FOR MOTHER'S SAKE.
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 Encyclopaedia 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.