ONLY BROTHER WILL.
It was a dull raw day in late autumn, especially dull and raw near the
sea, where there was an evil-looking sky to the eastward. Ulfar
Fenwick stood at a window in Castle Fenwick which commanded the black,
white-frilled surges. He was watching anxiously the point at which the
pale gray wall of fog was thickest, a wall of inconceivable height,
resting on the sea, reaching to the clouds, when suddenly there
emerged from it a beautifully built schooner-yacht. She cut her way
through the mysterious barrier as if she had been a knife, and came
forward with short, stubborn plunges.
All over the North Sea there are desolate places full of the cries of
parting souls, but nowhere more desolate spaces than around Fenwick
Castle; and as the winter was approaching, Ulfar was anxious to escape
its loneliness. His yacht had been taking in supplies; she was making
for the pier at the foot of Fenwick Cliff, and he was dressed for the
voyage and about to start upon it. He was going to the Mediterranean,
to Civita Vecchia, and his purpose was the filial one of bringing home
the remains of the late baronet. He had promised faithfully to see
them laid with those of his fore-elders on the windy Northumberland
coast; and he felt that this duty must be done, ere he could
comfortably travel the westward route he had so long desired.
He was slowly buttoning his pilot-coat, when he heard a heavy step
upon the flagged passage. Many such steps had been up and down it
that hour, but none with the same fateful sound. He turned his face
anxiously to the door, and as he did so, it was flung open, as if by
an angry man, and William Anneys walked in, frowning and handling his
big walking-stick with a subdued passion that filled the room as if it
had been suddenly charged with electricity. The two men looked
steadily at each other, neither of them flinching, neither of them
betraying by the movement of an eyelash the emotion that sent the
blood to their faces and the wrath to their eyes.
"William Anneys! What do you want?"
"I want you to set your wedding-day. It must not be later than the
fifteenth of this month."
"Suppose I refuse to do so? I am going to Italy for my father's
body."
"You shall not leave England until you marry my sister."
"Suppose I refuse to do so?"
"Then you will have to take your chances of life or death. You will
give me satisfaction first; and if you escape the fate you well
deserve, Brune may have better fortune."
"Duelling is now murder, sir, unless we pass over to France."
"I will not go to France. Wrestling is not murder, and we both know
there is a 'throw' to kill; and I will 'throw' until I do kill,--or am
killed. There's Brune after me."
"I have ceased to love your sister. I dare say she has forgotten me.
Why do you insist on our marriage? Is it that she may be Lady
Fenwick?"
"Look you, sir! I care nothing for lordships or ladyships; such things
are matterless to me. But your desertion has set wicked suspicions
loose about Miss Anneys; and the woman they dare to think her, you
shall make your wife. By God in heaven, I swear it!"
"They have said wrong of Miss Anneys! Impossible!"
"No, sir! they have not said wrong. If any man in Allerdale had dared
to say wrong, I had torn his tongue from his mouth before I came here;
and as for the women, they know well I would hold their husbands or
brothers or sons responsible for every ill word they spoke. But they
think wrong, and they make me feel it everywhere. They look it, they
shy off from Aspatria,--oh, you know well enough the kind of thing
going on."
"A wrong thought of Miss Anneys is atrocious. The angels are not more
pure." He said the words softly, as if to himself; and William Anneys
stood watching him with an impatience that in a moment or two found
vent in an emphatic stamp with his foot.
"I have no time to waste, sir. Are you afraid to sup the ill broth you
have brewed?"
"Afraid!"
"I see you have no mind to marry. Well, then, we will fight! I like
that better."
"I will fight both you and your brother, make any engagement you
wish; but if the fair name of Miss Anneys is in danger, I have a prior
engagement to marry her. I will keep it first. Afterward I am at your
service, Squire, yours and your brother's; for I tell you plainly that
I shall leave my wife at the church door and never see her again."
"I care not how soon you leave her; the sooner the better. Will the
eleventh of this month suit you?"
"Make it the fifteenth. To what church will you bring my fair bride?"
"Keep your scoffing for a fitter time. If you look in that way again,
I will strike the smile off your lips with a hand that will leave you
little smiling in the future." And he passed his walking-stick to his
left, and doubled his large right hand with an ominous readiness.
"We may even quarrel like gentlemen, Mr. Anneys."
"Then don't you laugh like a blackguard, that's all."
"Answer me civilly. At what church shall I meet Miss Anneys, and at
what hour on the fifteenth?"
"At Aspatria Church, at eleven o'clock."
"Aspatria?"
"Ay, to be sure! There will be witnesses there, I can tell
you,--generations of them, centuries of generations. They will see
that you do the right thing, or they will dog your steps till you have
paid the uttermost farthing of the wrong. Mind what you do, then!"
"The dead frighten me no more than the living do."
"You will find out, maybe, what the vengeance of the dead is. I would
be willing to leave you to it, if you shab off, and I am not sure but
you will."
"William Anneys, you are sure I will not. You are saying such things
to provoke me to a fight."
"What reason have I to be sure? All the vows you made to Aspatria you
have counted as a fool's babble."
"I give you my word of honour. Between gentlemen that is enough."
"To be sure, to be sure! Gentlemen can make it enough. But a poor
little lass, what can she do but pine herself into a grave?"
"I will listen to you no longer, Squire Anneys. If your sister's good
name is at stake, it is my first duty to shield it with my own name.
If that does not satisfy your sense of honour, I will give you and
your brother whatever satisfaction you desire. On the fifteenth of
this month, at eleven o'clock, I will meet you at Aspatria Church.
Where shall I find the place?"
"It is not far from Gosforth and Dalton, on the coast. You cannot miss
it, unless you never look for it."
"Sir!"
"Unless you never look for it. I do not feel to trust you. But this is
a promise made to a man, made to William Anneys; and he will see that
you keep it, or else that you pay for the breaking of it."
"Good-morning, Squire. There is no necessity to prolong such an
unpleasant visit."
"Nay, I will not 'good-morning' with you. I have not a good wish of
any kind for you."
With these defiant words he left the castle, and Fenwick threw off his
pilot-coat and sat down to consider. First thoughts generally come
from the selfish, and therefore the worst, side of any nature; and
Fenwick's first thoughts were that his yacht was ready to sail, and
that he could go away, and stay away until Aspatria married, or some
other favourable change took place. He cared little for England. With
good management he could bring home and bury his father's dust without
the knowledge of William Anneys. Then there was the west! America was
before him, north and south. He had always promised himself to see
the whole western continent ere he settled for life in England.
Such thoughts were naturally foremost, but he did not encourage them.
He felt no lingering sentiment of pity or love for Aspatria, but he
realized very clearly what suspicion, what the slant eye, the
whispered word, the scornful glance, the doubtful shrug, meant in
those primitive valleys. And he had loved the girl dearly; he had
promised to marry her. If she wished him to keep his promise, if it
was a necessity to her honour, then he would redeem with his own
honour his foolish words. He told himself constantly that he had not a
particle of fear, that he despised Will and Brune Anneys and their
brutal vows of vengeance; but--but perhaps they did unconsciously
influence him. Life was sweet to Ulfar Fenwick, full of new dreams and
hopes set in all kinds of new surroundings. For Aspatria Anneys why
should he die? It was better to marry her. The girl had been sweet to
him, very sweet! After all, he was not sure but he preferred that she
should be so bound to him as to prevent her marrying any other man. He
still liked her well enough to feel pleasure in the thought that he
had put her out of the reach of any future lover she might have.
Squire Anneys rode home in what Brune called "a pretty temper for any
man." His horse was at the last point of endurance when he reached
Seat-Ambar, he himself wet and muddy, "cross and unreasonable beyond
everything." Aspatria feared the very sound of his voice. She fled to
her room and bolted the door. At that hour she felt as if death would
be the best thing for her; she had brought only sorrow and trouble and
apprehended disgrace to all who loved her.
"I think God has forgotten me too!" she cried, glancing with eyes full
of anguish to the pale Crucified One hanging alone and forsaken in the
darkest corner of the room. Only the white figure was visible; the
cross had become a part of the shadows. She remembered the joyous,
innocent prayers that had been wont to make peace in her heart and
music on her lips; and she looked with a sorrow that was almost
reproach at her Book of Common Prayer, lying dusty and neglected on
its velvet cushion. In her rebellious, hopeless grief, she had missed
all its wells of comfort. Oh, if an angel would only open her eyes!
One had come to Hagar in the desert: Aspatria was almost in equal
despair.
Yet when she heard her brother Will's voice she knew not of any other
sanctuary than the little table which held her Bible and Prayer Book,
and upon which the wan, sad ivory Christ looked down. In speechless
misery, with clasped hands and low-bowed head, she knelt there. Will's
voice, strenuous and stern, reached her at intervals. She knew from
the silence in the kitchen and farm-offices, and the hasty movements
of the servants, that Will was cross; and she greatly feared her
eldest brother when he was in what Brune called one of his rages.
A long lull was followed by a sharp call. It was Will calling her
name. She felt it impossible to answer, impossible to move; and as he
ascended the stairs and came grumbling along the corridor, she
crouched lower and lower. He was at her door, his hand on the latch;
then a few piteous words broke from her lips: "Help, Christ, Saviour
of the world!"
Instantly, like a flash of lightning, came the answer, "It is I. Be
not afraid." She said the words herself, gave to her heart the promise
and the comfort of it, and, so saying them, she drew back the bolt and
stood facing her brother. He had a candle in his hand, and it showed
her his red, angry face, and showed him the pale, resolute countenance
of a woman who had prayed and been comforted.
He walked into the room and put the candle down on a small table in
its centre. They both stood a moment by it; then Aspatria lifted her
face to her brother and kissed him. He was taken aback and softened,
and troubled at his heart. Her suffering was so evident; she was such
a gray shadow of her former self.
"Aspatria! Aspatria! my little lass!" Then he stopped and looked at
her again.
"What is it, Will? Dear Will, what is it?"
"You must be married on the fifteenth. Get something ready. I will see
Mrs. Frostham and ask her to help you a bit."
"Whom am I to marry, Will? On the fifteenth? It is impossible! See how
ill I am!"
"You are to marry Ulfar Fenwick. Ill? Of course you are ill; but you
must go to Aspatria Church on the fifteenth. Ulfar Fenwick will meet
you there. He will make you his wife."
"You have forced him to marry me. I will not go, I will not go. I will
not marry Ulfar Fenwick."
"You shall go, if I carry you in my arms! You shall marry him, or
I--will--kill--you!"
"Then kill me! Death does not terrify me. Nothing can be more cruel
hard than the life I have lived for a long time."
He looked at her steadily, and she returned the gaze. His face was
like a flame; hers was white as snow.
"There are things in life worse than death, Aspatria. There is
dishonour, disgrace, shame."
"Is sorrow dishonour? Is it a disgrace to love? Is it a shame to weep
when love is dead?"
"Ay, my little lass, it may be a great wrong to love and to weep.
There is a shadow around you, Aspatria; if people speak of you they
drop their voices and shake their heads; they wonder, and they think
evil. Your good name is being smiled and shaken away, and I cannot
find any one, man or woman, to thrash for it."
She stood listening to him with wide-open eyes, and lips dropping a
little apart, every particle of colour fled from them.
"It is for this reason Fenwick is to marry you."
"You forced him; I know you forced him." She seemed to drag the words
from her mouth; they almost shivered; they broke in two as they fell
halting on the ear.
"Well, I must say he did not need forcing, when he heard your good
name was in danger. He said, manly enough, that he would make it good
with his own name. I do not much think I could have either frightened
or flogged him into marrying you."
"Oh, Will! I cannot marry him in this way! Let people say wicked
things of me, if they will."
"Nay, I will not! I cannot help them thinking evil; but they shall not
look it, and they shall not say it."
"Perhaps they do not even think it, Will. How can you tell?"
"Well enough, Aspatria. How many women come to Ambar-Side now? If you
gave a dance next week, you could not get a girl in Allerdale to
accept your invitation."
"Will!"
"It is the truth. You must stop all this by marrying Ulfar Fenwick. He
saw it was only just and right: I will say that much for him."
"Let me alone until morning. I will do what you say.--Oh, mother!
mother I want mother now!"
"My poor little lass! I am only brother Will; but I am sorry for thee,
I am that!"
She tottered to the bedside, and he lifted her gently, and laid her on
it; and then, as softly as if he was afraid of waking her, he went out
of the room. Outside the door he found Brune. He had taken off his
shoes, and was in his stocking-feet. Will grasped him by the shoulder
and led him to his own chamber.
"What were you watching me for? What were you listening to me for? I
have a mind to hit you, Brune."
"You had better not hit me, Will. I was not bothering myself about
you. I was watching Aspatria. I was listening, because I knew the
madman in you had got loose, and I was feared for my sister. I was not
going to let you say or do things you would be sorry to death for when
you came to yourself. And so you are going to let that villain marry
Aspatria? You are not of my mind, Will. I would not let him put a foot
into our decent family, or have a claim of any kind on our sister."
"I have done what I thought best."
"I don't say it is best."
"And I don't ask for your opinion. Go to your own room, Brune, and
mind your own affairs."
And Brune, brought up in the religious belief of the natural supremacy
of the elder brother, went off without another word, but with a heart
full to overflowing of turbulent, angry thoughts.
In the morning Will went to see Mrs. Frostham. He told her of his
interview with Ulfar Fenwick, and begged her to help Aspatria with
such preparations as could be made. But neither to her nor yet to
Aspatria did he speak of Fenwick's avowed intention to leave his wife
after the ceremony. In the first place, he did not believe that
Fenwick would dare to give him such a cowardly insult; and then, also,
he thought that the sight of Aspatria's suffering would make him
tender toward her. William Anneys's simple, kindly soul did not
understand that of all things the painful results of our sins are the
most irritating. The hatred we ought to give to the sin or to the
sinner, we give to the results.
Surely it was the saddest preparation for a wedding that could be.
Will and Brune were "out." They did not speak to each other, except
about the farm business. Aspatria spent most of her time in her
own room with a sempstress, who was making the long-delayed
wedding-dress. The silk for it had been bought more than a year, and
it had lost some of its lustrous colour. Mrs. Frostham paid a short
visit every day, and occasionally Alice Frostham came with her. She
was a very pretty girl, gentle and affectionate to Aspatria; and
just because of her kindness Will determined at some time to make
her Mistress of Seat-Ambar.
But in the house there was a great depression, a depression that no
one could avoid feeling. Will gave no orders for wedding-festivities;
a great dinner and ball would have been a necessity under the usual
circumstances, but there were no arrangements even for a breakfast.
Aspatria wondered at the omission, but she did not dare to question
Will; indeed. Will appeared to avoid her as much as he could.
Really, William Anneys was very anxious and miserable. He had no
dependence upon Fenwick's promise, and he felt that if Fenwick
deceived him there was nothing possible but the last vengeance. He
had this thought constantly in his mind; and he was quietly ordering
things on the farm for a long absence, and for Brune's management or
succession. He paid several visits to Whitehaven, where was his
banker, and to Gosport, where his lawyer lived. He felt, during that
terrible interval of suspense, very much as a man under sentence of
death might feel.
The morning of the fifteenth broke chill and dark, with a promise of
rain. Great Gable was carrying on a conflict with an army of gray
clouds assailing his summit and boding no good for the weather. The
fog rolled and eddied from side to side of the mountains, which
projected their black forms against a ghastly, neutral tint behind
them; and the air was full of that melancholy stillness which so often
pervades the last days of autumn.
Squire Anneys had slept little for two weeks, and he had been awake
all the night before. While yet very early, he had every one in the
house called. Still there were no preparations for company or
feasting. Brune came down grumbling at a breakfast by candle-light,
and he and William drank their coffee and made a show of eating almost
in silence. But there was an unspeakable tenderness in William's
heart, if he had known how to express it. He looked at Brune with a
new speculation in his eyes. Brune might soon be master of Ambar-Side:
what kind of a master would he make? Would he be loving to Aspatria?
When Brune had sons to inherit the land, would he remember his
promise, and avenge the insult to the Anneys, if he, William, should
give his life in vain? Out of these questions many others arose; but
he was naturally a man of few words, and not able to talk himself into
a conviction that he was doing right; nor yet was he able to give
utterance to the vague objections which, if defined by words, might
perhaps have changed his feelings and his plans.
He had sent Aspatria word that she must be ready by ten o'clock. At
eight she began to dress. Her sleep had been broken and miserable. She
looked anxiously in the glass at her face. It was as white as the silk
robe she was to wear. A feeling of dislike of the unhappy garment rose
in her heart. She had bought the silk in the very noon of her love and
hopes, a shining piece of that pearl-like tint which only the most
brilliant freshness and youth can becomingly wear. Many little
accessories were wanting. She tried the Roman cameos with it, and they
looked heavy; she knew in her womanly heart that it needed the lustre
of gems, the sparkle of diamonds or rubies.
Mrs. Frostham came a little later, and assisted her in her toilet; but
a passing thought of the four bridemaids she had once chosen for this
office made her eyes dim, while the stillness of the house, the utter
neglect of all symbols of rejoicing, gave an ominous and sorrowful
atmosphere to the bride-robing. Still, Aspatria looked very handsome;
for as the melancholy toilet offices proceeded with so little interest
and so little sympathy, a sense of resentment had gradually gathered
in the poor girl's heart. It made her carry herself proudly, it
brought a flush to her cheeks, and a flashing, trembling light to her
eyes which Mrs. Frostham could not comfortably meet.
A few minutes before ten, she threw over all her fateful finery a
large white cloak, which added a decided grace and dignity to her
appearance. It was a garment Ulfar had sent her from London,--a long,
mantle-like wrap, made of white cashmere, and lined with quilted
white satin. Long cords and tassels of chenille fastened it at the
throat, and the hood was trimmed with soft white fur. She drew the
hood over her head, she felt glad to hide the wreath of orange-buds
and roses which Mrs. Frostham had insisted upon her wearing,--the sign
and symbol of her maidenhood.
Will looked at her with stern lips, but as he wrapped up her
satin-sandalled feet in the carriage, he said softly to her, "God
bless you, Aspatria!" His voice trembled, but not more than Aspatria's
as she answered,--
"Thank you, Will. You and Brune are father and mother to me to-day.
There is no one else."
"Never mind, my little lass. We are enough."
She was alone in the carriage. Will and Brune rode on either side of
her. The Frosthams, the Dawsons, the Bellendens, the Atkinsons, and
the Lutons followed. Will had invited every one to the church, and
curiosity brought those who were not moved by sympathy or regard.
Fortunately the rain held off, though the air was damp and exceedingly
depressing.
When they arrived at Aspatria Church, they found the yard full; every
gravestone was occupied by a little party of gossips. At the gate
there was a handsome travelling-chariot with four horses. It lifted a
great weight of apprehension from William Anneys, for it told him that
Fenwick had kept his word. He helped Aspatria to alight, and his heart
ached for her. How would she be able to walk between that crowd of
gazing, curious men and women? He held her arm tight against his big
heart, and Brune, carefully watching her, followed close behind.
But Aspatria's inner self had taken possession of the outer woman. She
walked firmly and proudly, with an erect grace, without hesitation and
without hurry, toward her fate. Something within her kept saying words
of love and encouragement; she knew not what they were, only they
strengthened her like wine. She passed the church door whispering the
promise given her,--"It is I. Be not afraid." And then her eyes fell
upon the ancient stone font, at which her father and mother had named
her. She put out her hand and just touched its holy chalice.
The church was crowded with a curious and not unsympathetic
congregation. Aspatria Anneys was their own, a dales-woman by a
thousand years of birthright. Fenwick was a stranger. If he were going
to do her any wrong, and Will Anneys was ready to punish him for it,
every man and woman present would have stood shoulder to shoulder with
Will. There was an undefined expectation of something unusual, of
something more than a wedding. This feeling, though unexpressed, made
itself felt in a very pronounced way. Will and Brune looked
confidingly around; Aspatria gathered courage with every step. She
felt that she was among her own people, living and dead.
As soon as they really entered the church, they saw Fenwick. He was
with an officer wearing the uniform of the Household Troops; and
he was evidently pointing out to him the ancient tombs of the
Ambar-Anneys family, the Crusaders in stone, with sheathed swords
and hands folded in prayer, and those of the family abbots, adorned
with richly floriated crosses.
When he saw Aspatria he bowed, and advanced rapidly to the altar. She
had loosened her cloak and flung back her hood, and she watched his
approach with eyes that seemed two separate souls of love and sorrow.
One glance from them troubled him to the seat of life. He motioned to
the waiting clergyman, and took his place beside his bride. There was
a dead stillness in the church, and a dead stillness outside; the
neighing of a horse sounded sharp, imperative, fateful. A ripple of a
smile followed; it was a lucky omen to hear a horse neigh. Brune
glanced at his sister, but she had not heeded it. Her whole being was
swallowed up in the fact that she was standing at Ulfar's side, that
she was going to be his wife.
The aged clergyman was fumbling with the Prayer Book: "The Form of
Solemnization of Matrimony" seemed hard to find. And so vagrant is
thought, that while he turned the leaves Aspatria remembered the
travelling-chariot, and wondered whether Ulfar meant to carry her away
in it, and what she would do for proper clothing. Will ought to have
told her something of the future. How cruel every one had been! It
took but a moment for these and many other thoughts to invade
Aspatria's heart, and spread dismay and anxiety and again the sense of
resentment.
Then she heard the clergyman begin. His voice was like that of some
one speaking in a dream, till she sharply called herself together,
hearing also Ulfar's voice, and knowing that she too would be called
upon for her assent. She glanced up at Ulfar, who was dressed with
great care and splendour and looking very handsome, and said her "I
will" with the glance. Ulfar could not receive it unmoved; he looked
steadily at her, and then he saw the ruin of youth that his
faithlessness had made. Remorse bit him like a serpent, but remorse is
not repentance. Then William Anneys gave his sister to his enemy; and
the gift was like death to him, and the look accompanying the gift
filled Ulfar's heart with a contemptuous anger fatal to all juster or
kinder feelings.
When the service was ended, Fenwick turned to Aspatria and offered her
his hand. She put hers into his, and so he led her down the aisle,
and through the churchyard, to her own carriage. William had followed
close. He wondered if Fenwick meant to take his wife with him, and he
resolved to give him the opportunity to do so. But as soon as he
perceived that the bridegroom would carry out his threat, and desert
his bride at the church gates, he stepped forward and said,--
"That is enough, Sir Ulfar Fenwick. I have made you keep your word. I
will care for your wife. She shall neither bear your name nor yet take
anything from your bounty."
Fenwick paid no heed to his brother-in-law. He looked at Aspatria. She
was whiter than snow; she had the pallor of death. He lifted his hat
and said,--
"Farewell, Lady Fenwick. We shall meet no more."
"Sir Ulfar," she answered calmly, "it is not my will that we met here
to-day."
"And as for meeting no more," said Brune, with passionate contempt, "I
will warrant that is not in your say-so, Ulfar Fenwick."
As he spoke, Fenwick's friend handed Will Anneys a card; then they
drove rapidly away. Will was carefully wrapping his sister for her
solitary ride back to Seat-Ambar; and he did this with forced
deliberation, trying to appear undisturbed by what had occurred; for,
since it had happened, he wished his neighbours to think he had fully
expected it. And while so engaged he found opportunity to whisper to
Aspatria: "Now, my little lass, bear up as bravely as may be. It is
only one hour. Only one hour, dearie! Don't you try to speak. Only
keep your head high till you get home, darling!"
So the sad procession turned homeward, Aspatria sitting alone in her
carriage, William and Brune riding on either side of her, the squires
and dames bidden to the ceremony following slowly behind. Some talked
softly of the affair; some passionately assailed William Anneys for
not felling the villain where he stood. Gradually they said good-by,
and so went to their own homes. Aspatria had to speak to each, she had
to sit erect, she had to bear the wondering, curious gaze not only of
her friends, but of the hinds and peasant-women in the small hamlets
between the church and Seat-Ambar; she had to endure her own longing
and disappointment, and make a poor attempt to smile when the children
flung their little posies of late flowers into the passing carriage.
To the last moment she bore it. "A good, brave girl!" said Will, as
he left her at her own room door. "My word! it is better to have good
blood than good fortune: good blood never was beat! Aspatria is only a
little lass, but she is more than a match for yon villain! A big
villain he is, a villain with a latchet!"
The miserable are sacred. All through that wretched afternoon no one
troubled Aspatria. Will and Brune sat by the parlour fire, for the
most part silent. The rain, which had barely held off until their
return from the church, now beat against the window-panes, and
drenched and scattered even the hardy Michaelmas daisies. The house
was as still as if there had been death instead of marriage in it. Now
and then Brune spoke, and sometimes William answered him, and
sometimes he did not.
At last, after a long pause, Brune asked: "What was it Fenwick's
friend gave you? A message?"
"A message."
"You might as well say what, Will."
"Ay, I might. It said Fenwick would wait for me a week at the Sceptre
Inn, Carlisle."
"Will you go to Carlisle?"
"To be sure I will go. I would not miss the chance of 'throwing'
him,--no, not for ten years' life!"
"Dear me! what a lot of trouble has come with just taking a stranger
in out of the storm!"
"Ay, it is a venturesome thing to do. How can any one tell what a
stranger may bring in with him?"