CHAPTER III.
ONLY BROTHER WILL.
It was a dull raw day in late autumn, especially dull and raw near thesea, where there was an evil-looking sky to the eastward. UlfarFenwick stood at a window in Castle Fenwick which commanded the black,white-frilled surges. He was watching anxiously the point at which thepale gray wall of fog was thickest, a wall of inconceivable height,resting on the sea, reaching to the clouds, when suddenly thereemerged from it a beautifully built schooner-yacht. She cut her waythrough the mysterious barrier as if she had been a knife, and cameforward with short, stubborn plunges.
All over the North Sea there are desolate places full of the cries ofparting souls, but nowhere more desolate spaces than around FenwickCastle; and as the winter was approaching, Ulfar was anxious to escapeits loneliness. His yacht had been taking in supplies; she was makingfor the pier at the foot of Fenwick Cliff, and he was dressed for thevoyage and about to start upon it. He was going to the Mediterranean,to Civita Vecchia, and his purpose was the filial one of bringing homethe remains of the late baronet. He had promised faithfully to seethem laid with those of his fore-elders on the windy Northumberlandcoast; and he felt that this duty must be done, ere he couldcomfortably travel the westward route he had so long desired.
He was slowly buttoning his pilot-coat, when he heard a heavy stepupon the flagged passage. Many such steps had been up and down itthat hour, but none with the same fateful sound. He turned his faceanxiously to the door, and as he did so, it was flung open, as if byan angry man, and William Anneys walked in, frowning and handling hisbig walking-stick with a subdued passion that filled the room as if ithad been suddenly charged with electricity. The two men lookedsteadily at each other, neither of them flinching, neither of thembetraying by the movement of an eyelash the emotion that sent theblood 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 thefifteenth of this month."
"Suppose I refuse to do so? I am going to Italy for my father'sbody."
"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 willgive me satisfaction first; and if you escape the fate you welldeserve, 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 knowthere is a 'throw' to kill; and I will 'throw' until I do kill,--or amkilled. 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 LadyFenwick?"
"Look you, sir! I care nothing for lordships or ladyships; such thingsare matterless to me. But your desertion has set wicked suspicionsloose about Miss Anneys; and the woman they dare to think her, youshall 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 daredto 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 orbrothers or sons responsible for every ill word they spoke. But theythink wrong, and they make me feel it everywhere. They look it, theyshy off from Aspatria,--oh, you know well enough the kind of thinggoing on."
"A wrong thought of Miss Anneys is atrocious. The angels are not morepure." He said the words softly, as if to himself; and William Anneysstood watching him with an impatience that in a moment or two foundvent in an emphatic stamp with his foot.
"I have no time to waste, sir. Are you afraid to sup the ill broth youhave brewed?"
"Afraid!"
"I see you have no mind to marry. Well, then, we will fight! I likethat better."
"I will fight both you and your brother, make any engagement youwish; but if the fair name of Miss Anneys is in danger, I have a priorengagement to marry her. I will keep it first. Afterward I am at yourservice, Squire, yours and your brother's; for I tell you plainly thatI 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 theeleventh 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 youlittle smiling in the future." And he passed his walking-stick to hisleft, 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 atwhat hour on the fifteenth?"
"At Aspatria Church, at eleven o'clock."
"Aspatria?"
"Ay, to be sure! There will be witnesses there, I can tellyou,--generations of them, centuries of generations. They will seethat you do the right thing, or they will dog your steps till you havepaid 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 wouldbe willing to leave you to it, if you shab off, and I am not sure butyou will."
"William Anneys, you are sure I will not. You are saying such thingsto provoke me to a fight."
"What reason have I to be sure? All the vows you made to Aspatria youhave 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 poorlittle lass, what can she do but pine herself into a grave?"
"I will listen to you no longer, Squire Anneys. If your sister's goodname 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 andyour brother whatever satisfaction you desire. On the fifteenth ofthis 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 missit, unless you never look for it."
"Sir!"
"Unless you never look for it. I do not feel to trust you. But this isa promise made to a man, made to William Anneys; and he will see thatyou keep it, or else that you pay for the breaking of it."
"Good-morning, Squire. There is no necessity to prolong such anunpleasant visit."
"Nay, I will not 'good-morning' with you. I have not a good wish ofany kind for you."
With these defiant words he left the castle, and Fenwick threw off hispilot-coat and sat down to consider. First thoughts generally comefrom the selfish, and therefore the worst, side of any nature; andFenwick's first thoughts were that his yacht was ready to sail, andthat he could go away, and stay away until Aspatria married, or someother favourable change took place. He cared little for England. Withgood management he could bring home and bury his father's dust withoutthe knowledge of William Anneys. Then there was the west! America wasbefore him, north and south. He had always promised himself to seethe 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 herealized very clearly what suspicion, what the slant eye, thewhispered word, the scornful glance, the doubtful shrug, meant inthose primitive valleys. And he had loved the girl dearly; he hadpromised to marry her. If she wished him to keep his promise, if itwas a necessity to her honour, then he would redeem with his ownhonour his foolish words. He told himself constantly that he had not aparticle of fear, that he despised Will and Brune Anneys and theirbrutal vows of vengeance; but--but perhaps they did unconsciouslyinfluence him. Life was sweet to Ulfar Fenwick, full of new dreams andhopes set in all kinds of new surroundings.
For Aspatria Anneys whyshould he die? It was better to marry her. The girl had been sweet tohim, very sweet! After all, he was not sure but he preferred that sheshould be so bound to him as to prevent her marrying any other man. Hestill liked her well enough to feel pleasure in the thought that hehad 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 anyman." His horse was at the last point of endurance when he reachedSeat-Ambar, he himself wet and muddy, "cross and unreasonable beyondeverything." Aspatria feared the very sound of his voice. She fled toher room and bolted the door. At that hour she felt as if death wouldbe the best thing for her; she had brought only sorrow and trouble andapprehended disgrace to all who loved her.
"I think God has forgotten me too!" she cried, glancing with eyes fullof anguish to the pale Crucified One hanging alone and forsaken in thedarkest corner of the room. Only the white figure was visible; thecross had become a part of the shadows. She remembered the joyous,innocent prayers that had been wont to make peace in her heart andmusic on her lips; and she looked with a sorrow that was almostreproach at her Book of Common Prayer, lying dusty and neglected onits velvet cushion. In her rebellious, hopeless grief, she had missedall 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 equaldespair.
Yet when she heard her brother Will's voice she knew not of any othersanctuary than the little table which held her Bible and Prayer Book,and upon which the wan, sad ivory Christ looked down. In speechlessmisery, with clasped hands and low-bowed head, she knelt there. Will'svoice, strenuous and stern, reached her at intervals. She knew fromthe silence in the kitchen and farm-offices, and the hasty movementsof the servants, that Will was cross; and she greatly feared hereldest 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 hername. She felt it impossible to answer, impossible to move; and as heascended the stairs and came grumbling along the corridor, shecrouched lower and lower. He was at her door, his hand on the latch;then a few piteous words broke from her lips: "Help, Christ, Saviourof the world!"
Instantly, like a flash of lightning, came the answer, "It is I. Benot afraid." She said the words herself, gave to her heart the promiseand the comfort of it, and, so saying them, she drew back the bolt andstood facing her brother. He had a candle in his hand, and it showedher his red, angry face, and showed him the pale, resolute countenanceof a woman who had prayed and been comforted.
He walked into the room and put the candle down on a small table inits centre. They both stood a moment by it; then Aspatria lifted herface to her brother and kissed him. He was taken aback and softened,and troubled at his heart. Her suffering was so evident; she was sucha gray shadow of her former self.
"Aspatria! Aspatria! my little lass!" Then he stopped and looked ather again.
"What is it, Will? Dear Will, what is it?"
"You must be married on the fifteenth. Get something ready. I will seeMrs. Frostham and ask her to help you a bit."
"Whom am I to marry, Will? On the fifteenth? It is impossible! See howill I am!"
"You are to marry Ulfar Fenwick. Ill? Of course you are ill; but youmust go to Aspatria Church on the fifteenth. Ulfar Fenwick will meetyou there. He will make you his wife."
"You have forced him to marry me. I will not go, I will not go. I willnot marry Ulfar Fenwick."
"You shall go, if I carry you in my arms! You shall marry him, orI--will--kill--you!"
"Then kill me! Death does not terrify me. Nothing can be more cruelhard than the life I have lived for a long time."
He looked at her steadily, and she returned the gaze. His face waslike a flame; hers was white as snow.
"There are things in life worse than death, Aspatria. There isdishonour, disgrace, shame."
"Is sorrow dishonour? Is it a disgrace to love? Is it a shame to weepwhen 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 theydrop their voices and shake their heads; they wonder, and they thinkevil. Your good name is being smiled and shaken away, and I cannotfind any one, man or woman, to thrash for it."
She stood listening to him with wide-open eyes, and lips dropping alittle 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 wordsfrom her mouth; they almost shivered; they broke in two as they fellhalting on the ear.
"Well, I must say he did not need forcing, when he heard your goodname was in danger. He said, manly enough, that he would make it goodwith his own name. I do not much think I could have either frightenedor flogged him into marrying you."
"Oh, Will! I cannot marry him in this way! Let people say wickedthings of me, if they will."
"Nay, I will not! I cannot help them thinking evil; but they shall notlook 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 yougave a dance next week, you could not get a girl in Allerdale toaccept your invitation."
"Will!"
"It is the truth. You must stop all this by marrying Ulfar Fenwick. Hesaw 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 onit; and then, as softly as if he was afraid of waking her, he went outof the room. Outside the door he found Brune. He had taken off hisshoes, and was in his stocking-feet. Will grasped him by the shoulderand led him to his own chamber.
"What were you watching me for? What were you listening to me for? Ihave a mind to hit you, Brune."
"You had better not hit me, Will. I was not bothering myself aboutyou. I was watching Aspatria. I was listening, because I knew themadman in you had got loose, and I was feared for my sister. I was notgoing to let you say or do things you would be sorry to death for whenyou came to yourself. And so you are going to let that villain marryAspatria? You are not of my mind, Will. I would not let him put a footinto 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, andmind your own affairs."
And Brune, brought up in the religious belief of the natural supremacyof the elder brother, went off without another word, but with a heartfull to overflowing of turbulent, angry thoughts.
In the morning Will went to see Mrs. Frostham. He told her of hisinterview with Ulfar Fenwick, and begged her to help Aspatria withsuch preparations as could be made. But neither to her nor yet toAspatria did he speak of Fenwick's avowed intention to leave his wifeafter the ceremony. In the first place, he did not believe thatFenwick would dare to give him such a cowardly insult; and then, also,he thought that the sight of Aspatria's suffering would make himtender toward her. William Anneys's simple, kindly soul did notunderstand that of all things the painful results of our sins are themost irritating. The hatred we ought to give to the sin or to thesinner, 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, exceptabout the farm business. Aspatria spent most of her time in herown room with a sempstress, who was making the long-delayedwedding-dress. The silk for it had been bought more than a year, andit had lost some of its lustrous colour. Mrs. Frostham paid a shortvisit every day, and occasionally Alice Frostham came with her. Shewas a very pretty girl, gentle and affectionate to Aspatria; andjust because of her kindness Will determined at some
time to makeher Mistress of Seat-Ambar.
But in the house there was a great depression, a depression that noone could avoid feeling. Will gave no orders for wedding-festivities;a great dinner and ball would have been a necessity under the usualcircumstances, but there were no arrangements even for a breakfast.Aspatria wondered at the omission, but she did not dare to questionWill; indeed. Will appeared to avoid her as much as he could.
Really, William Anneys was very anxious and miserable. He had nodependence upon Fenwick's promise, and he felt that if Fenwickdeceived him there was nothing possible but the last vengeance. Hehad this thought constantly in his mind; and he was quietly orderingthings on the farm for a long absence, and for Brune's management orsuccession. He paid several visits to Whitehaven, where was hisbanker, and to Gosport, where his lawyer lived. He felt, during thatterrible interval of suspense, very much as a man under sentence ofdeath might feel.
The morning of the fifteenth broke chill and dark, with a promise ofrain. Great Gable was carrying on a conflict with an army of grayclouds assailing his summit and boding no good for the weather. Thefog rolled and eddied from side to side of the mountains, whichprojected their black forms against a ghastly, neutral tint behindthem; and the air was full of that melancholy stillness which so oftenpervades the last days of autumn.
Squire Anneys had slept little for two weeks, and he had been awakeall the night before. While yet very early, he had every one in thehouse called. Still there were no preparations for company orfeasting. Brune came down grumbling at a breakfast by candle-light,and he and William drank their coffee and made a show of eating almostin silence. But there was an unspeakable tenderness in William'sheart, if he had known how to express it. He looked at Brune with anew 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 hispromise, and avenge the insult to the Anneys, if he, William, shouldgive his life in vain? Out of these questions many others arose; buthe was naturally a man of few words, and not able to talk himself intoa conviction that he was doing right; nor yet was he able to giveutterance to the vague objections which, if defined by words, mightperhaps have changed his feelings and his plans.
He had sent Aspatria word that she must be ready by ten o'clock. Ateight she began to dress. Her sleep had been broken and miserable. Shelooked anxiously in the glass at her face. It was as white as the silkrobe she was to wear. A feeling of dislike of the unhappy garment rosein her heart. She had bought the silk in the very noon of her love andhopes, a shining piece of that pearl-like tint which only the mostbrilliant freshness and youth can becomingly wear. Many littleaccessories were wanting. She tried the Roman cameos with it, and theylooked heavy; she knew in her womanly heart that it needed the lustreof gems, the sparkle of diamonds or rubies.
Mrs. Frostham came a little later, and assisted her in her toilet; buta passing thought of the four bridemaids she had once chosen for thisoffice made her eyes dim, while the stillness of the house, the utterneglect of all symbols of rejoicing, gave an ominous and sorrowfulatmosphere to the bride-robing. Still, Aspatria looked very handsome;for as the melancholy toilet offices proceeded with so little interestand so little sympathy, a sense of resentment had gradually gatheredin the poor girl's heart. It made her carry herself proudly, itbrought a flush to her cheeks, and a flashing, trembling light to hereyes which Mrs. Frostham could not comfortably meet.
A few minutes before ten, she threw over all her fateful finery alarge white cloak, which added a decided grace and dignity to herappearance. It was a garment Ulfar had sent her from London,--a long,mantle-like wrap, made of white cashmere, and lined with quiltedwhite satin. Long cords and tassels of chenille fastened it at thethroat, and the hood was trimmed with soft white fur. She drew thehood over her head, she felt glad to hide the wreath of orange-budsand roses which Mrs. Frostham had insisted upon her wearing,--the signand symbol of her maidenhood.
Will looked at her with stern lips, but as he wrapped up hersatin-sandalled feet in the carriage, he said softly to her, "Godbless you, Aspatria!" His voice trembled, but not more than Aspatria'sas 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 ofher. The Frosthams, the Dawsons, the Bellendens, the Atkinsons, andthe Lutons followed. Will had invited every one to the church, andcuriosity brought those who were not moved by sympathy or regard.Fortunately the rain held off, though the air was damp and exceedinglydepressing.
When they arrived at Aspatria Church, they found the yard full; everygravestone was occupied by a little party of gossips. At the gatethere was a handsome travelling-chariot with four horses. It lifted agreat weight of apprehension from William Anneys, for it told him thatFenwick had kept his word. He helped Aspatria to alight, and his heartached for her. How would she be able to walk between that crowd ofgazing, curious men and women? He held her arm tight against his bigheart, and Brune, carefully watching her, followed close behind.
But Aspatria's inner self had taken possession of the outer woman. Shewalked firmly and proudly, with an erect grace, without hesitation andwithout hurry, toward her fate. Something within her kept saying wordsof love and encouragement; she knew not what they were, only theystrengthened her like wine. She passed the church door whispering thepromise given her,--"It is I. Be not afraid." And then her eyes fellupon the ancient stone font, at which her father and mother had namedher. She put out her hand and just touched its holy chalice.
The church was crowded with a curious and not unsympatheticcongregation. Aspatria Anneys was their own, a dales-woman by athousand years of birthright. Fenwick was a stranger. If he were goingto 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 withWill. There was an undefined expectation of something unusual, ofsomething more than a wedding. This feeling, though unexpressed, madeitself felt in a very pronounced way. Will and Brune lookedconfidingly around; Aspatria gathered courage with every step. Shefelt that she was among her own people, living and dead.
As soon as they really entered the church, they saw Fenwick. He waswith an officer wearing the uniform of the Household Troops; andhe was evidently pointing out to him the ancient tombs of theAmbar-Anneys family, the Crusaders in stone, with sheathed swordsand hands folded in prayer, and those of the family abbots, adornedwith richly floriated crosses.
When he saw Aspatria he bowed, and advanced rapidly to the altar. Shehad loosened her cloak and flung back her hood, and she watched hisapproach with eyes that seemed two separate souls of love and sorrow.One glance from them troubled him to the seat of life. He motioned tothe waiting clergyman, and took his place beside his bride. There wasa dead stillness in the church, and a dead stillness outside; theneighing of a horse sounded sharp, imperative, fateful. A ripple of asmile followed; it was a lucky omen to hear a horse neigh. Bruneglanced at his sister, but she had not heeded it. Her whole being wasswallowed up in the fact that she was standing at Ulfar's side, thatshe was going to be his wife.
The aged clergyman was fumbling with the Prayer Book: "The Form ofSolemnization of Matrimony" seemed hard to find. And so vagrant isthought, that while he turned the leaves Aspatria remembered thetravelling-chariot, and wondered whether Ulfar meant to carry her awayin it, and what she would do for proper clothing. Will ought to havetold her something of the future. How cruel every one had been! Ittook but a moment for these and many other thoughts to invadeAspatria's heart, and spread dismay and anxiety and again the sense ofresentment.
Then she heard the clergyman begin. His voice was like that of someone speaking in a dream, till she sharply called herself together,hearing also Ulfar's voice, and knowing that she too would be calledupon for her assent. She glanced up at Ulfar, who was dressed withgreat
care and splendour and looking very handsome, and said her "Iwill" with the glance. Ulfar could not receive it unmoved; he lookedsteadily at her, and then he saw the ruin of youth that hisfaithlessness had made. Remorse bit him like a serpent, but remorse isnot repentance. Then William Anneys gave his sister to his enemy; andthe gift was like death to him, and the look accompanying the giftfilled Ulfar's heart with a contemptuous anger fatal to all juster orkinder feelings.
When the service was ended, Fenwick turned to Aspatria and offered herhis hand. She put hers into his, and so he led her down the aisle,and through the churchyard, to her own carriage. William had followedclose. He wondered if Fenwick meant to take his wife with him, and heresolved to give him the opportunity to do so. But as soon as heperceived that the bridegroom would carry out his threat, and deserthis bride at the church gates, he stepped forward and said,--
"That is enough, Sir Ulfar Fenwick. I have made you keep your word. Iwill care for your wife. She shall neither bear your name nor yet takeanything from your bounty."
Fenwick paid no heed to his brother-in-law. He looked at Aspatria. Shewas whiter than snow; she had the pallor of death. He lifted his hatand said,--
"Farewell, Lady Fenwick. We shall meet no more."
"Sir Ulfar," she answered calmly, "it is not my will that we met hereto-day."
"And as for meeting no more," said Brune, with passionate contempt, "Iwill warrant that is not in your say-so, Ulfar Fenwick."
As he spoke, Fenwick's friend handed Will Anneys a card; then theydrove rapidly away. Will was carefully wrapping his sister for hersolitary ride back to Seat-Ambar; and he did this with forceddeliberation, trying to appear undisturbed by what had occurred; for,since it had happened, he wished his neighbours to think he had fullyexpected it. And while so engaged he found opportunity to whisper toAspatria: "Now, my little lass, bear up as bravely as may be. It isonly one hour. Only one hour, dearie! Don't you try to speak. Onlykeep your head high till you get home, darling!"
So the sad procession turned homeward, Aspatria sitting alone in hercarriage, William and Brune riding on either side of her, the squiresand dames bidden to the ceremony following slowly behind. Some talkedsoftly of the affair; some passionately assailed William Anneys fornot 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 hadto sit erect, she had to bear the wondering, curious gaze not only ofher friends, but of the hinds and peasant-women in the small hamletsbetween the church and Seat-Ambar; she had to endure her own longingand disappointment, and make a poor attempt to smile when the childrenflung their little posies of late flowers into the passing carriage.
To the last moment she bore it. "A good, brave girl!" said Will, ashe left her at her own room door. "My word! it is better to have goodblood than good fortune: good blood never was beat! Aspatria is only alittle lass, but she is more than a match for yon villain! A bigvillain he is, a villain with a latchet!"
The miserable are sacred. All through that wretched afternoon no onetroubled Aspatria. Will and Brune sat by the parlour fire, for themost part silent. The rain, which had barely held off until theirreturn from the church, now beat against the window-panes, anddrenched and scattered even the hardy Michaelmas daisies. The housewas as still as if there had been death instead of marriage in it. Nowand then Brune spoke, and sometimes William answered him, andsometimes he did not.
At last, after a long pause, Brune asked: "What was it Fenwick'sfriend 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 SceptreInn, 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 strangerin out of the storm!"
"Ay, it is a venturesome thing to do. How can any one tell what astranger may bring in with him?"