CHAPTER IV.
FOR MOTHER'S SAKE.
In the upper chamber where Will had left his sister, a great mysteryof sorrow was being endured. Aspatria felt as if all had been. Lifehad no more joy to give, and no greater grief to inflict. Sheundressed with rapid, trembling fingers; her wedding finery washateful in her sight. On the night before she had folded all her storeof clothing, and laid it ready to put in a trunk. She had been quitein the dark as to her destiny; the only thing that appeared certain toher was that she would have to leave home. Perhaps she would go withUlfar from the church door. In that case Will would have to send herclothing, 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 motherhad worn it constantly during the last year of her life; and Aspatriahad put it away, as something too sacred for ordinary use. She nowfolded it around her shoulders, and sat down. Usually, when thingstroubled her, she was restless and kept in motion, but this troublewas too bitter and too great to resist; she was quiet, she took itsblows passively, and they smote her on every side.
Could she ever forget that cruel ride home, ever cease to burn andshiver when she remembered the eyes that had scanned her during itsprogress? The air seemed full of them. She covered her face to avoidthe pitying, wondering, scornful glances. But this ride through thevalley 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 ather side. It was his desertion that was so distracting to her. She hadthought of many sorrows in connection with this forced marriage, butthis sorrow had never suggested itself as possible.
Therefore, when Ulfar bade her farewell she had felt as if standing onthe void of the universe. It was the superhuman woman within her thathad answered him, and that had held up her head and had strengthenedher for her part all through that merciless ride. And the sight of herhandsome, faithless lover, the tones of his voice, the touch of hishand, his half-respectful, half-pitying kindness, had awakened in herheart a tenfold love for him.
For she understood then, for the first time, her social andeducational inferiority. She felt even that she had done herself lessthan justice in her fine raiment: her country breeding and simplebeauty would have appeared to greater advantage in the white merinoshe had desired to wear. She had been forced into a dress thataccentuated her deficiencies. At that hour she thought she could neversee Mrs. Frostham again.
To these tempestuous, humiliating, heart-breaking reflections thestorm outside made an angry accompaniment. The wind howled down thechimney and wailed around the house, and the rain beat against thewindow and pattered on the flagged walks. The darkness came on early,and the cold grew every hour more searching. She was not insensible tothese physical discomforts, but they seemed so small a part of hermisery that she made no resistance to their attack. Will and Brune,sitting almost speechless downstairs, were both thinking of her. Whenit was quite dark they grew unhappy. First one and then the othercrept 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 withinsuffered. No thread of light came from beneath the door: she was inthe dark, and she had eaten nothing all day.
About six o'clock Will could bear it no longer. He knocked softly ather 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. Ittold her of a suffering almost equalling her own. She rose from thechair in which she had been sitting for hours, and went to him. Theroom was dark, the passage was dark; he saw nothing but the denserdark of her figure, and her white face above it. She saw nothing buthis great bulk and his shining eyes. But she felt the love flowingout from his heart to her, she felt his sorrow and his sympathy, andit comforted her. She said: "Will, do not fret about me. I amover-getting the shame and sorrow. Yes, I will have a cup of tea, andtell Tabitha to make a fire here. Dear Will, I have been a greatcare and shame to you."
"Ay, you have, Aspatria; but I would rather die than miss you, mylittle lass."
This interview gave a new bent to Aspatria's thoughts. As she drankthe tea, and warmed her chilled feet before the blaze, she took intoconsideration what misery her love for Ulfar Fenwick had brought toher brothers' once happy home, the anxiety, the annoyance, the shame,the ill-will and quarrelling, the humiliations that Will and Brune hadbeen compelled to endure. Then suddenly there flashed across her mindthe card given to Will by Ulfar's friend. She was not too simple toconceive of its meaning. It was a defiance of some kind, and she knewhow Will would answer it. Her heart stood still with terror.
She had seen Will and Ulfar wrestling; she had heard Will say toBrune, when Ulfar was absent, "He knows little about it; when I hadthat last grip, I could have flung him into eternity." It was commonenough for dalesmen quarrelling to have a "fling" with one another andstand by its results. If Will and Ulfar met thus, one or both would beirremediably injured. In their relation to her, both were equallydear. She would have given her poor little life cheerfully for thelove of either. Her cup shook in her hand. She had a sense of hurry inthe matter, that drove her like a leaf before a strong wind. If Willgot to bed before she saw him, he might be away in the morning ere shewas aware. She put down her cup, and while she stood a moment tocollect her strength and thoughts, the subject on all its sidesflashed clearly before her.
A minute afterward she opened the parlour door. Brune sat bentforward, with a poker in his hands. He was tracing a woman's name inthe ashes, though he was hardly conscious of the act. Will's head wasthrown back against his chair; he seemed to be asleep. But whenAspatria opened the door, he sat upright and looked at her. A pallorlike death spread over his face; it was the crimson shawl, hismother's shawl, which caused it. Wearing it, Aspatria closelyresembled her. Will had idolized his mother in life, and he worshippedher memory. If Aspatria had considered every earthly way of touchingWill'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 Aspatriasat down upon it, and then stretched out her left hand to Brune. Thetwo 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 greatsteadiness,--"Will and Brune, I am sorry to have given you so muchshame 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 tryto be cheerful and to make home cheerful, try to carry on life as itused to be before he came. We will not let people talk of him, we willnot 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 friendgave? You will not go near Ulfar, Will? Please do not!"
"I have a bit of business to settle with him, Aspatria, and then Inever 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, butno 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. Mywedding-dress was heavy as a cross, and that foolish wreath of flowerswas a wreath of cruel thorns. I was pitied and scorned, till I feltas if my heart--my real heart--was all bruised and torn. I havesuffered so much, Will, spare me more suffering. Will! Will! for yourlittle sister's sake, put that card in the fire, and stay here, righthere 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 thingfor a man to do. But, Will, dear, you stand in father's place, you aresitting in father's chair; what would he say to you?"
"He would say, 'Give the rascal a good thrashing, Will. When a manwrongs a woman, there is no other punishment for h
im. Thrash him towithin an inch of his cruel, selfish, contemptible life!' That is whatfather would say, Aspatria. I know it, I feel it."
"If you will not give up your revenge for me, nor yet for father, thenI ask you for mother's sake! What would mother say to-night if shewere here?--very like she is here. Listen to her, Will. She issaying, 'Spare my little girl any more sorrow and shame, Will, my boyWill!'--that is what mother would say. And if you hurt Ulfar you hurtme also, and if Ulfar hurts you my heart will break. The fell-side isringing now with my troubles. If I have any more, I will go away whereno one can find me. For mother's sake, Will! For mother's sake!"
The strong man was sobbing behind his hands, the struggle was aterrific one. Brune watched it with tears streaming unconsciously downhis cheeks. Aspatria sunk at Will's feet, and buried her face on hisknees.
"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'ssake!"
"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 weepinggirl. She rose up. She gently moved away his hands. She kissed hiseyelids. She said, with an irresistible entreaty: "Look at me, Will. Iam 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 gazewander to the crimson shawl. He began to sob like a child.
"You may go, Aspatria," he said, in broken words. "If you ask meanything in mother's name, I have no power to say no."
He walked to the window and looked out into the dark stormy night, andBrune motioned to Aspatria to go away. He knew Will would regainhimself better in her absence. She was glad to go. As soon as Will hadgranted her request, she fell to the lowest ebb of life. She couldhardly drag herself up the long, dark stairs. She dropped asleep assoon as she reached her room.
It was a bitter awakening. The soul feels sorrow keenest at the firstmoments of consciousness. It has been away, perhaps, in happy scenes,or it has been lulling itself in deep repose, and then suddenly it iscalled to lift again the heavy burden of its daily life. Aspatriastood in her cold, dim room; and even while shivering in her thinnight-dress, with bare feet treading the polished oak floor, shehastily put out of her sight the miserable wedding-garments. A largedower-chest stood conveniently near. She opened it wide, and flungdress and wreath and slippers and cloak into it. The lid fell from herhands with a great clang, and she said to herself, "I will never openit again."
The storm still continued. She dressed in simple household fashion,and went downstairs. Brune sat by the fire. He said: "I was waitingfor you, Aspatria. Will is in the barn. He had his coffee and baconlong ago."
"Brune, will you be my friend through all this trouble?"
"I will stand by you through thick and thin, Aspatria. There is myhand on it."
About great griefs we do not chatter; and there was no furtherdiscussion of those events which had been barely turned away fromtragedy and death. Murder and despairing love and sorrow might have asecret dwelling-place in Seat-Ambar, but it was in the background. Thefront of life went on as smoothly as ever; the cows were milked, thesheep 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 leanupon. She assumed certain duties, and performed them; and the housewas pleasanter for her oversight. Will and Brune came far oftener tosit at the parlour fireside, when they found Aspatria there to welcomethem. And so the days and weeks followed one another, bringing withthem those commonplace duties and interests which give to existence asense of stability and order. No one spoke of Fenwick; but all themore Aspatria nursed his image in her heart and her imagination. Hehad dressed himself for his marriage with great care and splendour.Never had he looked so handsome and so noble in her eyes, and neveruntil that hour had she realized her social inferiority to him, herlack of polish and breeding, her ignorance of all things which a womanof birth and wealth ought to know and to possess.
This was a humiliating acknowledgment; but it was Aspatria's firstupward step, for with it came an invincible determination to makeherself worthy of her husband's love and companionship. The hope andthe object gave a new colour to her life. As she went about her simpleduties, as she sat alone in her room, as she listened to her brotherstalking, it occupied, strengthened, and inspired her. Dark as thepresent was, it held the hope of a future which made her blush andtingle to its far-off joy. To learn everything, to go everywhere, tobecome a brilliant woman, a woman of the world, to make her husbandadmire and adore her,--these were the dreams that brightened the long,sombre winter, and turned the low dim rooms into a palace ofenchantment.
She was aware of the difficulties in her way. She thought first ofasking Will to permit her to go to a school in London. But she knew hewould never consent. She had no friends to whom she could confide herinnocent plans, she had as yet no money in her own control. But inless than two years she would be of age. Her fortune would then be ather disposal, and the law would permit her to order her own life. Inthe mean time she could read and study at home: when the spring cameshe would see the vicar, and he would lend her books from his library.There was an Encyclopaedia in the house; she got together its scatteredvolumes, and began to make herself familiar with its _melange_ ofinformation.
In such efforts her heart was purified from all bitterness, woundedvanity, and impatience. Life was neither lonely nor monotonous, shehad a noble object to work for. So the winter passed, and the springcame again. All over the fells the ewes and their lambs made constantwork for the shepherds; and Aspatria greatly pleased Will by goingout frequently to pick up the perishing, weakly lambs and succourthem.
One day in April she took a bottle of warm milk and a bit of spongeand went up Calder Fell. On the first reach of the fell she found adying 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 tosleep in her arms.
The grass was green and fresh, the sun warm; the whins sheltered herfrom 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 atax-cart, and afterward two old men going ditching. She hardly liftedher head; every one knew Aspatria Anneys. When the shadows told herthat it was near noon, she rose to go home, holding the lamb in herarms. At that moment a carriage came slowly from behind the hedge.She saw the fine horses with their glittering harness, and knew itwas a strange vehicle in Ambar-Side, so she sat down again until itshould 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. Atthe moment she stood with the lamb in her arms, Ulfar had known hiswife. Lady Redware saw her almost as quickly, and in some occult wayshe transferred, by a glance, the knowledge to Sarah. The carriage wasgoing very slowly; the beauty of the thrown-back head, the simplicityof her dress, the pastoral charm of her position, all were distinct.Ulfar looked at her with a fire of passion in his eyes, Lady Redwarewith annoyance. Sarah asked, with a mocking laugh, "Is that reallyLittle Bo Peep?" The joke fell flat. Ulfar did not immediately answerit; 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 thatSarah had expressed herself strongly about the order.
"I have just passed a week at Oxford among the Reverends; all thingsconsidered, I prefer the Capuchins. When you have dined with a lordbishop, you wa
nt to become a socialist."
"Your Oxford friends are very nice people, Sarah."
"Excellent people, Elizabeth, quite superior people, and they are allsure not only of going to heaven, but also of joining the very bestsociety 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-wayplace? 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 serpentand the apple!"
"Come, Ulfar!" said Lady Redware, "do try to be agreeable. You used tobe so delightful! Was he not, Sarah?"
"Was he? I have forgotten, Elizabeth. Since that time a great deal ofwater has run into the sea."
"If you want an ill-natured opinion about yourself, by all means go toa woman for it." And Ulfar enunciated this dictum with a very scornfulshrug of his shoulders.
"Ulfar!"
"It is so, Elizabeth."
"Never mind him, dear!" said Sarah. "I do not. And I have noticed thatthe men who give bad characters to women have usually much worse onesthemselves. I think Ulfar is quite ready for American society and itsliberal ideas." And Sarah drew her shawl into her throat, and lookeddefiantly at Ulfar.
"The Americans are all socialists. I have read that, Ulfar. You knowwhat these liberal ideas come to,--always socialism."
"Do not be foolish, Elizabeth. Socialism never comes from liberalityof 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 attheir worst they must mend. Ulfar, lately, is always at his worst, andhe never mends."
There was really some excuse for Ulfar; he was suffering keenly, andneither of the two women cared to recognize the fact. He had justreturned from Italy with his father's remains, and after their burialhe had permitted Elizabeth to carry him off with her to Redware. Inreality the neighbourhood of Aspatria drew him like a magnet. He hadbeen haunted by her last, resentful, amazed, miserable look. Heunderstood from it that Will had never told her of his intention tobid her farewell as soon as she was his wife, and he was not devoid ofimagination. His mind had constantly pictured scenes of humiliationwhich he had condemned the woman he had once so tenderly loved toendure.
And that passing glimpse of her under the whin-bushes had revivedsomething of his old passion. He answered his sister's and Sarah'sremarks pettishly, because he wanted to be left alone with the newhope that had come to him. Why not take Aspatria to America? She washis 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 ofseparation. He thought of Aspatria for the next twenty-four hours. Tosee her! to speak to her! to hear her voice! to clasp her to hisheart! Why should he deny himself these delights? What pleasure couldpride and temper give him in exchange? Fenwick had always loved toovercome an obstacle, and such people cannot do without obstacles;they are a necessary aliment. To see and to speak with Aspatria wasnow the one thing in life worthy of his attention.
It was not an easy thing to accomplish. Every day for nearly a week herode furiously to Calder Wood, tied his horse there, and then hungabout the brow of Calder Cliff, for it commanded Seat-Ambar, which laybelow it as the street lies below a high tower. With his glass hecould see Will and Brune passing from the house to the barns or thefields, and once he saw Aspatria go to meet her brother Will; he sawher lift her face to Will's face, he saw Will put her arm through hisarm and so go with her to the house. How he hated Will Anneys! What atriumph it would be to carry off his sister unknown to him and withouthis say-so!
One morning he determined if he found no opportunity to see Aspatriathat day alone he would risk all, and go boldly to the house. Whyshould he not do so? He had scarcely made the decision when he sawWill and Brune drive away together. He remembered it was Daltonmarket-day; and he knew that they had gone there. Almost immediatelyAspatria left the house also. Then he was jealous. Where was she goingas soon as her brothers left her? She was going to the vicar's toreturn 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 herway home, and this meadow was skirted by a young plantation. Half-waydown there was a broad stile between the two. He hurried his steps,and arrived there just as Aspatria entered the meadow. There was ahigh frolicking wind blowing right in her face. It had blown herbraids loose, and her tippet and dress backward; her slim form wassharply defined by it, and it compelled her to hold up both her handsin order to keep her hat on her head.
She came on so, treading lightly, almost dancing with the merry guststo and fro. Once Ulfar heard a little cry that was half laughter, asthe wind made her pirouette and then stand still to catch her breath.Ulfar thought the picture bewitching. He waited until she was within ayard or two of the stile, ere he crossed it. She was holding her hatdown: 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 stoodquite still and quite speechless, her colour coming and going, all awoman's softest witchery beaming in her eyes.
"Aspatria! dear Aspatria! I am come to take you with me. I am going toAmerica." He spoke a little sadly, as if he had some reason forfeeling 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. Goaway. Please go away!"
"But you must go with me. You are my wife, Aspatria." And he said thelast 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 mangives to the woman he loves."
"Perhaps I did act cruelly in two or three ways, Aspatria; but peoplewho love forgive two or three offences. Let us be lovers as we used tobe."
"No, I will not be lovers as we used to be. People who love do notcommit 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 aweek?"
"You will atone to me? How? There is but one way. You shall, in yourown name, call every one in Allerdale, gentle and simple, to AspatriaChurch. You shall marry me again in their presence, and go with me tomy own home. The wedding-feast shall be held there. You shall countWill and Brune Anneys as your brothers. You shall take me away, in thesight of all, to your home. Of all the honour a wife ought to have youmust give me here, among my own people, a double portion. Will you dothis 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 shameme, to break my heart with love and sorrow, to humble my goodbrothers. 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 meby force to your house or yacht, you would not have me. You could nottouch 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 agood name. No Anneys ever wronged me."
"You refused my home, you refused my money, and now you refuse myname. You are treating me as badly as possible. The day before ourmarriage I sent to your brother a signed settlement for your
support,the use of Fenwick Castle as a residence, and two thousand pounds ayear. Your brother Will, the day after our marriage, took it to myagent and tore it to pieces in his presence."
"Will did right. He knew his sister would not have your home and moneywithout your love."
She spoke calmly, with a dignity that became well her youth andbeauty. Ulfar thought her exceedingly lovely. He attempted to woo heragain with the tender glances and soft tones and caressing touch oftheir early acquaintance. Aspatria sorrowfully withdrew herself; sheheld only repelling palms toward his bending face. She was not coy, hecould have overcome coyness; she was cold, and calm, and watchful ofhim and of herself. Her face and throat paled and blushed, and blushedand paled; her eyes were dilated with feeling; her pretty bow-shapedmouth trembled; she radiated a personality sweet, strong, womanly,--apiquant, 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 hadever done, but that her determination to consider their marriage voidhad its source in a oneness of mind having no second thoughts and nodoubt behind it. The only hope she gave him was in another marriageceremony which in its splendour and publicity should atone in somemeasure for the first. He could not contemplate such a confession ofhis 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 hesaid nothing, she understood it was this struggle that gave themomentary indecision to his pleading.
For herself, she did not desire a present reconciliation. She hadnursed 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 didnot like to relinquish this hope for a present gratification, agratification so much lower in its aim that she now understood that itnever could long satisfy a nature so complex and so changeable asUlfar's. She therefore refused him his present hope, believing thatfate had a far better meeting in store for them.
While these thoughts flashed through her mind, she kept her eyes uponthe horizon. In that wide-open fixed gaze her loving, troubled soulrevealed itself. Ulfar was wondering whether it was worth while tobegin his argument all over again, when she said softly: "We must nowsay farewell. I see the vicar's maid coming. In a few hours thefell-side will know of our meeting. I must tell Will, myself. Ientreat 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 tobe done but to part. We are no longer alone. Good-by, Ulfar!--dearUlfar!"
"I care not who is present. You are my wife." And he clasped her inhis arms and kissed her.
Perhaps she was not sorry. Perhaps her own glance of love and longinghad commanded the embrace; for when she released herself she wasweeping, and Ulfar's tears were on her cheeks. But she called thevicar's maid imperatively, and so put an end to the interview.
"That was my husband, Lottie," she said. It was the only explanationoffered. Aspatria knew it was useless to expect any reticence on thesubject. In that isolated valley such a piece of news could not bekept; the very birds would talk about it in their nests. She mustherself tell Will, and although she had done nothing wrong, she wasafraid to tell him.
When she reached home she was glad to hear that Will had been sent forto Squire Frostham's. "It was something about a fox," said Brune."They wanted me too, but Alice Frostham is a girl I cannot abide. Iwould 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. GoodLord! there is as much two-facedness in a woman as there is meat in anegg."
"Brune, you are thinking wrong. I did not know he was in the countrytill he stood before me; and he did not move me a hair's-breadth anyway. But Lottie from the vicarage saw us together; and she was goingto Dalton. You know what she will say; and by and by the Frosthamswill hear; and then they will feel it to be 'only kind' to talk toWill about me and my affairs; and the end of it will be some foolishdeed or other. If you love me, Brune, go to Redware to-night, and seeLady Redware, and tell her there is danger for her brother if he staysaround here."
"I can say that truly. There is danger for the scoundrel, a good dealof it."
"Brune, it would be such a sorrow to me if every one were talking ofme again. Do what I ask you, Brune. You promised to stand by methrough thick and thin."
"I did; and I will go to Redware as soon as I have eaten my dinner. IfLottie saw him, it will be known all over. And if no one came up hereon purpose to tell Will, he would hear it at Dalton next week, whenthat lot of bothering old squires sit down to their market dinner. Itwould 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 itis 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 indanger,--anything to get him out of the dales."
"She will feel as if the heavens were going to fall, when I get donewith her. My word! who would have thought of him coming back? Life isfull 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 atonce. I can manage Lady Redware, I'll be bound."
With the promise he went away to perform it, and Aspatria carried hertrembling 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.