A Rose of a Hundred Leaves Part 5

"The dead frighten me no more than the living do."

"You will find out, maybe, what the vengeance of the dead is. I would be willing to leave you to it, if you shab off, and I am not sure but you will."

"William Anneys, you are sure I will not. You are saying such things to provoke me to a fight."

"What reason have I to be sure? All the vows you made to Aspatria you have counted as a fool's babble."

"I give you my word of honour. Between gentlemen that is enough."

"To be sure, to be sure! Gentlemen can make it enough. But a poor little la.s.s, what can she do but pine herself into a grave?"

"I will listen to you no longer, Squire Anneys. If your sister's good name is at stake, it is my first duty to s.h.i.+eld it with my own name.

If that does not satisfy your sense of honour, I will give you and your brother whatever satisfaction you desire. On the fifteenth of this month, at eleven o'clock, I will meet you at Aspatria Church.

Where shall I find the place?"

"It is not far from Gosforth and Dalton, on the coast. You cannot miss it, unless you never look for it."

"Sir!"

"Unless you never look for it. I do not feel to trust you. But this is a promise made to a man, made to William Anneys; and he will see that you keep it, or else that you pay for the breaking of it."

"Good-morning, Squire. There is no necessity to prolong such an unpleasant visit."

"Nay, I will not 'good-morning' with you. I have not a good wish of any kind for you."

With these defiant words he left the castle, and Fenwick threw off his pilot-coat and sat down to consider. First thoughts generally come from the selfish, and therefore the worst, side of any nature; and Fenwick's first thoughts were that his yacht was ready to sail, and that he could go away, and stay away until Aspatria married, or some other favourable change took place. He cared little for England. With good management he could bring home and bury his father's dust without the knowledge of William Anneys. Then there was the west! America was before him, north and south. He had always promised himself to see the whole western continent ere he settled for life in England.

Such thoughts were naturally foremost, but he did not encourage them.

He felt no lingering sentiment of pity or love for Aspatria, but he realized very clearly what suspicion, what the slant eye, the whispered word, the scornful glance, the doubtful shrug, meant in those primitive valleys. And he had loved the girl dearly; he had promised to marry her. If she wished him to keep his promise, if it was a necessity to her honour, then he would redeem with his own honour his foolish words. He told himself constantly that he had not a particle of fear, that he despised Will and Brune Anneys and their brutal vows of vengeance; but--but perhaps they did unconsciously influence him. Life was sweet to Ulfar Fenwick, full of new dreams and hopes set in all kinds of new surroundings. For Aspatria Anneys why should he die? It was better to marry her. The girl had been sweet to him, very sweet! After all, he was not sure but he preferred that she should be so bound to him as to prevent her marrying any other man. He still liked her well enough to feel pleasure in the thought that he had put her out of the reach of any future lover she might have.

Squire Anneys rode home in what Brune called "a pretty temper for any man." His horse was at the last point of endurance when he reached Seat-Ambar, he himself wet and muddy, "cross and unreasonable beyond everything." Aspatria feared the very sound of his voice. She fled to her room and bolted the door. At that hour she felt as if death would be the best thing for her; she had brought only sorrow and trouble and apprehended disgrace to all who loved her.

"I think G.o.d has forgotten me too!" she cried, glancing with eyes full of anguish to the pale Crucified One hanging alone and forsaken in the darkest corner of the room. Only the white figure was visible; the cross had become a part of the shadows. She remembered the joyous, innocent prayers that had been wont to make peace in her heart and music on her lips; and she looked with a sorrow that was almost reproach at her Book of Common Prayer, lying dusty and neglected on its velvet cus.h.i.+on. In her rebellious, hopeless grief, she had missed all its wells of comfort. Oh, if an angel would only open her eyes!

One had come to Hagar in the desert: Aspatria was almost in equal despair.

Yet when she heard her brother Will's voice she knew not of any other sanctuary than the little table which held her Bible and Prayer Book, and upon which the wan, sad ivory Christ looked down. In speechless misery, with clasped hands and low-bowed head, she knelt there. Will's voice, strenuous and stern, reached her at intervals. She knew from the silence in the kitchen and farm-offices, and the hasty movements of the servants, that Will was cross; and she greatly feared her eldest brother when he was in what Brune called one of his rages.

A long lull was followed by a sharp call. It was Will calling her name. She felt it impossible to answer, impossible to move; and as he ascended the stairs and came grumbling along the corridor, she crouched lower and lower. He was at her door, his hand on the latch; then a few piteous words broke from her lips: "Help, Christ, Saviour of the world!"

Instantly, like a flash of lightning, came the answer, "It is I. Be not afraid." She said the words herself, gave to her heart the promise and the comfort of it, and, so saying them, she drew back the bolt and stood facing her brother. He had a candle in his hand, and it showed her his red, angry face, and showed him the pale, resolute countenance of a woman who had prayed and been comforted.

He walked into the room and put the candle down on a small table in its centre. They both stood a moment by it; then Aspatria lifted her face to her brother and kissed him. He was taken aback and softened, and troubled at his heart. Her suffering was so evident; she was such a gray shadow of her former self.

"Aspatria! Aspatria! my little la.s.s!" Then he stopped and looked at her again.

"What is it, Will? Dear Will, what is it?"

"You must be married on the fifteenth. Get something ready. I will see Mrs. Frostham and ask her to help you a bit."

"Whom am I to marry, Will? On the fifteenth? It is impossible! See how ill I am!"

"You are to marry Ulfar Fenwick. Ill? Of course you are ill; but you must go to Aspatria Church on the fifteenth. Ulfar Fenwick will meet you there. He will make you his wife."

"You have forced him to marry me. I will not go, I will not go. I will not marry Ulfar Fenwick."

"You shall go, if I carry you in my arms! You shall marry him, or I--will--kill--you!"

"Then kill me! Death does not terrify me. Nothing can be more cruel hard than the life I have lived for a long time."

He looked at her steadily, and she returned the gaze. His face was like a flame; hers was white as snow.

"There are things in life worse than death, Aspatria. There is dishonour, disgrace, shame."

"Is sorrow dishonour? Is it a disgrace to love? Is it a shame to weep when love is dead?"

"Ay, my little la.s.s, it may be a great wrong to love and to weep.

There is a shadow around you, Aspatria; if people speak of you they drop their voices and shake their heads; they wonder, and they think evil. Your good name is being smiled and shaken away, and I cannot find any one, man or woman, to thrash for it."

She stood listening to him with wide-open eyes, and lips dropping a little apart, every particle of colour fled from them.

"It is for this reason Fenwick is to marry you."

"You forced him; I know you forced him." She seemed to drag the words from her mouth; they almost s.h.i.+vered; they broke in two as they fell halting on the ear.

"Well, I must say he did not need forcing, when he heard your good name was in danger. He said, manly enough, that he would make it good with his own name. I do not much think I could have either frightened or flogged him into marrying you."

"Oh, Will! I cannot marry him in this way! Let people say wicked things of me, if they will."

"Nay, I will not! I cannot help them thinking evil; but they shall not look it, and they shall not say it."

"Perhaps they do not even think it, Will. How can you tell?"

"Well enough, Aspatria. How many women come to Ambar-Side now? If you gave a dance next week, you could not get a girl in Allerdale to accept your invitation."

"Will!"

"It is the truth. You must stop all this by marrying Ulfar Fenwick. He saw it was only just and right: I will say that much for him."

"Let me alone until morning. I will do what you say.--Oh, mother!

mother I want mother now!"

"My poor little la.s.s! I am only brother Will; but I am sorry for thee, I am that!"

She tottered to the bedside, and he lifted her gently, and laid her on it; and then, as softly as if he was afraid of waking her, he went out of the room. Outside the door he found Brune. He had taken off his shoes, and was in his stocking-feet. Will grasped him by the shoulder and led him to his own chamber.

"What were you watching me for? What were you listening to me for? I have a mind to hit you, Brune."

"You had better not hit me, Will. I was not bothering myself about you. I was watching Aspatria. I was listening, because I knew the madman in you had got loose, and I was feared for my sister. I was not going to let you say or do things you would be sorry to death for when you came to yourself. And so you are going to let that villain marry Aspatria? You are not of my mind, Will. I would not let him put a foot into our decent family, or have a claim of any kind on our sister."