In the upper chamber where Will had
left his sister, a great mystery of sorrow was being
endured. Aspatria felt as if all had been.
Life had no more joy to give, and no greater grief
to inflict. She undressed with rapid, trembling
fingers; her wedding finery was hateful in her sight.
On the night before she had folded all her store of
clothing, and laid it ready to put in a trunk.
She had been quite in the dark as to her destiny;
the only thing that appeared certain to her was that
she would have to leave home. Perhaps she would
go with Ulfar from the church door. In that case
Will would have to send her clothing, and she had
laid it in the neatest order for the emergency.
On the top of one pile lay a crimson
Canton crape shawl. Her mother had worn it constantly
during the last year of her life; and Aspatria had
put it away, as something too sacred for ordinary use.
She now folded it around her shoulders, and sat down.
Usually, when things troubled her, she was restless
and kept in motion, but this trouble was too bitter
and too great to resist; she was quiet, she took its
blows passively, and they smote her on every side.
Could she ever forget that cruel ride
home, ever cease to burn and shiver when she remembered
the eyes that had scanned her during its progress?
The air seemed full of them. She covered her face
to avoid the pitying, wondering, scornful glances.
But this ride through the valley of humiliation was
not the bitterest drop in her bitter cup; she could
have smiled as she rode and drank it, if Ulfar had
been at her side. It was his desertion that was
so distracting to her. She had thought of many
sorrows in connection with this forced marriage, but
this sorrow had never suggested itself as possible.
Therefore, when Ulfar bade her farewell
she had felt as if standing on the void of the universe.
It was the superhuman woman within her that had answered
him, and that had held up her head and had strengthened
her for her part all through that merciless ride.
And the sight of her handsome, faithless lover, the
tones of his voice, the touch of his hand, his half-respectful,
half-pitying kindness, had awakened in her heart a
tenfold love for him.
For she understood then, for the first
time, her social and educational inferiority.
She felt even that she had done herself less than
justice in her fine raiment: her country breeding
and simple beauty would have appeared to greater advantage
in the white merino she had desired to wear.
She had been forced into a dress that accentuated
her deficiencies. At that hour she thought she
could never see Mrs. Frostham again.
To these tempestuous, humiliating,
heart-breaking reflections the storm outside made
an angry accompaniment. The wind howled down the
chimney and wailed around the house, and the rain beat
against the window and pattered on the flagged walks.
The darkness came on early, and the cold grew every
hour more searching. She was not insensible to
these physical discomforts, but they seemed so small
a part of her misery that she made no resistance to
their attack. Will and Brune, sitting almost
speechless downstairs, were both thinking of her.
When it was quite dark they grew unhappy. First
one and then the other crept softly to her room door.
All was as still as death. No movement, no sound
of any kind, betrayed in what way the poor soul within
suffered. No thread of light came from beneath
the door: she was in the dark, and she had eaten
nothing all day.
About six o’clock Will could
bear it no longer. He knocked softly at her door,
and said: “My little lass, speak to Will!
Have a cup of tea! Do have a cup of tea, dearie!”
The voice was so unlike Will’s
voice that it startled Aspatria. It told her
of a suffering almost equalling her own. She rose
from the chair in which she had been sitting for hours,
and went to him. The room was dark, the passage
was dark; he saw nothing but the denser dark of her
figure, and her white face above it. She saw nothing
but his great bulk and his shining eyes. But
she felt the love flowing out from his heart to her,
she felt his sorrow and his sympathy, and it comforted
her. She said: “Will, do not fret about
me. I am over-getting the shame and sorrow.
Yes, I will have a cup of tea, and tell Tabitha to
make a fire here. Dear Will, I have been a great
care and shame to you.”
“Ay, you have, Aspatria; but
I would rather die than miss you, my little lass.”
This interview gave a new bent to
Aspatria’s thoughts. As she drank the tea,
and warmed her chilled feet before the blaze, she took
into consideration what misery her love for Ulfar
Fenwick had brought to her brothers’ once happy
home, the anxiety, the annoyance, the shame, the ill-will
and quarrelling, the humiliations that Will and Brune
had been compelled to endure. Then suddenly there
flashed across her mind the card given to Will by
Ulfar’s friend. She was not too simple to
conceive of its meaning. It was a defiance of
some kind, and she knew how Will would answer it.
Her heart stood still with terror.
She had seen Will and Ulfar wrestling;
she had heard Will say to Brune, when Ulfar was absent,
“He knows little about it; when I had that last
grip, I could have flung him into eternity.”
It was common enough for dalesmen quarrelling to have
a “fling” with one another and stand by
its results. If Will and Ulfar met thus, one or
both would be irremediably injured. In their
relation to her, both were equally dear. She
would have given her poor little life cheerfully for
the love of either. Her cup shook in her hand.
She had a sense of hurry in the matter, that drove
her like a leaf before a strong wind. If Will
got to bed before she saw him, he might be away in
the morning ere she was aware. She put down her
cup, and while she stood a moment to collect her strength
and thoughts, the subject on all its sides flashed
clearly before her.
A minute afterward she opened the
parlour door. Brune sat bent forward, with a
poker in his hands. He was tracing a woman’s
name in the ashes, though he was hardly conscious
of the act. Will’s head was thrown back
against his chair; he seemed to be asleep. But
when Aspatria opened the door, he sat upright and
looked at her. A pallor like death spread over
his face; it was the crimson shawl, his mother’s
shawl, which caused it. Wearing it, Aspatria closely
resembled her. Will had idolized his mother in
life, and he worshipped her memory. If Aspatria
had considered every earthly way of touching Will’s
heart, she could have selected none so certain as the
shawl, almost accidentally assumed.
She went direct to Will. He drew
a low stool to his side, and Aspatria sat down upon
it, and then stretched out her left hand to Brune.
The two men looked at their sister, and then they
looked at each other. The look was a vow.
Both so understood it.
“Will and Brune,” the
girl spoke softly, but with a great steadiness,-“Will
and Brune, I am sorry to have given you so much shame
and trouble.”
“It is not your fault, Aspatria,” said
Brune.
“But I will do so no more.
I will never name Ulfar again. I will try to
be cheerful and to make home cheerful, try to carry
on life as it used to be before he came. We will
not let people talk of him, we will not mind it if
they do. Eh, Will?”
“Just now, dear, in a little while.”
“Will, dear Will! what did that
card mean,-the one Ulfar’s friend
gave? You will not go near Ulfar, Will? Please
do not!”
“I have a bit of business to
settle with him, Aspatria, and then I never want to
see his face again.”
“Will, you must not go.”
“Ay, but I must. I have
been thought of with a lot of bad names, but no one
shall think ‘coward’ of me.”
“Will, remember all I have suffered to-day.”
“I am not likely to forget it.”
“That ride home, Will, was as
if I was going up Calvary. My wedding-dress was
heavy as a cross, and that foolish wreath of flowers
was a wreath of cruel thorns. I was pitied and
scorned, till I felt as if my heart-my
real heart-was all bruised and torn.
I have suffered so much, Will, spare me more suffering.
Will! Will! for your little sister’s sake,
put that card in the fire, and stay here, right here
with me.”
“My lass! my dear lass, you cannot tell what
you are asking.”
“I am asking you to give up
your revenge. I know that is a great thing for
a man to do. But, Will, dear, you stand in father’s
place, you are sitting in father’s chair; what
would he say to you?”
“He would say, ’Give the
rascal a good thrashing, Will. When a man wrongs
a woman, there is no other punishment for him.
Thrash him to within an inch of his cruel, selfish,
contemptible life!’ That is what father would
say, Aspatria. I know it, I feel it.”
“If you will not give up your
revenge for me, nor yet for father, then I ask you
for mother’s sake! What would mother say
to-night if she were here?-very like she
is here. Listen to her, Will. She is saying,
’Spare my little girl any more sorrow and shame,
Will, my boy Will!’-that is what
mother would say. And if you hurt Ulfar you hurt
me also, and if Ulfar hurts you my heart will break.
The fell-side is ringing now with my troubles.
If I have any more, I will go away where no one can
find me. For mother’s sake, Will! For
mother’s sake!”
The strong man was sobbing behind
his hands, the struggle was a terrific one. Brune
watched it with tears streaming unconsciously down
his cheeks. Aspatria sunk at Will’s feet,
and buried her face on his knees.
“For mother’s sake, Will! Let Ulfar
go free.”
“My dear little lass, I cannot!”
“For mother’s sake, Will!
I am speaking for mother! For mother’s
sake!”
“I-I-Oh, what shall I
do, Brune?”
“For mother’s sake, Will!”
He trembled until the chair shook.
He dared not look at the weeping girl. She rose
up. She gently moved away his hands. She
kissed his eyelids. She said, with an irresistible
entreaty: “Look at me, Will. I am
speaking for mother. Let Ulfar alone. I do
not say forgive him.”
“Nay, I will never forgive him.”
“But let him alone. Will! Will! let
him alone, for mother’s sake!”
Then he stood up. He looked into
Aspatria’s eyes; he let his gaze wander to the
crimson shawl. He began to sob like a child.
“You may go, Aspatria,”
he said, in broken words. “If you ask me
anything in mother’s name, I have no power to
say no.”
He walked to the window and looked
out into the dark stormy night, and Brune motioned
to Aspatria to go away. He knew Will would regain
himself better in her absence. She was glad to
go. As soon as Will had granted her request,
she fell to the lowest ebb of life. She could
hardly drag herself up the long, dark stairs.
She dropped asleep as soon as she reached her room.
It was a bitter awakening. The
soul feels sorrow keenest at the first moments of
consciousness. It has been away, perhaps, in happy
scenes, or it has been lulling itself in deep repose,
and then suddenly it is called to lift again the heavy
burden of its daily life. Aspatria stood in her
cold, dim room; and even while shivering in her thin
night-dress, with bare feet treading the polished oak
floor, she hastily put out of her sight the miserable
wedding-garments. A large dower-chest stood conveniently
near. She opened it wide, and flung dress and
wreath and slippers and cloak into it. The lid
fell from her hands with a great clang, and she said
to herself, “I will never open it again.”
The storm still continued. She
dressed in simple household fashion, and went downstairs.
Brune sat by the fire. He said: “I
was waiting for you, Aspatria. Will is in the
barn. He had his coffee and bacon long ago.”
“Brune, will you be my friend through all this
trouble?”
“I will stand by you through
thick and thin, Aspatria. There is my hand on
it.”
About great griefs we do not chatter;
and there was no further discussion of those events
which had been barely turned away from tragedy and
death. Murder and despairing love and sorrow might
have a secret dwelling-place in Seat-Ambar, but it
was in the background. The front of life went
on as smoothly as ever; the cows were milked, the
sheep tended, the men and maids had their tasks, the
beds were made, and the tables set, with the usual
order and regularity.
And Aspatria found this “habit
of living” to be a good staff to lean upon.
She assumed certain duties, and performed them; and
the house was pleasanter for her oversight. Will
and Brune came far oftener to sit at the parlour fireside,
when they found Aspatria there to welcome them.
And so the days and weeks followed one another, bringing
with them those commonplace duties and interests which
give to existence a sense of stability and order.
No one spoke of Fenwick; but all the more Aspatria
nursed his image in her heart and her imagination.
He had dressed himself for his marriage with great
care and splendour. Never had he looked so handsome
and so noble in her eyes, and never until that hour
had she realized her social inferiority to him, her
lack of polish and breeding, her ignorance of all things
which a woman of birth and wealth ought to know and
to possess.
This was a humiliating acknowledgment;
but it was Aspatria’s first upward step, for
with it came an invincible determination to make herself
worthy of her husband’s love and companionship.
The hope and the object gave a new colour to her life.
As she went about her simple duties, as she sat alone
in her room, as she listened to her brothers talking,
it occupied, strengthened, and inspired her. Dark
as the present was, it held the hope of a future which
made her blush and tingle to its far-off joy.
To learn everything, to go everywhere, to become a
brilliant woman, a woman of the world, to make her
husband admire and adore her,-these were
the dreams that brightened the long, sombre winter,
and turned the low dim rooms into a palace of enchantment.
She was aware of the difficulties
in her way. She thought first of asking Will
to permit her to go to a school in London. But
she knew he would never consent. She had no friends
to whom she could confide her innocent plans, she
had as yet no money in her own control. But in
less than two years she would be of age. Her fortune
would then be at her disposal, and the law would permit
her to order her own life. In the mean time she
could read and study at home: when the spring
came she would see the vicar, and he would lend her
books from his library. There was an Encyclopædia
in the house; she got together its scattered volumes,
and began to make herself familiar with its melange
of information.
In such efforts her heart was purified
from all bitterness, wounded vanity, and impatience.
Life was neither lonely nor monotonous, she had a
noble object to work for. So the winter passed,
and the spring came again. All over the fells
the ewes and their lambs made constant work for the
shepherds; and Aspatria greatly pleased Will by going
out frequently to pick up the perishing, weakly lambs
and succour them.
One day in April she took a bottle
of warm milk and a bit of sponge and went up Calder
Fell. On the first reach of the fell she found
a dying lamb, and carried it down to the shelter of
some whin-bushes. Then she fed it with the warm
milk, and the little creature went to sleep in her
arms.
The grass was green and fresh, the
sun warm; the whins sheltered her from the wind, and
a little thrush in them, busy building her nest, was
making sweet music out of air as sweet. All was
so glad and quiet: she, too, was happy in her
own thoughts. A wagon passed, and then a tax-cart,
and afterward two old men going ditching. She
hardly lifted her head; every one knew Aspatria Anneys.
When the shadows told her that it was near noon, she
rose to go home, holding the lamb in her arms.
At that moment a carriage came slowly from behind the
hedge. She saw the fine horses with their glittering
harness, and knew it was a strange vehicle in Ambar-Side,
so she sat down again until it should pass. The
lamb was in her left arm. She threw back her head,
and gazed fixedly into the whin-bush where the thrush
had its nest. Whoever it was, she did not wish
to be recognized.
Lady Redware, Sarah Sandys, and Ulfar
Fenwick were in the carriage. At the moment she
stood with the lamb in her arms, Ulfar had known his
wife. Lady Redware saw her almost as quickly,
and in some occult way she transferred, by a glance,
the knowledge to Sarah. The carriage was going
very slowly; the beauty of the thrown-back head, the
simplicity of her dress, the pastoral charm of her
position, all were distinct. Ulfar looked at
her with a fire of passion in his eyes, Lady Redware
with annoyance. Sarah asked, with a mocking laugh,
“Is that really Little Bo Peep?” The joke
fell flat. Ulfar did not immediately answer it;
and Sarah was piqued.
“I shall go to Italy again,”
she said. “Englishmen may be admirable
en masse, but individually they are stupid or
cross.”
“In Italy there are the Capuchins,”
answered Ulfar. He remembered that Sarah had
expressed herself strongly about the order.
“I have just passed a week at
Oxford among the Reverends; all things considered,
I prefer the Capuchins. When you have dined with
a lord bishop, you want to become a socialist.”
“Your Oxford friends are very nice people, Sarah.”
“Excellent people, Elizabeth,
quite superior people, and they are all sure not only
of going to heaven, but also of joining the very best
society the place affords.”
“Best society!” said Ulfar,
pettishly. “I am going to America.
There, I hope, I shall hear nothing about it.”
“America is so truly admirable.
Why was it put in such an out-of-the-way place?
You have to sail three thousand miles to get to it,”
pouted Sarah.
“All things worth having are
put out of the way,” replied Ulfar.
“Yes,” sighed Sarah.
“What an admirable story is that of the serpent
and the apple!”
“Come, Ulfar!” said Lady
Redware, “do try to be agreeable. You used
to be so delightful! Was he not, Sarah?”
“Was he? I have forgotten,
Elizabeth. Since that time a great deal of water
has run into the sea.”
“If you want an ill-natured
opinion about yourself, by all means go to a woman
for it.” And Ulfar enunciated this dictum
with a very scornful shrug of his shoulders.
“Ulfar!”
“It is so, Elizabeth.”
“Never mind him, dear!”
said Sarah. “I do not. And I have noticed
that the men who give bad characters to women have
usually much worse ones themselves. I think Ulfar
is quite ready for American society and its liberal
ideas.” And Sarah drew her shawl into her
throat, and looked defiantly at Ulfar.
“The Americans are all socialists.
I have read that, Ulfar. You know what these
liberal ideas come to,-always socialism.”
“Do not be foolish, Elizabeth.
Socialism never comes from liberality of thought:
it is always a bequest of tyranny.”
“Ulfar, when are you going to
be really nice and good again?”
“I do not know, Elizabeth.”
“Ulfar is a standing exception
to the rule that when things are at their worst they
must mend. Ulfar, lately, is always at his worst,
and he never mends.”
There was really some excuse for Ulfar;
he was suffering keenly, and neither of the two women
cared to recognize the fact. He had just returned
from Italy with his father’s remains, and after
their burial he had permitted Elizabeth to carry him
off with her to Redware. In reality the neighbourhood
of Aspatria drew him like a magnet. He had been
haunted by her last, resentful, amazed, miserable look.
He understood from it that Will had never told her
of his intention to bid her farewell as soon as she
was his wife, and he was not devoid of imagination.
His mind had constantly pictured scenes of humiliation
which he had condemned the woman he had once so tenderly
loved to endure.
And that passing glimpse of her under
the whin-bushes had revived something of his old passion.
He answered his sister’s and Sarah’s remarks
pettishly, because he wanted to be left alone with
the new hope that had come to him. Why not take
Aspatria to America? She was his wife. He
had been compelled, by his sense of justice and honour,
to make her Lady Fenwick; why should he deny himself
her company, merely to keep a passionate, impulsive
threat?
To the heart the past is eternal,
and love survives the pang of separation. He
thought of Aspatria for the next twenty-four hours.
To see her! to speak to her! to hear her voice! to
clasp her to his heart! Why should he deny himself
these delights? What pleasure could pride and
temper give him in exchange? Fenwick had always
loved to overcome an obstacle, and such people cannot
do without obstacles; they are a necessary aliment.
To see and to speak with Aspatria was now the one
thing in life worthy of his attention.
It was not an easy thing to accomplish.
Every day for nearly a week he rode furiously to Calder
Wood, tied his horse there, and then hung about the
brow of Calder Cliff, for it commanded Seat-Ambar,
which lay below it as the street lies below a high
tower. With his glass he could see Will and Brune
passing from the house to the barns or the fields,
and once he saw Aspatria go to meet her brother Will;
he saw her lift her face to Will’s face, he
saw Will put her arm through his arm and so go with
her to the house. How he hated Will Anneys!
What a triumph it would be to carry off his sister
unknown to him and without his say-so!
One morning he determined if he found
no opportunity to see Aspatria that day alone he would
risk all, and go boldly to the house. Why should
he not do so? He had scarcely made the decision
when he saw Will and Brune drive away together.
He remembered it was Dalton market-day; and he knew
that they had gone there. Almost immediately
Aspatria left the house also. Then he was jealous.
Where was she going as soon as her brothers left her?
She was going to the vicar’s to return a book
and carry him a cream cheese of her own making.
He knew then how to meet her.
She would pass through a meadow on her way home, and
this meadow was skirted by a young plantation.
Half-way down there was a broad stile between the
two. He hurried his steps, and arrived there
just as Aspatria entered the meadow. There was
a high frolicking wind blowing right in her face.
It had blown her braids loose, and her tippet and
dress backward; her slim form was sharply defined
by it, and it compelled her to hold up both her hands
in order to keep her hat on her head.
She came on so, treading lightly,
almost dancing with the merry gusts to and fro.
Once Ulfar heard a little cry that was half laughter,
as the wind made her pirouette and then stand still
to catch her breath. Ulfar thought the picture
bewitching. He waited until she was within a
yard or two of the stile, ere he crossed it. She
was holding her hat down: she did not see him
until he could have put his hand upon her. Then
she let her hands fall, and her hat blew backward,
and she stood quite still and quite speechless, her
colour coming and going, all a woman’s softest
witchery beaming in her eyes.
“Aspatria! dear Aspatria!
I am come to take you with me. I am going to
America.” He spoke a little sadly, as if
he had some reason for feeling grieved.
She shook her head positively, but
she did not, or she could not, speak.
“Aspatria, have you no kiss,
no word of welcome, no love to give me?” And
he put out his hand, as if to draw her to his embrace.
She stepped quickly backward:
“No, no, no! Do not touch me, Ulfar.
Go away. Please go away!”
“But you must go with me.
You are my wife, Aspatria.” And he said
the last words very like a command.
“I am not your wife. Oh, no!”
“I say you are. I married you in Aspatria
Church.”
“You also left me there, left
me to such shame and sorrow as no man gives to the
woman he loves.”
“Perhaps I did act cruelly in
two or three ways, Aspatria; but people who love forgive
two or three offences. Let us be lovers as we
used to be.”
“No, I will not be lovers as
we used to be. People who love do not commit
two or three such offences as you committed against
me.”
“I will atone for them.
I will indeed! Aspatria, I miss you very much.
I will not go to America without you. How soon
can you be ready? In a week?”
“You will atone to me?
How? There is but one way. You shall, in
your own name, call every one in Allerdale, gentle
and simple, to Aspatria Church. You shall marry
me again in their presence, and go with me to my own
home. The wedding-feast shall be held there.
You shall count Will and Brune Anneys as your brothers.
You shall take me away, in the sight of all, to your
home. Of all the honour a wife ought to have you
must give me here, among my own people, a double portion.
Will you do this in atonement?”
“You are talking folly, Aspatria.
I have married you once.”
“You have not married me once.
You met me at Aspatria Church to shame me, to break
my heart with love and sorrow, to humble my good brothers.
No, I am not your wife! I will not go with you!”
“I can make you go, Aspatria.
You seem to forget the law-”
“Will says the law will protect
me. But if it did not, if you took me by force
to your house or yacht, you would not have me.
You could not touch me. Aspatria Anneys is beyond
your reach.”
“You are Aspatria Fenwick.”
“I have never taken your name.
Will told me not to do so. Anneys is a good name.
No Anneys ever wronged me.”
“You refused my home, you refused
my money, and now you refuse my name. You are
treating me as badly as possible. The day before
our marriage I sent to your brother a signed settlement
for your support, the use of Fenwick Castle as a residence,
and two thousand pounds a year. Your brother
Will, the day after our marriage, took it to my agent
and tore it to pieces in his presence.”
“Will did right. He knew
his sister would not have your home and money without
your love.”
She spoke calmly, with a dignity that
became well her youth and beauty. Ulfar thought
her exceedingly lovely. He attempted to woo her
again with the tender glances and soft tones and caressing
touch of their early acquaintance. Aspatria sorrowfully
withdrew herself; she held only repelling palms toward
his bending face. She was not coy, he could have
overcome coyness; she was cold, and calm, and watchful
of him and of herself. Her face and throat paled
and blushed, and blushed and paled; her eyes were
dilated with feeling; her pretty bow-shaped mouth
trembled; she radiated a personality sweet, strong,
womanly,-a piquant, woodland, pastoral
delicacy, all her own.
But after many useless efforts to
influence her, he began to despair. He perceived
that she still loved him, perhaps better than she had
ever done, but that her determination to consider their
marriage void had its source in a oneness of mind
having no second thoughts and no doubt behind it.
The only hope she gave him was in another marriage
ceremony which in its splendour and publicity should
atone in some measure for the first. He could
not contemplate such a confession of his own fault.
He could not give Will and Brune Anneys such a triumph.
If Aspatria loved him, how could she ask such a humiliating
atonement? Aspatria saw the shadow of these reflections
on his face. Though he said nothing, she understood
it was this struggle that gave the momentary indecision
to his pleading.
For herself, she did not desire a
present reconciliation. She had nursed too long
the idea of the Aspatria that was to be, the wise,
clever, brilliant woman who was to win over again her
husband. She did not like to relinquish this
hope for a present gratification, a gratification
so much lower in its aim that she now understood that
it never could long satisfy a nature so complex and
so changeable as Ulfar’s. She therefore
refused him his present hope, believing that fate
had a far better meeting in store for them.
While these thoughts flashed through
her mind, she kept her eyes upon the horizon.
In that wide-open fixed gaze her loving, troubled soul
revealed itself. Ulfar was wondering whether it
was worth while to begin his argument all over again,
when she said softly: “We must now say
farewell. I see the vicar’s maid coming.
In a few hours the fell-side will know of our meeting.
I must tell Will, myself. I entreat you to leave
the dales as soon as possible.”
“I will not leave them without you.”
“Go to-night. I shall not
change what I have said. There is nothing to
be done but to part. We are no longer alone.
Good-by, Ulfar!-dear Ulfar!”
“I care not who is present.
You are my wife.” And he clasped her in
his arms and kissed her.
Perhaps she was not sorry. Perhaps
her own glance of love and longing had commanded the
embrace; for when she released herself she was weeping,
and Ulfar’s tears were on her cheeks. But
she called the vicar’s maid imperatively, and
so put an end to the interview.
“That was my husband, Lottie,”
she said. It was the only explanation offered.
Aspatria knew it was useless to expect any reticence
on the subject. In that isolated valley such
a piece of news could not be kept; the very birds
would talk about it in their nests. She must
herself tell Will, and although she had done nothing
wrong, she was afraid to tell him.
When she reached home she was glad
to hear that Will had been sent for to Squire Frostham’s.
“It was something about a fox,” said Brune.
“They wanted me too, but Alice Frostham is a
girl I cannot abide. I would not go near her.”
“Brune, will you take a long ride for my sake?”
“I will do anything for you I can.”
“I met Ulfar Fenwick this morning.”
“Then you did a bad thing.
I would not have believed it of you. Good Lord!
there is as much two-facedness in a woman as there
is meat in an egg.”
“Brune, you are thinking wrong.
I did not know he was in the country till he stood
before me; and he did not move me a hair’s-breadth
any way. But Lottie from the vicarage saw us
together; and she was going to Dalton. You know
what she will say; and by and by the Frosthams will
hear; and then they will feel it to be ‘only
kind’ to talk to Will about me and my affairs;
and the end of it will be some foolish deed or other.
If you love me, Brune, go to Redware to-night, and
see Lady Redware, and tell her there is danger for
her brother if he stays around here.”
“I can say that truly.
There is danger for the scoundrel, a good deal of
it.”
“Brune, it would be such a sorrow
to me if every one were talking of me again.
Do what I ask you, Brune. You promised to stand
by me through thick and thin.”
“I did; and I will go to Redware
as soon as I have eaten my dinner. If Lottie
saw him, it will be known all over. And if no
one came up here on purpose to tell Will, he would
hear it at Dalton next week, when that lot of bothering
old squires sit down to their market dinner. It
would be a grand bit for them to chew with their victuals.”
“I thought they talked about politics.”
“They are like other men.
If you get more than one man in a place, they are
talking bad about some woman. They call it politics,
but it is mostly slander.”
“I am going to tell Will myself.”
“That is a deal the best plan.”
“Be sure to frighten Lady Redware;
make her think Ulfar’s life is in danger,-anything
to get him out of the dales.”
“She will feel as if the heavens
were going to fall, when I get done with her.
My word! who would have thought of him coming back?
Life is full of surprises.”
“But only think, if there was
never anything accidental happened! Surprises
are just what make life worth having,-eh,
Brune?”
“Maybe so, and maybe not.
When Will comes home, tell him everything at once.
I can manage Lady Redware, I’ll be bound.”
With the promise he went away to perform
it, and Aspatria carried her trembling heart into
solitude. But the lonely place was full of Ulfar.
A thousand hopes were budding in her heart, growing
slowly, strongly, sweetly, in that earth which she
had made for them out of her love, her desires, her
hopes, and her faithful aspirations.