A Rose of a Hundred Leaves Part 8

In such efforts her heart was purified from all bitterness, wounded vanity, and impatience. Life was neither lonely nor monotonous, she had a n.o.ble object to work for. So the winter pa.s.sed, and the spring came again. All over the fells the ewes and their lambs made constant work for the shepherds; and Aspatria greatly pleased Will by going out frequently to pick up the peris.h.i.+ng, weakly lambs and succour them.

One day in April she took a bottle of warm milk and a bit of sponge and went up Calder Fell. On the first reach of the fell she found a dying lamb, and carried it down to the shelter of some whin-bushes.

Then she fed it with the warm milk, and the little creature went to sleep in her arms.

The gra.s.s was green and fresh, the sun warm; the whins sheltered her from the wind, and a little thrush in them, busy building her nest, was making sweet music out of air as sweet. All was so glad and quiet: she, too, was happy in her own thoughts. A wagon pa.s.sed, and then a tax-cart, and afterward two old men going ditching. She hardly lifted her head; every one knew Aspatria Anneys. When the shadows told her that it was near noon, she rose to go home, holding the lamb in her arms. At that moment a carriage came slowly from behind the hedge.

She saw the fine horses with their glittering harness, and knew it was a strange vehicle in Ambar-Side, so she sat down again until it should pa.s.s. The lamb was in her left arm. She threw back her head, and gazed fixedly into the whin-bush where the thrush had its nest.

Whoever it was, she did not wish to be recognized.

Lady Redware, Sarah Sandys, and Ulfar Fenwick were in the carriage. At the moment she stood with the lamb in her arms, Ulfar had known his wife. Lady Redware saw her almost as quickly, and in some occult way she transferred, by a glance, the knowledge to Sarah. The carriage was going very slowly; the beauty of the thrown-back head, the simplicity of her dress, the pastoral charm of her position, all were distinct.

Ulfar looked at her with a fire of pa.s.sion in his eyes, Lady Redware with annoyance. Sarah asked, with a mocking laugh, "Is that really Little Bo Peep?" The joke fell flat. Ulfar did not immediately answer it; and Sarah was piqued.

"I shall go to Italy again," she said. "Englishmen may be admirable _en ma.s.se_, but individually they are stupid or cross."

"In Italy there are the Capuchins," answered Ulfar. He remembered that Sarah had expressed herself strongly about the order.

"I have just pa.s.sed a week at Oxford among the Reverends; all things considered, I prefer the Capuchins. When you have dined with a lord bishop, you want to become a socialist."

"Your Oxford friends are very nice people, Sarah."

"Excellent people, Elizabeth, quite superior people, and they are all sure not only of going to heaven, but also of joining the very best society the place affords."

"Best society!" said Ulfar, pettishly. "I am going to America. There, I hope, I shall hear nothing about it."

"America is so truly admirable. Why was it put in such an out-of-the-way place? You have to sail three thousand miles to get to it," pouted Sarah.

"All things worth having are put out of the way," replied Ulfar.

"Yes," sighed Sarah. "What an admirable story is that of the serpent and the apple!"

"Come, Ulfar!" said Lady Redware, "do try to be agreeable. You used to be so delightful! Was he not, Sarah?"

"Was he? I have forgotten, Elizabeth. Since that time a great deal of water has run into the sea."

"If you want an ill-natured opinion about yourself, by all means go to a woman for it." And Ulfar enunciated this dictum with a very scornful shrug of his shoulders.

"Ulfar!"

"It is so, Elizabeth."

"Never mind him, dear!" said Sarah. "I do not. And I have noticed that the men who give bad characters to women have usually much worse ones themselves. I think Ulfar is quite ready for American society and its liberal ideas." And Sarah drew her shawl into her throat, and looked defiantly at Ulfar.

"The Americans are all socialists. I have read that, Ulfar. You know what these liberal ideas come to,--always socialism."

"Do not be foolish, Elizabeth. Socialism never comes from liberality of thought: it is always a bequest of tyranny."

"Ulfar, when are you going to be really nice and good again?"

"I do not know, Elizabeth."

"Ulfar is a standing exception to the rule that when things are at their worst they must mend. Ulfar, lately, is always at his worst, and he never mends."

There was really some excuse for Ulfar; he was suffering keenly, and neither of the two women cared to recognize the fact. He had just returned from Italy with his father's remains, and after their burial he had permitted Elizabeth to carry him off with her to Redware. In reality the neighbourhood of Aspatria drew him like a magnet. He had been haunted by her last, resentful, amazed, miserable look. He understood from it that Will had never told her of his intention to bid her farewell as soon as she was his wife, and he was not devoid of imagination. His mind had constantly pictured scenes of humiliation which he had condemned the woman he had once so tenderly loved to endure.

And that pa.s.sing glimpse of her under the whin-bushes had revived something of his old pa.s.sion. He answered his sister's and Sarah's remarks pettishly, because he wanted to be left alone with the new hope that had come to him. Why not take Aspatria to America? She was his wife. He had been compelled, by his sense of justice and honour, to make her Lady Fenwick; why should he deny himself her company, merely to keep a pa.s.sionate, impulsive threat?

To the heart the past is eternal, and love survives the pang of separation. He thought of Aspatria for the next twenty-four hours. To see her! to speak to her! to hear her voice! to clasp her to his heart! Why should he deny himself these delights? What pleasure could pride and temper give him in exchange? Fenwick had always loved to overcome an obstacle, and such people cannot do without obstacles; they are a necessary aliment. To see and to speak with Aspatria was now the one thing in life worthy of his attention.

It was not an easy thing to accomplish. Every day for nearly a week he rode furiously to Calder Wood, tied his horse there, and then hung about the brow of Calder Cliff, for it commanded Seat-Ambar, which lay below it as the street lies below a high tower. With his gla.s.s he could see Will and Brune pa.s.sing from the house to the barns or the fields, and once he saw Aspatria go to meet her brother Will; he saw her lift her face to Will's face, he saw Will put her arm through his arm and so go with her to the house. How he hated Will Anneys! What a triumph it would be to carry off his sister unknown to him and without his say-so!

One morning he determined if he found no opportunity to see Aspatria that day alone he would risk all, and go boldly to the house. Why should he not do so? He had scarcely made the decision when he saw Will and Brune drive away together. He remembered it was Dalton market-day; and he knew that they had gone there. Almost immediately Aspatria left the house also. Then he was jealous. Where was she going as soon as her brothers left her? She was going to the vicar's to return a book and carry him a cream cheese of her own making.

He knew then how to meet her. She would pa.s.s through a meadow on her way home, and this meadow was skirted by a young plantation. Half-way down there was a broad stile between the two. He hurried his steps, and arrived there just as Aspatria entered the meadow. There was a high frolicking wind blowing right in her face. It had blown her braids loose, and her tippet and dress backward; her slim form was sharply defined by it, and it compelled her to hold up both her hands in order to keep her hat on her head.

She came on so, treading lightly, almost dancing with the merry gusts to and fro. Once Ulfar heard a little cry that was half laughter, as the wind made her pirouette and then stand still to catch her breath.

Ulfar thought the picture bewitching. He waited until she was within a yard or two of the stile, ere he crossed it. She was holding her hat down: she did not see him until he could have put his hand upon her.

Then she let her hands fall, and her hat blew backward, and she stood quite still and quite speechless, her colour coming and going, all a woman's softest witchery beaming in her eyes.

"Aspatria! dear Aspatria! I am come to take you with me. I am going to America." He spoke a little sadly, as if he had some reason for feeling grieved.

She shook her head positively, but she did not, or she could not, speak.

"Aspatria, have you no kiss, no word of welcome, no love to give me?"

And he put out his hand, as if to draw her to his embrace.

She stepped quickly backward: "No, no, no! Do not touch me, Ulfar. Go away. Please go away!"

"But you must go with me. You are my wife, Aspatria." And he said the last words very like a command.

"I am not your wife. Oh, no!"

"I say you are. I married you in Aspatria Church."

"You also left me there, left me to such shame and sorrow as no man gives to the woman he loves."

"Perhaps I did act cruelly in two or three ways, Aspatria; but people who love forgive two or three offences. Let us be lovers as we used to be."

"No, I will not be lovers as we used to be. People who love do not commit two or three such offences as you committed against me."

"I will atone for them. I will indeed! Aspatria, I miss you very much.

I will not go to America without you. How soon can you be ready? In a week?"

"You will atone to me? How? There is but one way. You shall, in your own name, call every one in Allerdale, gentle and simple, to Aspatria Church. You shall marry me again in their presence, and go with me to my own home. The wedding-feast shall be held there. You shall count Will and Brune Anneys as your brothers. You shall take me away, in the sight of all, to your home. Of all the honour a wife ought to have you must give me here, among my own people, a double portion. Will you do this in atonement?"

"You are talking folly, Aspatria. I have married you once."

"You have not married me once. You met me at Aspatria Church to shame me, to break my heart with love and sorrow, to humble my good brothers. No, I am not your wife! I will not go with you!"

"I can make you go, Aspatria. You seem to forget the law--"