"A ROSE OF A HUNDRED LEAVES."
One morning in spring Aspatria stood in a balcony overlooking the
principal thoroughfare of Rome,--the Rome of papal government,
mythical, mystical, mediaeval in its character. A procession of friars
had just passed; a handsome boy was crying violets; some musical
puppets were performing in the shadow of the opposite palace; a
party of brigands were going to the Angelo prison; the spirit of Caesar
was still abroad in the black-browed men and women, lounging and
laughing in their gaudy, picturesque costumes; and the spirit of
ecclesiasticism lifted itself above every earthly object, and
touched proudly the bells of a thousand churches. Aspatria was
weary of all.
She had that morning an imperative nostalgia. She could see nothing
but the mountains of Cumberland, and the white sheep wandering about
their green sides. Through the church-bells she heard the sheep-bells.
Above the boy crying violets she heard the boy whistling in the
fresh-ploughed furrow. As for the violets, she knew how the wild ones
were blowing in Ambar wood, and how in the garden the daffodil-beds
were aglow, and the sweet thyme humbling itself at their feet, because
each bore a chalice. Oh for a breath from the mountains and the sea!
The hot Roman streets, with their ever-changing human elements of
sorrow and mirth, sin and prayer, riches and poverty, made her sad
and weary.
Sarah came toward her with a letter in her hand. "Ria," she said,
"this is from Lady Redware. Your husband will be in England very
shortly."
It was the first time Sarah had ever called Ulfar Aspatria's husband.
In conversation the two women had always spoken of him as "Ulfar." The
change was significant. It implied that Sarah thought the time had
come for Aspatria to act decisively.
"I shall be delighted to go back to England. We have been twenty
months away, Sarah. I was just feeling as if it were twenty years."
Sarah looked critically at the woman who was going to cast her last
die for love. She was so entirely different from the girl who had
first won that love, how was it possible for her to recapture the
same sweet, faithless emotion? She had a swift memory of the slim
girl in the plain black frock whom she had seen sitting under the
whin-bushes. And then she glanced at Aspatria standing under the
blue-and-red awning of the Roman palace. She was now twenty-six
years old, and in the very glory of her womanhood, tall, superbly
formed, graceful, calm, and benignant. Her face was luminous with
intellect and feeling, her manner that of a woman high-bred and
familiar with the world. Culture had done all for her that the
lapidary does for the diamond; travel and social advantages had
added to the gem a golden setting. She was so little like the
sorrowful child whom Ulfar had last seen in the vicar's meadow that
Sarah felt instantaneous recognition to be almost impossible.
After some hesitation, Aspatria agreed to accept Sarah's plan and wait
in Richmond the development of events. At first she had been strongly
in favour of a return to Seat-Ambar. "If Ulfar really wants to see
me," she said, "he will be most likely to seek me there."
"But then, Ria, he may think he does not want to see you. Men never
know what they really do want. You have to give them 'leadings.' If
Ulfar can look on you now and have no curiosity about your identity, I
should say the man was not worth a speculation from any point. See if
you have hold sufficient on his memory to pique his curiosity. If you
have, lead him wherever you wish."
"But how? And where?"
"Do I carry a divining-cup, Ria? Can I foresee the probabilities of a
man so impossible as Ulfar Fenwick? I only know that Richmond is a
good place to watch events from."
And of course the Richmond house suited Brune. His love had grown to
the utmost of Sarah's expectations, and he was no longer to be put off
with smiles and pleasant words. Sarah had promised him an answer when
she returned, and he claimed it with a passionate persistence that had
finally something imperative in it. To this mood Sarah succumbed;
though she declared that Brune had chosen the morning of all others
most inconvenient for her. She was just leaving the house. She was
going to London about her jewels. Brune had arrested the coachman by a
peremptory movement, and he looked as if he were quite prepared to
lift Sarah out of the carriage.
So Aspatria went alone. She was glad of the swift movement in the
fresh air, she was glad that she could be quiet and let it blow
passively upon her. The restlessness of watching had made her
feverish. She had the "strait" of a strong mind which longs to meet
her destiny. For her love for her husband had grown steadily with her
efforts to be worthy of that love, and she longed to meet him face to
face and try the power of her personality over him. The trial did not
frighten her; she felt within her the ability to accomplish it; her
feet were on a level with her task; she was the height of a woman
above it.
Musing on this subject, letting her mind shoot to and fro like a
shuttle between the past and the present, she reached Piccadilly, and
entered a large jeweller's shop. The proprietor was talking to a
gentleman who was exhibiting a number of uncut gems. Aspatria knew him
instantly. It was Ulfar Fenwick,--the same Ulfar, older, and yet
distinctly handsomer. For the dark hair slightly whitened, and the
thin, worn cheeks, had an intensely human aspect. She saw that he had
suffered; that the sum of life was on his face,--toil, difficulty,
endurance, mind, and also that pathetic sadness which tells of
endurance without avail.
She went to the extreme end of the counter, and began to examine the
jewels which Sarah had sent to be reset. Some were finished; others
were waiting for the selection of a particular style, and Aspatria
looked critically at the models shown her. The occupation gave her an
opportunity to calm and consider herself; she could look at the jewels
a few moments without expressing an opinion.
Then she gave, in a clear, distinct voice, some order regarding a
pearl necklace; and Ulfar turned like a flash, and looked at the
woman who had spoken. She had the pearls in one hand; the other
touched a satin cushion on which lay many ornaments of diamonds,
sapphires, and rubies. The moonlight iridescence of the pearls, the
sparkling glory of the gems, seemed to be a part of her noble beauty.
He forgot his own treasures, and stood looking at the woman whose
voice had called to him out of the past, had penetrated his heart like
a bell struck sharply in its innermost room. Who was it? Where had
they met before? He knew the face. He knew, and yet he did not know,
the whole charming personality. As she turned, his eyes met her eyes,
and the pure pallor of her cheeks was flooded with crimson.
She passed him within touch; the rustle of her garments, their faint
perfume, the simple sense of her nearness, thrilled his being
wondrously. And, above all, that sense of familiarity! What could it
mean? He gave the stones into the jeweller's care, and hurriedly
followed her steps.
"That is Sarah Sandys's carriage, my barony for it!" he exclaimed;
"and the men are in the Sandys livery. Sarah, then, is in Richmond;
and the woman who rides in her carriage is very likely in her house;
but who can it be?"
The face haunted him, the voice tormented him like a melody that we
continually try to catch. He endeavoured to place both as he rode out
to Richmond. More than once the thought of Aspatria came to him, but
he could not make any memory of her fit that splendid vision of the
woman with uplifted hand and the string of pearls dropping from it.
Her exquisite face, between the beauty of their reflection and the
flashing of the gems beneath, retained in his memory a kind of glory.
"Such loveliness is the proper setting for pearls and diamonds," he
said. "Many a beauty I have seen, but none that can touch the heel of
her shoe."
For he really thought that it was her personal charms which had so
moved him. It was the sense of familiarity; it was in a far deeper
and dimmer way a presentiment of right, of possession, a feeling of
personal touch in the emotion, which perplexed and stimulated him as
the mere mystery and beauty of the flesh could never have done.
As soon as he reached the top of Richmond Hill he saw Sarah. She was
sauntering along that loveliest of cliffs, with Brune. An orderly was
leading Brune's horse; he himself was in the first ecstasy of Sarah's
acknowledged love. Ulfar went into the Star and Garter Inn and watched
Sarah. He had no claim upon her, and yet he felt as if she had been
false to him. "And for a mere soldier!" Then he looked critically at
the soldier, and said, with some contempt: "I am sorry for him! Sarah
Sandys will have her pastime, and then say, 'Farewell, good sir!'" As
for the mere soldier being Brune Anneys, that was a thought out of
Ulfar's horizon.
In a couple of hours he went to Sarah's. She met him with real
delight.
"You are just five years lovelier, Sarah," he said.
"Admiration from Sir Ulfar Fenwick is admiration indeed!"
"Yes; I say you are beautiful, though I have just seen the most
bewitching woman that ever blessed my eyes,--in your carriage too."
And then, swift as light or thought, there flashed across his mind a
conviction that the Beauty and Aspatria were identical. It was a
momentary intelligence; he grasped it merely as a clew that might lead
him somewhere.
"In my carriage? I dare say it was Ria. She went to Piccadilly this
morning about some jewels."
"She reminded me of Aspatria."
"Have you brought back with you that old trouble? I have no mind to
hear more of it."
"Who is the lady I saw this morning?"
"She is the sister of the man I am going to marry. In four months she
will be my sister."
"What is her name?"
"That is to tell you my secret, sir."
"I saw you throwing your enchantments over some soldier. I knew just
how the poor fellow felt."
"Then you also have been in Arcadia. Be thankful for your past
blessings. I do not expect you to rejoice with me; none of the
apostolic precepts are so hard as that which bids us rejoice with
those who do rejoice."
"Neither Elizabeth nor you have ever named Aspatria in your letters."
"Did you expect us to change guard over Ambar-Side? I dare say
Aspatria has grown into a buxom, rosy-cheeked woman and quite
forgotten you."
"I must go and see her."
"I think you ought. Also, you should give her her freedom. I consider
your behaviour a dog-in-the-manger atrocity."
"Can you not pick nicer words, Sarah?"
"I would not if I could."
"Sarah, tell me truly, have I lost my good looks?"
She regarded him attentively a moment, and answered: "Not quite. You
have some good points yet. You have grown thin and gray, and lost
something, and perhaps gained something; but you are not very old, and
then, you know, you have your title, and your castle, and your very
old, old family, and I suppose a good deal of money." In reality, she
was sure that he had never before been so attractive; for he had now
the magic of a countenance informed by intellect and experience, eyes
brimming with light, lips neither loose nor coarse, yet full of
passion and the faculty of enjoyment.
He smiled grimly at Sarah's list of his charms, and said, "When will
you introduce me to your future sister?"
"This evening. Come about nine. I have a few sober people who will be
delighted to hear your South American adventures. Ria goes to Lady
Chester's ball soon after nine. Do not miss your chance."
"Could I see her now?"
"You could not."
"What for?"
"Do you suppose she would leave a _modiste_ for--you?"
"I wonder where Aspatria is!"
"Go and find out."
"Sarah, who is the young lady I saw in your carriage?"
"She is the sister of the officer you saw me with, the man I am going
to marry."
"Where did you meet him?"
"At a friend's house."
"Where did you meet her?"
"Her brother brought her to my house. I asked her to stay with me, and
finally we went to Italy together."
"She has a very aristocratic manner."
"She ought to have. She was educated at Mrs. St. Alban's, and she
visits at the Earl of Arundel's, the Duke of Norfolk's, and the very
exclusive Boleyns',--Lady Mary Boleyn is her friend, and she has also
had the great advantage of my society for nearly two years."
"Then of course she is not Aspatria, and my heart is a liar, and my
memory is a traitor, and my eyes do not see correctly. I will call
about nine. I am at the Star and Garter. If she should name me at
all--"
"Do you imagine she noticed you? and in such a public place as
Howell's?"
"I really do imagine she noticed me. Ask her."
"I see you are in love again. After all that experience has done for
you! It is a Nemesis, Ulfar. I have often noticed that, however
faithless a man may be, there comes at last one woman who avenges all
the rest. Enter Nemesis at nine to-night!"
"Sarah, you are an angel."
"Thank you, Ulfar. I thought you classed me with the other side."
"As for Aspatria--"
"Life is too short to discuss Aspatria. I remember one day at Redware
being sharply requested to keep silence on that subject. The wheel of
retribution has made a perfect circle as regards Aspatria! I shall
certainly tell Ria that you have made her the heroine of your
disagreeable matrimonial romance."
"No, no, Sarah! Do not say a word to her. I must wait until nine, I
suppose? And I am so anxious and so fearful, Sarah."
"You must wait until nine. And as for the rest, I know very well that
in the present age a lover's cares and fears have
Dwindled to the smallest span.
Do go to your hotel, and get clothed and in your right mind. You are
most unbecomingly dressed. Good-by, old friend, good-by!" And she left
him with an elaborate courtesy.
Ulfar was now in a vortex. Things went around and around in his
consciousness; and whenever he endeavoured to examine events with his
reason, then feeling advanced some unsupported conviction, and threw
him back into the same senseless whirl of emotion.
He had failed to catch the point which would have given him the clew
to the whole mystery,--the identity of Brune with the splendidly
accoutred officer Sarah avowed to be her intended husband. Without
taking special note of him, Ulfar had seen certain signs of
birth, breeding, and assured position. In his mind there was a
great gulf between the haughty-looking soldier and the simple,
handsome, but rather boorish-looking young Squire of Ambar-Side.
The two individualities were as far apart in social claims as
the north and south poles are apart physically.
And if this beautiful woman were indeed Aspatria, how could he
reconcile the fact with her education at St. Alban's, her friendship
with such exalted families, her relationship to an officer of evident
birth and position? When he thought thus, he acknowledged the
impossibility; but then no sooner had he acknowledged it than his
heart passionately denied the deduction, with the simple iteration,
"It is Aspatria! It is Aspatria!"
Aspatria or not, he told himself that he was at last genuinely in
love. Every affair before was tame, pale, uninteresting. If it was not
Aspatria, then the first Aspatria was the shadow of the second and
real one; the preface to love's glorious tale; the prelude to his
song; the gray, sweet dawn to his perfect day. He could not eat, nor
sit still, nor think reasonably, nor yet stop thinking. The sun stood
still; the minutes were hours; at four o'clock he wished to fling the
timepiece out of the window.
Aspatria had the immense strength of certainty. She knew. Also, she
had Sarah to advise with. Still better, she had the conviction that
Ulfar loved her. Perhaps Sarah had exaggerated Ulfar's desperate
condition; if so, she had done it consciously, for she knew that as
soon as a woman is sure of her power she puts on an authority which
commands it. She was now only afraid that Ulfar would not be kept in
suspense long enough, that Aspatria would forgive him too easily.
"Do make yourself as puzzling as you can, for this one night,
Aspatria," she urged. "Try to outvie and outdo and even affront that
dove-like simplicity he used to adore in you, and into which you are
still apt to relapse. He told me once that you looked like a Quakeress
when he first saw you."
"I was just home from Miss Gilpin's school in Kendal. It was a Quaker
school. I have always kept a black gown ready, like the one he saw me
first in."
"No black gown to-night. I have a mind to stay here and see that you
turn the Quakeress into a princess."
"I will do all you wish. To-night you shall have your way; but poor
Ulfar must have suffered, and--"
"Poor Ulfar, indeed! Be merry; that is the best armour against love.
What ruins women? Revery and sentimentality. A woman who does not
laugh ought to be watched."
But though she lectured and advised Aspatria as to the ways of men and
the ways of love, Sarah had not much faith in her own counsels. "No
one can draw out a programme for a woman's happiness," she mused; "she
will not keep to its lines. Now, I do wonder whether she will dress
gorgeously or not? What did Solomon in all his glory wear? If Aspatria
only knew how dress catches a man's eye, and then touches his vanity,
and then sets fire to his imagination, and finally, somehow, someway,
gets to his heart! If she only knew,--
'All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are but the ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame!'"
A little before nine, Ulfar entered Sarah's drawing-room. It was
lighted with wax candles. It was sweet with fresh violets, and at the
farther end Aspatria stood by her harp. She was dressed for Lady
Chester's ball, and was waiting her chaperon; but there had been a
little rebellion against her leaving without giving her admirers one
song. Every person was suggesting his or her favourite; and she stood
smiling, uncertain, listening, watching, for one voice and face.
Her dazzling bodice was clasped with emeralds; her draperies were of
damasked gauze, shot with gold and silver, and abloom with flowers.
Her fair neck sparkled with diamonds; and the long white fingers which
touched the strings so firmly glinted with flashing gems. The moment
Ulfar entered, she saw him. His eyes, full of fiery prescience, forced
her to meet their inquiry; and then it was that she sat down and
filled the room with tinkling notes, that made every one remember the
mountains, and the merry racing of the spring winds, and the trickling
of half-hidden fountains.
Sarah advanced with him. She touched Aspatria slightly, and said:
"Hush! a moment. This is my friend Sir Ulfar Fenwick, Ria."
Ria lifted her eyes sweetly to his eyes; she bowed with the grace and
benignity of a queen, and adroitly avoided speech by turning the
melody into song:--
"I never shall forget
The mountain maid that once I met
By the cold river's side.
I met her on the mountain-side;
She watched her herds unnoticed there:
'Trim-bodiced maiden, hail!' I cried.
She answered, 'Whither, Wanderer?
For thou hast lost thy way.'"
Every word went to Ulfar's heart, and amid all the soft cries of
delight he alone was silent. She was beaming with smiles; she was
radiant as a goddess; the light seemed to vanish from the room when
she went away. Her adieu was a general one, excepting to Ulfar. On
him she turned her bright eyes, and courtesied low with one upward
glance. It set his heart on fire. He knew that glance. They might say
this or that, they might lie to him neck-deep, he knew it was
Aspatria! He was cross with Sarah. He accused her of downright
deception. He told her frankly that he believed nothing about the
soldier and his sister.
She bade him come in the morning and talk to Ria; and he asked
impetuously: "How soon? Twelve, I suppose? How am I to pass the time
until twelve to-morrow?"
"Why this haste?"
"Why this deception?"
"After seven years' indifference, are you suddenly gone mad?"
"I feel as if I was being very badly used."
"How does the real Aspatria feel? Go at once to Ambar-Side."
"The real Aspatria is here. I know it! I feel it!"
"In a court of law, what evidence would feeling be?"
"In a court of love--"
"Try it."
"I will, to-morrow, at ten o'clock."
His impetuosity pleased her. She was disposed to leave him to Aspatria
now. And Aspatria was disposed on the following morning to make his
confession very easy to him. She dressed herself in the simple black
gown she had kept ready for this event. It had the short elbow
sleeves, and the ruffle round the open throat, and the daffodil
against her snowy breast, that distinguished the first costume he had
ever seen her in. She loosened her hair and let it fall in two long
braids behind her ears. She was, as far as dress could make her so,
the Aspatria who had held the light to welcome him to Ambar-Side that
stormy night ten years ago.
He was standing in the middle of the room, restless and expectant,
when she opened the door. He called her by name, and went to meet her.
She trembled and was silent.
"Aspatria, it is you! My Life! My Soul! It is you!"
He took her hands; they were as cold as ice. He drew her close to his
side; he stooped to see her eyes; he whispered word upon word of
affection,--sweet-meaning nouns and adjectives that caught a real
physical heat from the impatient heart and tongue that forged and
uttered them.
"Forgive me, my dearest! Forgive me fully! Forgive me at once and
altogether! Aspatria, I love you! I love none but you! I will adore
you all my life! Speak one word to me, one word, my love, one word:
say only 'Ulfar!'"
She forgot in a moment all that she had suffered. She forgot all she
had promised Sarah, all her intents of coldness, all reproaches; she
forgot even to forgive him. She just put her arms around his neck and
kissed him. She blotted out the past forever in that one whispered
word, "Ulfar."
And then he took her to his heart; he kissed her for very wonder; he
kissed her for very joy; but most of all he kissed her for fervent
love. Then once more life was an "Interlude in Heaven." Every hour
held some sweet surprise, some accidental joy. It was Brune, it was
Sarah, it was some eulogium of Ulfar in the great London weeklies. He
had fought in the good fight for freedom; he had done great deeds of
mercy as well as of valour; he had crossed primeval forests, and
brought back wonderful medicines, and dyes, and many new specimens for
the botanist and the naturalist. The papers were never weary in
praising his pluck, his bravery, his generosity, and his endurance;
the Geographical Society sent him its coveted blue ribbon. In his own
way Ulfar had made himself a fit mate for the new Aspatria.
And she was a constant wonder to him. Nothing in all his strange
experience touched his heart like the thought of his simple, patient
wife, studying to please him, to be worthy of his love. Every day
revealed her in some new and charming light. She was one hundred
Aspatrias in a single, lovable, lovely woman. On what ever subject
Ulfar spoke, she understood, supplemented, sympathized with, or
assisted him. She could talk in French and Italian; she was not
ignorant of botany and natural science, and she was delighted to be
his pupil.
In a single month they became all the world to each other; and then
they began to long for the lonely old castle fronting the wild North
Sea, to plan for its restoration, and for a sweet home-life, which
alone could satisfy the thirst of their hearts for each other's
presence. At the end of June they went northward.
It was the month of the rose, and the hedges were pink, and the garden
was a garden of roses. There were banks of roses, mazes of roses,
walks and standards of roses, masses of glorious colour, and breezes
scented with roses. Butterflies were chasing one another among the
flowers; nightingales, languid with love, were singing softly above
them. And in the midst was a gray old castle, flying its old border
flags, and looking as happy as if it were at a festival.
Aspatria was enraptured, spellbound with delight. With Ulfar she
wandered from one beauty to another, until they finally reached a
great standard of pale-pink roses. Their loveliness was beyond
compare; their scent went to the brain like some divine essence. It
was a glory,--a prayer,--a song of joy! Aspatria stood beside it, and
seemed to Ulfar but its mortal manifestation. She was clothed in a
gown of pale-pink brocade, with a little mantle of the same, trimmed
with white lace, and a bonnet of white lace and pink roses. She was a
perfect rose of womanhood. She was the glory of his life, his prayer,
his song of joy!
"It is the loveliest place in the world!" he said, "and you! you are
the loveliest woman! My sweet Aspatria!"
She smiled divinely. "And yet," she answered, "I remember, Ulfar, a
song of yours that said something very different. Listen:--
'There is a rose of a hundred leaves,
_But the wild rose is the sweetest_!'"
And as she sang the words, Ulfar had a vision of a young girl, fresh
and pure as a mountain bluebell, in her scrimp black frock. He saw the
wind blowing it tight over her virgin form; he saw her fair, childish,
troubled face as she kissed him farewell in the vicar's meadows; and
then he saw the glorious woman, nobly planned, perfect on every side,
that the child wife had grown to.
So, when she ceased, he pulled the fairest rose on the tree; he took
from it every thorn, he put it in her breast, he kissed the rose, and
he kissed her rose-like face. Then he took up the song where she
dropped it; and hand in hand, keeping time to its melody, they crossed
the threshold of their blessed home.
"The robin sang beneath the eaves:
'There is a rose of a hundred leaves,
_But the wild rose is the sweetest_!'
"The nightingale made answer clear:
'_O darling rose! more fair, more dear!
O rose of a hundred leaves_!'"
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber Notes
Archaic spelling preserved, including pottle and alterative.
Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_.