A Rose of a Hundred Leaves: A Love Story Read online

  CHAPTER II.

  FORGIVE ME, CHRIST!

  The ultimatum reached by Fenwick in the consideration of any subjectwas, to please himself. In the case of Aspatria Anneys he wasparticularly determined to do so. It was in vain Lady Redwareentreated him to be rational. How could he be rational? It was thepreponderance of the emotional over the rational in his nature whichimparted so strong a personality to him. He grasped all circumstancesby feeling rather than by reason.

  In a few days he was again at Seat-Ambar. Aspatria drew him, as thecandle draws the moth which has once burned its wings at it. And amongthe simple Anneys folk he found a hearty welcome. With Squire Williamhe travelled the hills, and counted the flocks, and speculated on thevalue of the iron-ore cropping out of the ground. With Brune he wentline-fishing, and in the wide barns tried his skill in wrestling orpole-leaping or single-stick. He tolerated the rusticity of the life,for the charming moments he found with Aspatria.

  No one like Ulfar Fenwick had ever visited Ambar-Side. To the youngmen, who read nothing but the Gentleman's Magazine and the WhitehavenHerald, and to Aspatria, who had but a volume of the Ladies' GardenManual, Notable Things, her Bible and Common Prayer, Fenwick was abook of travel, song, and story, of strange adventures, of odd bits ofknowledge, and funny experiences. Things old and new fell from hishandsome lips. Squire William and Brune heard them with graveattention, with delight and laughter; Aspatria with eyes full ofwonder and admiration.

  As the season advanced and they grew more familiar, Aspatria wasthrown naturally into his society. The Squire was in the hay-field;Brune had his task there also. Or they were down at the Long Pool,washing the sheep, or on the fells, shearing them. In the haymaking,Aspatria and Fenwick made some pretence of assistance; but they bothvery soon wearied of the real labour. Aspatria would toss a fewfurrows of the warm, sweet grass; but it was much sweeter to sit downunder the oak-tree with Fenwick at her side, and watch the movingpicture, and listen to the women singing in their high shrill voices,as they turned the swaths, the Song of the Mower, and the menmournfully shouting out the chorus to it,--

  "We be all like grass! We be all like grass!"

  As for the oak, it liked them to sit under it; all its leaves talkedto each other about them. The starlings, though they are always in ahurry, stopped to look at the lovers, and went off with a Q-q-q ofsatisfaction. The crows, who are a bad lot, croaked innuendoes, andsaid it was to be hoped that evil would not come of such folly. ButAspatria and Fenwick listened only to each other; they saw the wholeround world in each other's eyes.

  Fenwick spoke very low; Aspatria had to droop her ear to his mouth tounderstand his words. And they were such delightful words, she couldnot bear to lose one of them. Then, as the sun grew warm, and thescent of the grass filled the soft air, and the haymakers were moreand more subdued and quiet, heavenly languors stole over them. Theysat hand in hand,--Aspatria sometimes with shut eyes humming toherself, sometimes dreamily pulling the long grass at her side;Fenwick mostly silent, yet often whispering those words which aresingle because they are too sweet to be double,--"Darling! Dearest!Angel!" and the words drew her eyes to his eyes, drew her lips to hislips; ere she was aware, her heart had passed from her in long,loving, stolen kisses. On the fells, in the garden, in the empty,silent rooms of the old house, it was a repetition of the same divinesong, with wondrously celestial variations. Goethe puts in Faust anInterlude in Heaven: Fenwick and Aspatria were in their Interlude.

  One evening they stood among the wheat-sheaves. The round, yellowharvest-moon was just rising above the fells, and the stars tremblinginto vision. The reapers had gone away; their voices made faint,fitful echoes down the misty lane. The Squire was driving home oneload of ripe wheat, and Brune another. Aspatria said softly, "The dayis over. We must go home. Come!"

  She stood in the warm mystical light, with one hand upon the boundsheaf, the other stretched out to him. Her slim form in its whitedress, her upturned face, her star-like eyes,--he saw all at a glance.He was subjugated to the innermost room of his heart. He answered,with inexpressible emotion,--

  "Come! Come to me, my Dear One! My Love! My Joy! My Wife!" He held herclose to his heart; he claimed her by no formal special yes, but byall the sweet reluctances and sweeter yieldings, the thousand namelessconsents won day by day.

  Oh, the glory of that homeward walk! The moon beamed upon them. Thetrees bent down to touch them. The heath and the honeysuckle made aposy for them. The nightingale sang them a canticle. They did not seemto walk; they trod on ether; they moved as people move in happy dreamsof other stars, where thought and wish are motion. It would have beenheaven upon earth if those minutes could have lasted; but it was onlyan interlude.

  That night Fenwick spoke to Squire William and asked him for hissister. The Squire was honestly confounded by the question. Aspatriawas such a little lass! It was beyond everything to talk of marryingher. Still, in his heart he was proud and pleased at such high fortunefor the little lass; and he said, as soon as Fenwick's father andfamily came forward as they should do, he would never be the one tosay nay.

  Fenwick's father lived at Fenwick Castle, on the shore of bleakNorthumberland. He was an old man, but his natural feelings and wisdomwere not abated. He consulted the History of Cumberland, and foundthat the family of Ambar-Anneys was as ancient and honourable as hisown. But the girl was country-bred, and her fortune was small, and ina measure dependent upon her brother's management of the estate. Acareless master of Ambar-Side would make Aspatria poor. While he wasconsidering these things, Lady Redware arrived at the castle, and theytalked over the matter together.

  "I expected Ulfar to marry very differently, and I must say I amdisappointed. But I suppose it will be useless to make any opposition,Elizabeth," the old man said to his daughter.

  "Quite useless, father. But absence works miracles. Try to securetwelve months. You ought to go to a warm climate this winter; askUlfar to take you to Italy. In a year time may re-shuffle the cards.And you must write to the girl, and to her eldest brother, who is afine fellow and as proud as Lucifer. I called upon them before I leftCumberland. She is very handsome."

  "Handsome! Old men know, Elizabeth, that six months after a man ismarried, it makes little difference to him whether his wife ishandsome or not."

  "That may be, or it may not be, father. The thing to consider is, thatyoung men unfortunately persist in marrying for that first sixmonths."

  "Well, then, fortune pilots many a ship not steered. Suppose we leavethings to circumstances?"

  "No, no! Human affairs are for the most part arranged in such a waythat those turn out best to which most care is devoted."

  So the letters were thoughtfully written; the one to Aspatria being ofa paternal character, that to her brother polite and complimentary. Tohis son Ulfar the old baronet made a very clever appeal. He remindedhim of his great age, and of the few opportunities left for showinghis affection and obedience. He regretted the necessity for aresidence in Italy during the winter, but trusted to his son's love tosee him through the experience. He congratulated Ulfar on winning thelove of a young girl so fresh and unspoiled by the world, but kindlyinsisted upon the wisdom of a little delay, and the great benefit thisdelay would be to himself.

  It was altogether a very temperate, wise letter, appealing to the bestside of Ulfar's nature. Squire William read it also, and gave it hismost emphatic approval. He was in no hurry to lose his little sister.She was but a child yet, and knew nothing of the world she was goinginto; and "surely to goodness," he said, looking at the child, "shewill have a lot of things to look after, before she can think ofwedding."

  This last conjecture touched Aspatria on a very womanly point. Ofcourse there were all her "things" to get ready. She had neverpossessed more than a few frocks at a time, and those of the simplestcharacter; but she was quite alive to the necessity of an elaboratewardrobe, and she had also an instinctive sense of what would beproper for her position.

  So the suggestions of Ulfar's fa
ther were accepted in their entirety,and the old gentleman was put into a very good temper by the fact. Andwhat was a year? "It will pass like a dream," said Ulfar. "And I shallwrite constantly to you, and you will write to me; and when we meetagain it will be to part no more." Oh, the poverty of words in suchstraits as these! Men say the same things in the same extremities nowthat have been said millions of times before them. And Aspatria feltas if there ought to have been entirely new words, to express the joyof their betrothal and the sorrow of their parting.

  The short delay of a last week together was perhaps a mistake. A veryyoung girl, to whom great joy and great sorrow are alike freshexperiences, may afford a prolonged luxury of the emotions ofparting. Love, more worldly-wise, deprecates its demonstrativeness,and would avert it altogether. The farewell walks, the sentimentalsouvenirs, the pretty and petty devices of love's first dream, aretiresome to more practised lovers; and Ulfar had often proved whatvery cobwebs they were to bind a straying fancy.

  "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." Perhaps so, if the last memorybe an altogether charming one. It was, unfortunately, not so inAspatria's case. It should have been a closely personal farewell withUlfar alone; but Squire Anneys, in his hospitable ignorance, gave it apublic character. Several neighbouring squires and dames came tobreakfast. There was cup-drinking, and toasting, and speech-making;and Ulfar's last glimpse of his betrothed was of her standing in thewide porch, surrounded by a waving, jubilant crowd of strangers, whoseintermeddling in his joy he deeply resented. Anneys had invited themin accord with the traditions of his house and order. Fenwick thoughtit was a device to make stronger his engagement to Aspatria.

  "As if it needed such contrivances!" he muttered angrily. "When itdoes, it is a broken thread, and no Anneys can knot it again."

  The weeks that followed were full of new interests to Aspatria.Mistress Frostham, the wife of a near shepherd-lord, had been thefriend of Aspatria's mother; she was fairly conversant with the worldoutside the fells and dales, and she took the girl under her care,accompanied her to Whitehaven, and directed her in the purchase of allconsidered necessary for the wife of Ulfar Fenwick.

  Then the deep snows shut in Seat-Ambar, and the great white hillsstood round about it like fortifications. But as often as it waspossible the Dalton postman fought his way up there, with his packetof accumulated mail; for he knew that a warm welcome and a largereward awaited him. In the main, the long same days went happily by.William and Brune had a score of resources for the season; thefarm-servants worked in the barn; they were making and mending sacksfor the wheat, and caps for the sheeps' heads in fly-time, sharpeningscythes and tools, doing the indoor work of a great farm, and mostlysinging as they did it.

  As Aspatria sat in her room, surrounded by fine cambric and linen andthat exquisite English thread-lace now gone out of fashion, she couldhear their laughter and their song, and she unconsciously set herstitches to its march and melody. The days were not long to her. Somany dozens of garments to make with her own slight fingers! She hadnot a moment to waste, but the necessity was one of the sweetestdelight. The solitude and secrecy of her labour added to its charm.She never took her sewing into the parlour. And yet she might havedone so: William and Brune had a delicacy of affection for her whichwould have made them blind to her occupation and densely stupid as toits design.

  So, although the days were mostly alike, they were not unhappily so;and at intervals destiny sent her the surprises she loved. One morningin the beginning of February, Aspatria felt that the postman ought tocome; her heart presaged him. The day was clear and warm,--so much so,that the men working in the barn had all the windows open. They weresinging in rousing tones the famous North Country song to thebarley-mow, and drinking it through all its verses, out of the jollybrown bowl, the nipperkin, the quarter-pint, the quart and thepottle,--the gallon and the anker,--the hogshead and the pipe,--thewell, and the river, and the ocean,--and then rolling back the chorus,from ocean to the jolly brown bowl. Suddenly, while a dozen men wereshouting in unison,--

  "Here's a health to the barley mow!"

  the verse was broken by the cry of "Here comes Ringham the postman!"Then Aspatria ran to the window and saw him climbing the fell. She didnot like to go downstairs until Will called her; but she could not sewanother stitch. And when at last the aching silence in her ears wasfilled by Will's joyful "Come here, Aspatria! Here is such a parcel asnever was,--from foreign parts too!" she hardly knew how her feettwinkled down the long corridor and stairs.

  The parcel was from Rome. Ulfar had sent it to his London banker, andthe banker had sent a special messenger to Dalton with it. Over thefells at that season no one but Ringham could have found a safe way;and Ringham was made so welcome that he was quite imperious. Heordered himself a rasher of bacon, and a bowl of the famous barleybroth, and spread himself comfortably before the great hearth-place.At the table stood Aspatria, William, and Brune. Aspatria wasnervously trying to undo the seals and cords that bound love's messageto her. Will finally took his pocket-knife and cut them. There was along letter, and a box containing exquisite ornaments of Romancameos,--precious onyx, made more precious by work of rare artisticbeauty, a comb for her dark hair, a necklace for her white throat,bracelets for her slender wrists, a girdle of stones linked with goldfor her waist. Oh, how full of simple delight she was! She was toohappy to speak. Then Will discovered a smaller package. It was forhimself and Brune. Will's present was a cameo ring, on which wereengraved the Anneys and Fenwick arms. Brune had a scarf-pin,representing a lovely Hebe. It was a great day at Seat-Ambar. Aspatriacould work no more; Will and Brune felt it impossible to finish thegame they had begun.

  There is a tide in everything: this was the spring-tide of Aspatria'slove. In its overflowing she was happy for many a day after herbrothers had begun to speculate and wonder why Ringham did not come.Suddenly it struck her that the snow was gone, and the road open, andthat there was no letter. She began to worry, and Will quietly rodeover to Dalton, to ask if any letter was lying there. He came backempty-handed, silent, and a little surly. The anniversary of theirmeeting was at hand: surely Ulfar would remember it, so Aspatriathought, and she watched from dawn to dark, but no token ofremembrance came. The flowers began to bloom, the birds to sing, theMay sunshine flooded the earth with glory, but fear and doubt anddismay and daily disappointment made deepest, darkest winter in thelow, long room where Aspatria watched and waited. Her sewing had beenthrown aside. The half-finished garments, neatly folded, lay under acover she had no strength to remove.

  In June she wrote a pitiful little note to her lover. She said that heought to tell her, if he was tired of their engagement. She told Willwhat she had said, and asked him to post the letter. He answeredangrily, "Don't you write a word to him, good or bad!" And he tore theletter into twenty pieces before her eyes.

  "Oh, Will, I cannot bear it!"

  "Thou art a woman: bear what other women have tholed before thee."Then he went angrily from her presence. Brune was thrumming on thewindow-pane. She thought he looked sorry for her; she touched his armand said, "Brune, will you take a letter to Dalton post for me?"

  "For sure I will. Go thy ways and write it, and I'll be gone beforeWill is back."

  It was an unfortunate letter, as letters written in a hurry alwaysare. Absolute silence would have piqued and worried Ulfar. He wouldhave fancied her ill, dying perhaps; and the uncertainty, vague andportentous, would have prompted him to action, if only to satisfy hisown mind. Sometimes he feared that a girl so sensitive would fade awayin neglect; and he expected a letter from William Anneys saying so.But a hurried, halting, not very correct epistle, whose whole tenourwas, "What is the matter? What have I done? Do you remember last yearat this time?" irritated him beyond reply.

  He was still in Italy when it reached him. Sir Thomas Fenwick was notlikely ever to return to England. He was slowly dying, and he had beenremoved to a villa in the Italian hills. And Elizabeth Redware had afriend with her, a young widow just come from Athens, who a
ffected attimes its splendid picturesque national costume. She was a verybright, handsome woman, whose fine education had been supplemented bytravel, society, and a rather unhappy matrimonial experience. She knewhow to pique and provoke, how to flirt to the very edge of danger andthen sheer off, how to manipulate men before the fire of passion, aswitches used to manipulate their waxen images before the blazingcoals.

  She had easily won Ulfar's confidence; she had even assisted in theselection of the cameos; and she declared to Elizabeth that she wouldnot for a whole world interfere between Ulfar and his pretty innocent!A natural woman was such a phenomenon! She was glad Ulfar was going tomarry a phenomenon.

  Elizabeth knew her better. She gave the couple opportunity, andthey needed nothing more. There were already between them a goodunderstanding, transparent secrets, little jokes, a confessedconfidence. They quickly became affectionate. The lovely Sarah,relict of Herbert Sandys, Esq., not only reminded Ulfar of hisvows to Aspatria, but in the very reminder she tempted him to breakthem. When Aspatria's letter was put into his hand, she was withhim, marvellously arrayed in tissue of silver and brilliant colours. Ahead-dress of gold coins glittered in her fair braided hair; herlong white arms were shining with bracelets; she was at once languidand impulsive, provoking Elizabeth and Ulfar to conversation, andthen amazing them by the audacity and contradiction of her opinions.

  "It is so fortunate," she said, "that Ulfar has found a littleout-of-the-way girl to appreciate his great beauty. The world atpresent does not think much of masculine beauty. A handsome fellow whostarts for any of its prizes is judged to be frivolous and poetical,perhaps immoral: you see Byron's beauty made him unfit for alegislator, he could do nothing but write poetry. I should say it wasUlfar's best card to marry this innocent with the queer name: with hisface and figure, he will never get into Parliament. No one would trusthim with taxes. He is born to make love, and he and his countryPhyllis can go simpering and kissing through life together. If I wereinterested in Ulfar----"

  "You are interested in Ulfar, Sarah," interrupted Elizabeth. "You saidso to me last night."

  "Did I? Nevertheless, life does not give us time really to questionourselves, and it is the infirmity of my nature to mistake feeling forevidence."

  "You must not change your opinions so quickly, Sarah."

  "It is often an element of success to change your opinions. It ishesitating among a variety of views that is fatal. The man who doesnot know what he wants is the man who is held cheap."

  "I am sure I know what I want, Sarah." And as he spoke, Ulfar lookedwith intelligence at the fair widow, and in answer she shot from herbright blue eyes a bolt of summer lightning that set aflame at oncethe emotional side of Ulfar's nature.

  "You say strange things, Sarah. I wish it was possible to understandyou."

  "'Who shall read the interpretation thereof?' is written on everythingwe see, especially on women."

  "I believe," said Elizabeth, "that Ulfar has quarrelled with hiscountry maid. Is there a quarrel, Ulfar, really?"

  "No," he answered, with some temper.

  Sarah nodded at Ulfar, and said softly: "The absent must be satisfiedwith the second place. However, if you have quarrelled with her,Ulfar, turn over a new leaf. I found that out when poor Sandys wasalive. People who have to live together must blot a leaf now and thenwith their little tempers. The only thing is to turn over a new one."

  "If anything unpleasant happens to me," said Ulfar, "I try to buryit."

  "You cannot do it. The past is a ghost not to be laid; and a pastwhich is buried alive, it is terrible." It was Sarah who spoke, andwith a sombre earnestness not in keeping with her usual character.There was a minute's pregnant silence, and it was broken by theentrance of a servant with a letter. He gave it to Ulfar.

  It was Aspatria's sorrowful, questioning note. Written while Brunewaited, it was badly written, incorrectly constructed and spelled, andgenerally untidy. It had the same effect upon Ulfar that a badlydressed, untidy woman would have had. He was ashamed of theirregular, childish scrawl. He did not take the trouble to put himselfin the atmosphere in which the anxious, sorrowful words had beenwritten. He crushed the paper in his hand with much the samecontemptuous temper with which Elizabeth had seen him treat a dunningletter. She knew, however, that this letter was from Aspatria, and,saying something about her father, she went into an adjoining room,and left Ulfar and Sarah together. She thought Sarah would be theproper alterative.

  The first words Sir Thomas Fenwick uttered regarded Aspatria. Turninghis head feebly, he asked: "Has Ulfar quarrelled with Miss Anneys? Ihear nothing of her lately."

  "I think he is tired of his fancy for her. There is no quarrel."

  "She was a good girl,--eh? Kindhearted, beautiful,--eh, Elizabeth?"

  "She certainly was."

  He said no more then; but at midnight, when Ulfar was sitting besidehim, he called his son, and spoke to him on the subject. "I amgoing--almost gone--the way of all flesh, Ulfar. Take heed of my lastwords. You promised to make Miss Anneys your wife,--eh?"

  "I did, father."

  "Do not break your promise. If she gives it back to you, that might bewell; but you cannot escape from your own word and deed. Honour keepsthe door of the house of life. To break your word is to set the doorwide open,--open for sorrow and evil of all kinds. Take care, Ulfar."

  The next day he died, and one of Ulfar's first thoughts was that thedeath set him free from his promise for one year at the least. A yearcontained a multitude of chances. He could afford to write toAspatria under such circumstances. So he answered her letter atonce, and it seemed proper to be affectionate, preparatory toreminding her that their marriage was impossible until the mourningfor Sir Thomas was over. Also death had softened his heart, andhis father's last words had made him indeterminate and a littlesuperstitious. A clever woman of the world would not have believedin this letter; its _aura_--subtle but persistent, as the perfume ofthe paper--would have made her doubt its fondest lines. But Aspatriahad no idea other than that certain words represented absolutelycertain feelings.

  The letter made her joyful. It brought back the roses to her cheeks,the spring of motion to her steps. She began to work in her room oncemore. Now and then her brothers heard her singing the old song she hadsung so constantly with Ulfar,--

  "A shepherd in a shade his plaining made, Of love, and lovers' wrong, Unto the fairest lass that trod on grass, And thus began his song: 'Restore, restore my heart again, Which thy sweet looks have slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing, Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing!

  "'Since love and fortune will, I honour still Your dark and shining eye; What conquest will it be, sweet nymph, to thee, If I for sorrow die? Restore, restore my heart again, Which thy sweet looks have slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing, Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing!'"

  But the lifting of the sorrow was only that it might press moreheavily. No more letters came; no message of any kind; none of thepretty love-gages he delighted in giving during the first months oftheir acquaintance. A gloom more wretched than that of death orsickness settled in the old rooms of Seat-Ambar. William and Brunecarried its shadow on their broad, rosy faces into the hay-fields andthe wheat-fields. It darkened all the summer days, and dulled all theusual mirth-making of the ingathering feasts. William was cross andtaciturn. He loved his sister with all his heart, but he did not knowhow to sympathize with her. Even mother-love, when in great anxiety,sometimes wraps itself in this unreasonable irritability. Bruneunderstood better. He had suffered from a love-change himself; heknew its ache and longing, its black despairs and still more cruelhopes. He was always on the lookout for Aspatria; and one day he heardnews which he thought would interest her. Lady Redware was at theHall. William had heard it a week before, but he had not considered itprudent to name the fact. Brune had a kinder intelligence.

  "Aspatria," he said, "Redware Hall is open again. I saw Lady Redwarein the village."

&nb
sp; "Brune! Oh, Brune, is he there too?"

  "No, he isn't. I made sure of that."

  "Brune, I want to go to Redware. Perhaps his sister may tell me thetruth. Go with me. Oh, Brune, go with me! I am dying of suspense anduncertainty."

  "Ay, they're fit to kill anybody, let alone a little lass like you. Itwill put William about, and it may make bad bread between us; but I'llgo with you, even if we do have a falling out. I'm not flayed forWilliam's rages."

  The next market-day Brune kept his word. As soon as Squire Anneys hadclimbed the fell breast and passed over the brow of the hill, Brunewas at the door with horses for Aspatria and himself. She was a goodrider, and they made the distance, in spite of hills and hollows, intwo hours. Lady Redware was troubled at the visit, but she came to thedoor to welcome Aspatria, and she asked Brune with particular warmthto come into the house with his sister. Brune knew better; he was surein such a case that it would prove a mere formal call, and thatAspatria would never have the courage to ask the questions she wishedto.

  But Aspatria had come to that point of mental suffering when shewanted to know the truth, even though the truth was the worst. LadyRedware saw the determination on her face, and resolved to gratify it.She was shocked at the change in Aspatria's appearance. Her beautywas, in a measure, gone. Her eyes were hollow, and the lids dark andswollen with weeping. Her figure was more angular. The dew of youth,the joy of youth, was over. She drooped like a fading flower. If Ulfarsaw her in such condition he might pity, but assuredly he would notadmire her.

  Lady Redware kissed the poor girl. "Come in, my dear," she saidkindly. "How ill you look! Here is wine: take a drink."

  "I am ill. I even hope I am dying. Life is so hard to bear. Ulfar hasforgotten me. I have vexed him, and cannot find out in what way. Ifyou would only tell me!"

  "You have not vexed him at all."

  "What then?"

  "He is tired, or he has seen a fresher face. That is Ulfar's greatfault. He loves too well, because he does not love very long. Can younot forget him?"

  "No."

  "You must have other lovers?"

  "No. I never had a lover until Ulfar wooed me. I will have none afterhim. I shall love him until I die."

  "What folly!"

  "Perhaps. I am only a foolish child. If I had been wise and clever, hewould not have left me. It is my fault. Do you believe he will evercome to Seat-Ambar again?"

  "I do not think he will. It is best to tell you the truth. My dear, Iam truly sorry for you! Indeed I am, Aspatria!"

  The girl had covered her face with her thin white hands. Her attitudewas so hopeless that it brought the tears to Lady Redware's eyes.Hoping to divert her attention, she said,--

  "Who called you Aspatria?"

  "It was my mother's name. She was born in Aspatria, and she loved theplace very much."

  "Where is it, child? I never heard of it."

  "Not far away, on the sea-coast,--a little town that brother Will sayshas been asleep for centuries. Such a pretty place, straggling up thehillside, and looking over the sea. Mother was born there, and she isburied there, in the churchyard. It is such an old church, onethousand years old! Mother said it was built by Saint Kentigern. Iwent there to pray last week, by mother's grave. I thought she mighthear me, and help me to bear the suffering."

  "You poor child! It is shameful of Ulfar!"

  "He is not to blame. Will told me that it was a poor woman whocouldn't keep what she had won."

  "It was very brutal in Will to say such a thing."

  "He did not mean it unkindly. We are plain-spoken people, LadyRedware. Tell me, as plainly as Will would tell me, if there is anyhope for me. Does Ulfar love me at all now?"

  "I fear not."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I am sure."

  "Thank you. Now I will go." She put out her hands before her, as ifshe was blind and had to feel her way; and in answer to all LadyRedware's entreaties to remain, to rest, to eat something, she onlyshook her head, and stumbled forward. Brune saw her coming. He wasstanding by the horses, but he left them, and went to meet his sister.Her misery was so visible that he put her in the saddle with fear. Butshe gathered the reins silently, and motioned him to proceed; andAspatria's last sad smile haunted Lady Redware for many a day. Longafterward she recalled it with a sharp gasp of pity and annoyance. Itwas such a proud, sorrowful farewell.

  She reached home, but it took the last remnant of her strength. Shewas carried to her bed, and she remained there many weeks. The hillswere white with snow, and the winter winds were sounding among themlike the chant of a high mass, when she came down once more to theparlor. Even then Will carried her like a baby in his arms. He hadcarried her mother in the same way, when she began to die; and hisheart trembled and smote him. He was very tender with his littlesister, but tempests of rage tossed him to and fro when he thought ofUlfar Fenwick.

  And he was compelled lately to think of him very often. All over thefell-side, all through Allerdale, it had begun to be whispered,"Aspatria Anneys has been deserted by her lover." How the fact hadbecome known it was difficult to discover: it was as if it had flownfrom roof to roof with the sparrows. Will could see it in the faces ofhis neighbours, could hear it in the tones of their speech, could feelit in the clasp of their hands. And he thought of these things, untilhe could not eat a meal or sleep an hour in peace. His heart was onfire with suppressed rage. He told Brune that all he wanted was to layFenwick across his knees and break his neck. And then he spread outhis mighty hands, and clasped and unclasped them with a silent forcethat had terrible anticipation in it. And he noticed that after herillness his sister no longer wore the circlet of diamonds which hadbeen her betrothal-ring. She had evidently lost all hope. Then it wastime for him to interfere.

  Aspatria feared it when he came to her room one morning and kissed herand bade her good-by. He said he was going a bit off, and might be aweek away,--happen more. But she did not dare to question him. Will attimes had masterful ways, which no one dared to question.

  Brune knew where his brother was going. The night before he had takenBrune to the little room which was called the Squire's room. In itthere was a large oak chest, black with age and heavy with iron bars.It contained the title-deeds, and many other valuable papers. Willexplained these and the other business of the farm to Brune; and Brunedid not need to ask him why. He was well aware what business WilliamAnneys was bent on, before Will said,--"I am going to Fenwick Castle,Brune. I am going to make that measureless villain marry Aspatria."

  "Is it worth while, Will?"

  "It is worth while. He shall keep his promise. If he does not, I willkill him, or he must kill me."

  "If he kills you, Will, he must then fight me." And Brune's face grewred and hot, and his eyes flashed angry fire.

  "That is as it should be; only keep your anger at interest until youhave lads to take your place. We mustn't leave Ambar-Side without anAnneys to heir it. I fancy your wrath won't get cold while it iswaiting."

  "It will get hotter and hotter."

  "And whatever happens, don't you be saving of kind words to Aspatria.The little lass has suffered more than a bit; and she is that likemother! I couldn't bide, even if I was in my grave, to think of herwanting kindness."

  The next morning Will went away. Brune would not talk to Aspatriaabout the journey. This course was a mistake; it would have done hergood to talk continually of it. As it was, she was left to chew overand over the cud of her mournful anticipations. She had no womanlyfriend near her. Mrs. Frostham had drawn back a little when peoplebegan to talk of "poor Miss Anneys." She had daughters, and she didnot feel that her friendship for the dead included the living, whenthe living were unfortunate and had questionable things said aboutthem.

  And the last bitter drop in Aspatria's cup full of sorrow was thehardness of her heart toward Heaven. She could not care about God; shethought God did not care for her. She had tried to make herself pray,even by going to her mother's grave, but she felt no spark of thathidden
fire which is the only acceptable prayer. There was a Christcut out of ivory, nailed to a large ebony cross, in her room. It hadbeen taken from the grave of an old abbot in Aspatria Church, and hadbeen in her mother's family three hundred years. It was a Christ thathad been in the grave and had come back to earth. Her mother's eyeshad closed forever while fixed upon it, and to Aspatria it had alwaysbeen an object of supreme reverence and love. She was shocked to findherself unmoved by its white pathos. Even at her best hours she couldonly stand with clasped hands and streaming eyes before it, and withsad imploration cry,--

  "I cannot pray! I cannot pray! Forgive me, Christ!"