"'Who shall read the interpretation thereof?' is written on everything we see, especially on women."

"I believe," said Elizabeth, "that Ulfar has quarrelled with his country maid. Is there a quarrel, Ulfar, really?"

"No," he answered, with some temper.

Sarah nodded at Ulfar, and said softly: "The absent must be satisfied with the second place. However, if you have quarrelled with her, Ulfar, turn over a new leaf. I found that out when poor Sandys was alive. People who have to live together must blot a leaf now and then with their little tempers. The only thing is to turn over a new one."

"If anything unpleasant happens to me," said Ulfar, "I try to bury it."

"You cannot do it. The past is a ghost not to be laid; and a past which is buried alive, it is terrible." It was Sarah who spoke, and with a sombre earnestness not in keeping with her usual character.

There was a minute's pregnant silence, and it was broken by the entrance of a servant with a letter. He gave it to Ulfar.

It was Aspatria's sorrowful, questioning note. Written while Brune waited, it was badly written, incorrectly constructed and spelled, and generally untidy. It had the same effect upon Ulfar that a badly dressed, untidy woman would have had. He was ashamed of the irregular, childish scrawl. He did not take the trouble to put himself in the atmosphere in which the anxious, sorrowful words had been written. He crushed the paper in his hand with much the same contemptuous temper with which Elizabeth had seen him treat a dunning letter. She knew, however, that this letter was from Aspatria, and, saying something about her father, she went into an adjoining room, and left Ulfar and Sarah together. She thought Sarah would be the proper alterative.

The first words Sir Thomas Fenwick uttered regarded Aspatria. Turning his head feebly, he asked: "Has Ulfar quarrelled with Miss Anneys? I hear nothing of her lately."

"I think he is tired of his fancy for her. There is no quarrel."

"She was a good girl,--eh? Kindhearted, beautiful,--eh, Elizabeth?"

"She certainly was."

He said no more then; but at midnight, when Ulfar was sitting beside him, he called his son, and spoke to him on the subject. "I am going--almost gone--the way of all flesh, Ulfar. Take heed of my last words. You promised to make Miss Anneys your wife,--eh?"

"I did, father."

"Do not break your promise. If she gives it back to you, that might be well; but you cannot escape from your own word and deed. Honour keeps the door of the house of life. To break your word is to set the door wide open,--open for sorrow and evil of all kinds. Take care, Ulfar."

The next day he died, and one of Ulfar's first thoughts was that the death set him free from his promise for one year at the least. A year contained a mult.i.tude of chances. He could afford to write to Aspatria under such circ.u.mstances. So he answered her letter at once, and it seemed proper to be affectionate, preparatory to reminding her that their marriage was impossible until the mourning for Sir Thomas was over. Also death had softened his heart, and his father's last words had made him indeterminate and a little superst.i.tious. A clever woman of the world would not have believed in this letter; its _aura_--subtle but persistent, as the perfume of the paper--would have made her doubt its fondest lines. But Aspatria had no idea other than that certain words represented absolutely certain feelings.

The letter made her joyful. It brought back the roses to her cheeks, the spring of motion to her steps. She began to work in her room once more. Now and then her brothers heard her singing the old song she had sung so constantly with Ulfar,--

"A shepherd in a shade his plaining made, Of love, and lovers' wrong, Unto the fairest la.s.s that trod on gra.s.s, And thus began his song: 'Restore, restore my heart again, Which thy sweet looks have slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing, Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing!

"'Since love and fortune will, I honour still Your dark and shining eye; What conquest will it be, sweet nymph, to thee, If I for sorrow die?

Restore, restore my heart again, Which thy sweet looks have slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing, Fye! fye on love! It is a foolish thing!'"

But the lifting of the sorrow was only that it might press more heavily. No more letters came; no message of any kind; none of the pretty love-gages he delighted in giving during the first months of their acquaintance. A gloom more wretched than that of death or sickness settled in the old rooms of Seat-Ambar. William and Brune carried its shadow on their broad, rosy faces into the hay-fields and the wheat-fields. It darkened all the summer days, and dulled all the usual mirth-making of the ingathering feasts. William was cross and taciturn. He loved his sister with all his heart, but he did not know how to sympathize with her. Even mother-love, when in great anxiety, sometimes wraps itself in this unreasonable irritability. Brune understood better. He had suffered from a love-change himself; he knew its ache and longing, its black despairs and still more cruel hopes. He was always on the lookout for Aspatria; and one day he heard news which he thought would interest her. Lady Redware was at the Hall. William had heard it a week before, but he had not considered it prudent to name the fact. Brune had a kinder intelligence.

"Aspatria," he said, "Redware Hall is open again. I saw Lady Redware in the village."

"Brune! Oh, Brune, is he there too?"

"No, he isn't. I made sure of that."

"Brune, I want to go to Redware. Perhaps his sister may tell me the truth. Go with me. Oh, Brune, go with me! I am dying of suspense and uncertainty."

"Ay, they're fit to kill anybody, let alone a little la.s.s like you. It will put William about, and it may make bad bread between us; but I'll go with you, even if we do have a falling out. I'm not flayed for William's rages."

The next market-day Brune kept his word. As soon as Squire Anneys had climbed the fell breast and pa.s.sed over the brow of the hill, Brune was at the door with horses for Aspatria and himself. She was a good rider, and they made the distance, in spite of hills and hollows, in two hours. Lady Redware was troubled at the visit, but she came to the door to welcome Aspatria, and she asked Brune with particular warmth to come into the house with his sister. Brune knew better; he was sure in such a case that it would prove a mere formal call, and that Aspatria would never have the courage to ask the questions she wished to.

But Aspatria had come to that point of mental suffering when she wanted to know the truth, even though the truth was the worst. Lady Redware saw the determination on her face, and resolved to gratify it.

She was shocked at the change in Aspatria's appearance. Her beauty was, in a measure, gone. Her eyes were hollow, and the lids dark and swollen with weeping. Her figure was more angular. The dew of youth, the joy of youth, was over. She drooped like a fading flower. If Ulfar saw her in such condition he might pity, but a.s.suredly he would not admire her.

Lady Redware kissed the poor girl. "Come in, my dear," she said kindly. "How ill you look! Here is wine: take a drink."

"I am ill. I even hope I am dying. Life is so hard to bear. Ulfar has forgotten me. I have vexed him, and cannot find out in what way. If you would only tell me!"

"You have not vexed him at all."

"What then?"

"He is tired, or he has seen a fresher face. That is Ulfar's great fault. He loves too well, because he does not love very long. Can you not forget him?"

"No."

"You must have other lovers?"

"No. I never had a lover until Ulfar wooed me. I will have none after him. I shall love him until I die."

"What folly!"

"Perhaps. I am only a foolish child. If I had been wise and clever, he would not have left me. It is my fault. Do you believe he will ever come to Seat-Ambar again?"

"I do not think he will. It is best to tell you the truth. My dear, I am truly sorry for you! Indeed I am, Aspatria!"

The girl had covered her face with her thin white hands. Her att.i.tude was so hopeless that it brought the tears to Lady Redware's eyes.

Hoping to divert her attention, she said,--

"Who called you Aspatria?"

"It was my mother's name. She was born in Aspatria, and she loved the place very much."

"Where is it, child? I never heard of it."

"Not far away, on the sea-coast,--a little town that brother Will says has been asleep for centuries. Such a pretty place, straggling up the hillside, and looking over the sea. Mother was born there, and she is buried there, in the churchyard. It is such an old church, one thousand years old! Mother said it was built by Saint Kentigern. I went there to pray last week, by mother's grave. I thought she might hear me, and help me to bear the suffering."

"You poor child! It is shameful of Ulfar!"

"He is not to blame. Will told me that it was a poor woman who couldn't keep what she had won."

"It was very brutal in Will to say such a thing."

"He did not mean it unkindly. We are plain-spoken people, Lady Redware. Tell me, as plainly as Will would tell me, if there is any hope for me. Does Ulfar love me at all now?"

"I fear not."

"Are you sure?"