke, and we want to talk of serious matters, and not of——"

"I in my pocket had one penny!" shouted Uncle Sol, diving into the depths of his pouch and producing the coin in question, which he held out in his open palm; "never got more—never from this confounded place. Squeeze, squeeze, and out comes one penny. Never more. If Anthony can do better with it, let him try. I have done my utmost, toiled and moiled, and at the end of all these years I in my pocket have one penny:—

but you won't send me off with in my pocket but one penny?"

"We will not send you off at all, uncle," said Urith. "But here is Master Luke. Let us talk the matter over with seriousness, and without snatches of song."

"I can't help myself, I must sing," said Mr. Gibbs. "You say on, and I will warble to myself. It is your affair rather than mine."

Luke looked at Anthony and Urith, who stood near each other. He folded his hands behind his back, that he might conceal the nervous twitching of his fingers.

"What is it, Anthony?" he asked.

"Luke, we want your help. I know very well that this is early times since the death of Urith's mother; but that cannot be helped. I cannot live on upon you longer. You are poor, and——"

"I grudge you nothing that I have."

"I have a vast appetite. Besides, I like to have money of my own to spend; and I am not like Mr. Solomon Gibbs, who has in his pocket one penny, for I have none."

"I will give you what I can."

"I will not take it, Luke; what I have and spend shall be mine own. So Urith and I will ask you to make us one, and give me a right to a penny or two."

Luke was confounded; this was acting with precipitation, indeed. He quite understood that Squire Cleverdon would not receive Urith as a daughter-in-law with open arms, and that he would oppose such an alliance by all means in his power. Like Anthony, he supposed that the old man's violence of language and threats of disinheritance meant nothing. He would cut off his right hand rather than give up his ambitions set upon his son. But in the end he would yield to the inevitable, if inevitable this were. But this haste of Anthony in precipitating the marriage, in disregard to all decency, must incense the old father, and, if anything could do so, drive him to act upon his word.

Luke became, if possible, graver; the lines in his face deepened. He withdrew his hands from behind his back.

"Anthony," said he, "this will not do. You are acting with your usual hot-headedness. You have angered your father, and must seek reconciliation and the abatement of his wrath, before you take such a step as this."

"I said so," threw in Urith.

"My father never will yield so long as he thinks that I may be brought to change my mind. When he finds that I have taken the irrevocable step, then he will buckle under."

"And is it for the son to bid the father do this?" asked Luke, with some warmth. "No, I will be no party to this," he added, firmly, and set his thin lips together.

"I love her, and she loves me; we cannot live apart. God has made us for each other," said Anthony; "my father can't alter that; it is God's will."

Luke did not meet Anthony's glowing eyes, his were resting on the ground. He thought of his own love, and his own desolate heart. For a moment the bitterness therein overflowed; he looked up sharply, to speak sharply, and then his eyes fell on the two young things—Anthony big, sturdy, wondrously handsome, and full of joyous life, and at his side Urith, in her almost masculine and sullen beauty. Yes, they were as though made for each other—the bright, light temper to be conjoined to the dark and sombre one, each qualifying, correcting the exuberance in the other, each in some sort supplementing the deficiencies in the other. The harsh words that were on his lips remained unspoken. On the settle Uncle Sol was murmuring his tune to himself, every now and then breaking forth into a louder gush of song, and then at once suppressing it again.

Perhaps it was God's will that these two should belong to each other; perhaps the old hostility, and wrath, and envy that had embittered the lives of their several parents were to be atoned for by the mutual love of the children. Luke was too true a Christian to believe that the words of hate that had shot like fire-coals from a volcano out of the mouth of Madam Malvine, when dying, could avail aught now. In the better light into which she had passed, as he trusted, in the world of clearer vision and extinguished animosity, of all-enwrapping charity, she must, with inner anguish, repent, and desire to have unsaid those terrible words. The dying utterances of the woman did not weigh with Luke, or, if they had any weight, it was to turn the scale against them. No better comfort to the soul of the dead could be given than the certainty that those words had been reversed and cast aside. Luke passed his hands over his brow, and then said, "I will see your father again, Anthony."

"That will avail nothing; you have spoken with him already. I tell you he will not alter till he sees that his present conduct does not affect me. What can he say or do after I am married? He may, indeed, cut me off with a shilling; but he will not do that. He loves me too well. He is too proud of having founded a family to slay his firstborn. Whom could he make his heir but me? You do not suppose he would leave all to you?"

"No," answered Luke. "If he did—as an extreme measure—it would all come to you. I would not keep one penny of it."

"And I in my pocket——"

"Do be quiet, uncle!" pleaded Urith.

"Then what can he do? He must come round. He is as certain to come round as is the sun that sets every evening in the west."

"I hope so."

"I am sure of it. I know my father better than do you, Luke. See here. Urith has Mr. Solomon Gibbs as her guardian, and he is quite willing."

"Oh, heartily!—heartily!" shouted Mr. Gibbs. "I'm quite incompetent to guardian any one, especially such a defiant little devil as my niece. She snaps her fingers in my face."

Luke stood biting his thumb.

He was as fully confident as was Anthony that the old man would not leave Hall away from his son. He might be angry, and incensed against Anthony; but his pride in the family position which he had won would never suffer him to disinherit his son, and leave the estate away from him—away from the name.

"I cannot—I cannot!" exclaimed Luke, with pain in his tone, for he felt that it was too great a sacrifice to be required of him that he should pronounce the nuptial blessing over Anthony and Urith. He laboured for breath. His brow was beaded with sweat. His pale face flushed.

"Anthony! this is unconsidered. You must postpone all thought of marriage to a later season. Consider that Urith's mother is but recently dead."

"I know it; but whether now or in three months, or three years, it makes no matter—I shall love her all the same, and we belong to each other. But, see you, Luke, I cannot go on three years—nay, nor three months, and hardly three weeks—without an occupation, and without money, and without a position. I am as impatient as you are for my reconciliation with my father. But we can be reconciled in one way only—through Urith's wedding-ring. Through that we will clasp hands. The longer the delay, the longer the estrangement, and the longer does my father harbour his delusion. If you will not marry me at once to Urith——"

"That I will not."

"Then I shall remain here, and work for her as her steward, look after the farm and the estate, and put it straight for her. Why, this is the time of all the year of the greatest importance to a farmer—the time that my direction is most necessary. I tell you, Luke, I stay here, either as her husband or as her steward."

"That cannot be, that must not be," said Luke, with heat, "and that Urith herself must feel."

Urith did feel it. But Urith's mind was disturbed by what had taken place. She had no knowledge of the world, and Anthony's arguments had seemed to her conclusive, so conclusive as to override her own repugnance to an immediate marriage. She had resolved to give him up altogether, and yet she had yielded; that resolve had gone to pieces. She had resolved that if she did take him it should be at some time in the future, but when he pointed out to her that his only chance of reconciliation with his father was through marriage, as to abandon her was an impossible alternative, and that he was absolutely without work, without a position, without means—sponging on his cousin, a poor curate, then she saw that this, her second resolve, must go to pieces, like the first.

"Anthony," said Luke; "you will have to go away for a year—for some months at the least."

"Whither?—To whom?"

"Surely Justice Crymes knows of——"

"How can I accept any help from him when I refuse his daughter, and when I have blinded his son?"

"That is true—and your mother had no relatives?"

"None that I know of but my grandmother, who is with you."

"Then go to sea."

"I have no taste to be a sailor."

"Be a soldier?"

"No, Luke, here I can serve Urith—save Willsworthy from going to destruction. It is not a bad estate, but has been mismanaged. Here I can be of utility, and here I can be a help to Urith, and find work that suits me, and which I understand. It seems plain to me that Willsworthy is crying out for me to come and take it in hand; and, unless it be taken in hand at once, a whole year is lost."

"That is true," threw in Solomon Gibbs, whose great eagerness now was to be disembarrassed of a task that was irksome to him, and obligations that were a burden. "You see, I was never reared to the farm, but to the office. I can draw you a lease, but not a furrow; make a settlement, but not a turf-tye. I wash my hands of it all."

"Then, in God's name," said Luke, in grey pallor, and with quivering features, "if it must be, then so be it. May be His finger points the way. As you will. I am at your service—but not for one month. Concede me that."

"From to-day," said Anthony. "So be it. That is fixed."