"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, and mind your own affairs."
And Brune, brought up in the religious belief of the natural supremacy of the elder brother, went off without another word, but with a heart full to overflowing of turbulent, angry thoughts.
In the morning Will went to see Mrs. Frostham. He told her of his interview with Ulfar Fenwick, and begged her to help Aspatria with such preparations as could be made. But neither to her nor yet to Aspatria did he speak of Fenwick"s avowed intention to leave his wife after the ceremony. In the first place, he did not believe that Fenwick would dare to give him such a cowardly insult; and then, also, he thought that the sight of Aspatria"s suffering would make him tender toward her. William Anneys"s simple, kindly soul did not understand that of all things the painful results of our sins are the most irritating. The hatred we ought to give to the sin or to the sinner, 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, except about the farm business. Aspatria spent most of her time in her own room with a sempstress, who was making the long-delayed wedding-dress. The silk for it had been bought more than a year, and it had lost some of its l.u.s.trous colour. Mrs. Frostham paid a short visit every day, and occasionally Alice Frostham came with her. She was a very pretty girl, gentle and affectionate to Aspatria; and just because of her kindness Will determined at some time to make her Mistress of Seat-Ambar.
But in the house there was a great depression, a depression that no one could avoid feeling. Will gave no orders for wedding-festivities; a great dinner and ball would have been a necessity under the usual circ.u.mstances, but there were no arrangements even for a breakfast.
Aspatria wondered at the omission, but she did not dare to question Will; indeed. Will appeared to avoid her as much as he could.
Really, William Anneys was very anxious and miserable. He had no dependence upon Fenwick"s promise, and he felt that if Fenwick deceived him there was nothing possible but the last vengeance. He had this thought constantly in his mind; and he was quietly ordering things on the farm for a long absence, and for Brune"s management or succession. He paid several visits to Whitehaven, where was his banker, and to Gosport, where his lawyer lived. He felt, during that terrible interval of suspense, very much as a man under sentence of death might feel.
The morning of the fifteenth broke chill and dark, with a promise of rain. Great Gable was carrying on a conflict with an army of gray clouds a.s.sailing his summit and boding no good for the weather. The fog rolled and eddied from side to side of the mountains, which projected their black forms against a ghastly, neutral tint behind them; and the air was full of that melancholy stillness which so often pervades the last days of autumn.
Squire Anneys had slept little for two weeks, and he had been awake all the night before. While yet very early, he had every one in the house called. Still there were no preparations for company or feasting. Brune came down grumbling at a breakfast by candle-light, and he and William drank their coffee and made a show of eating almost in silence. But there was an unspeakable tenderness in William"s heart, if he had known how to express it. He looked at Brune with a new 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 his promise, and avenge the insult to the Anneys, if he, William, should give his life in vain? Out of these questions many others arose; but he was naturally a man of few words, and not able to talk himself into a conviction that he was doing right; nor yet was he able to give utterance to the vague objections which, if defined by words, might perhaps have changed his feelings and his plans.
He had sent Aspatria word that she must be ready by ten o"clock. At eight she began to dress. Her sleep had been broken and miserable. She looked anxiously in the gla.s.s at her face. It was as white as the silk robe she was to wear. A feeling of dislike of the unhappy garment rose in her heart. She had bought the silk in the very noon of her love and hopes, a shining piece of that pearl-like tint which only the most brilliant freshness and youth can becomingly wear. Many little accessories were wanting. She tried the Roman cameos with it, and they looked heavy; she knew in her womanly heart that it needed the l.u.s.tre of gems, the sparkle of diamonds or rubies.
Mrs. Frostham came a little later, and a.s.sisted her in her toilet; but a pa.s.sing thought of the four bridemaids she had once chosen for this office made her eyes dim, while the stillness of the house, the utter neglect of all symbols of rejoicing, gave an ominous and sorrowful atmosphere to the bride-robing. Still, Aspatria looked very handsome; for as the melancholy toilet offices proceeded with so little interest and so little sympathy, a sense of resentment had gradually gathered in the poor girl"s heart. It made her carry herself proudly, it brought a flush to her cheeks, and a flashing, trembling light to her eyes which Mrs. Frostham could not comfortably meet.
A few minutes before ten, she threw over all her fateful finery a large white cloak, which added a decided grace and dignity to her appearance. It was a garment Ulfar had sent her from London,--a long, mantle-like wrap, made of white cashmere, and lined with quilted white satin. Long cords and ta.s.sels of chenille fastened it at the throat, and the hood was trimmed with soft white fur. She drew the hood over her head, she felt glad to hide the wreath of orange-buds and roses which Mrs. Frostham had insisted upon her wearing,--the sign and symbol of her maidenhood.
Will looked at her with stern lips, but as he wrapped up her satin-sandalled feet in the carriage, he said softly to her, "G.o.d bless you, Aspatria!" His voice trembled, but not more than Aspatria"s as 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 la.s.s. We are enough."
She was alone in the carriage. Will and Brune rode on either side of her. The Frosthams, the Dawsons, the b.e.l.l.e.n.dens, the Atkinsons, and the Lutons followed. Will had invited every one to the church, and curiosity brought those who were not moved by sympathy or regard.
Fortunately the rain held off, though the air was damp and exceedingly depressing.
When they arrived at Aspatria Church, they found the yard full; every gravestone was occupied by a little party of gossips. At the gate there was a handsome travelling-chariot with four horses. It lifted a great weight of apprehension from William Anneys, for it told him that Fenwick had kept his word. He helped Aspatria to alight, and his heart ached for her. How would she be able to walk between that crowd of gazing, curious men and women? He held her arm tight against his big heart, and Brune, carefully watching her, followed close behind.
But Aspatria"s inner self had taken possession of the outer woman. She walked firmly and proudly, with an erect grace, without hesitation and without hurry, toward her fate. Something within her kept saying words of love and encouragement; she knew not what they were, only they strengthened her like wine. She pa.s.sed the church door whispering the promise given her,--"It is I. Be not afraid." And then her eyes fell upon the ancient stone font, at which her father and mother had named her. She put out her hand and just touched its holy chalice.
The church was crowded with a curious and not unsympathetic congregation. Aspatria Anneys was their own, a dales-woman by a thousand years of birthright. Fenwick was a stranger. If he were going to 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 with Will. There was an undefined expectation of something unusual, of something more than a wedding. This feeling, though unexpressed, made itself felt in a very p.r.o.nounced way. Will and Brune looked confidingly around; Aspatria gathered courage with every step. She felt that she was among her own people, living and dead.
As soon as they really entered the church, they saw Fenwick. He was with an officer wearing the uniform of the Household Troops; and he was evidently pointing out to him the ancient tombs of the Ambar-Anneys family, the Crusaders in stone, with sheathed swords and hands folded in prayer, and those of the family abbots, adorned with richly floriated crosses.
When he saw Aspatria he bowed, and advanced rapidly to the altar. She had loosened her cloak and flung back her hood, and she watched his approach with eyes that seemed two separate souls of love and sorrow.
One glance from them troubled him to the seat of life. He motioned to the waiting clergyman, and took his place beside his bride. There was a dead stillness in the church, and a dead stillness outside; the neighing of a horse sounded sharp, imperative, fateful. A ripple of a smile followed; it was a lucky omen to hear a horse neigh. Brune glanced at his sister, but she had not heeded it. Her whole being was swallowed up in the fact that she was standing at Ulfar"s side, that she was going to be his wife.
The aged clergyman was fumbling with the Prayer Book: "The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony" seemed hard to find. And so vagrant is thought, that while he turned the leaves Aspatria remembered the travelling-chariot, and wondered whether Ulfar meant to carry her away in it, and what she would do for proper clothing. Will ought to have told her something of the future. How cruel every one had been! It took but a moment for these and many other thoughts to invade Aspatria"s heart, and spread dismay and anxiety and again the sense of resentment.
Then she heard the clergyman begin. His voice was like that of some one speaking in a dream, till she sharply called herself together, hearing also Ulfar"s voice, and knowing that she too would be called upon for her a.s.sent. She glanced up at Ulfar, who was dressed with great care and splendour and looking very handsome, and said her "I will" with the glance. Ulfar could not receive it unmoved; he looked steadily at her, and then he saw the ruin of youth that his faithlessness had made. Remorse bit him like a serpent, but remorse is not repentance. Then William Anneys gave his sister to his enemy; and the gift was like death to him, and the look accompanying the gift filled Ulfar"s heart with a contemptuous anger fatal to all juster or kinder feelings.
When the service was ended, Fenwick turned to Aspatria and offered her his hand. She put hers into his, and so he led her down the aisle, and through the churchyard, to her own carriage. William had followed close. He wondered if Fenwick meant to take his wife with him, and he resolved to give him the opportunity to do so. But as soon as he perceived that the bridegroom would carry out his threat, and desert his bride at the church gates, he stepped forward and said,--
"That is enough, Sir Ulfar Fenwick. I have made you keep your word. I will care for your wife. She shall neither bear your name nor yet take anything from your bounty."
Fenwick paid no heed to his brother-in-law. He looked at Aspatria. She was whiter than snow; she had the pallor of death. He lifted his hat and said,--
"Farewell, Lady Fenwick. We shall meet no more."
"Sir Ulfar," she answered calmly, "it is not my will that we met here to-day."
"And as for meeting no more," said Brune, with pa.s.sionate contempt, "I will warrant that is not in your say-so, Ulfar Fenwick."
As he spoke, Fenwick"s friend handed Will Anneys a card; then they drove rapidly away. Will was carefully wrapping his sister for her solitary ride back to Seat-Ambar; and he did this with forced deliberation, trying to appear undisturbed by what had occurred; for, since it had happened, he wished his neighbours to think he had fully expected it. And while so engaged he found opportunity to whisper to Aspatria: "Now, my little la.s.s, bear up as bravely as may be. It is only one hour. Only one hour, dearie! Don"t you try to speak. Only keep your head high till you get home, darling!"
So the sad procession turned homeward, Aspatria sitting alone in her carriage, William and Brune riding on either side of her, the squires and dames bidden to the ceremony following slowly behind. Some talked softly of the affair; some pa.s.sionately a.s.sailed William Anneys for not 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 had to sit erect, she had to bear the wondering, curious gaze not only of her friends, but of the hinds and peasant-women in the small hamlets between the church and Seat-Ambar; she had to endure her own longing and disappointment, and make a poor attempt to smile when the children flung their little posies of late flowers into the pa.s.sing carriage.
To the last moment she bore it. "A good, brave girl!" said Will, as he left her at her own room door. "My word! it is better to have good blood than good fortune: good blood never was beat! Aspatria is only a little la.s.s, but she is more than a match for yon villain! A big villain he is, a villain with a latchet!"
The miserable are sacred. All through that wretched afternoon no one troubled Aspatria. Will and Brune sat by the parlour fire, for the most part silent. The rain, which had barely held off until their return from the church, now beat against the window-panes, and drenched and scattered even the hardy Michaelmas daisies. The house was as still as if there had been death instead of marriage in it. Now and then Brune spoke, and sometimes William answered him, and sometimes he did not.
At last, after a long pause, Brune asked: "What was it Fenwick"s friend 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 Sceptre Inn, 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 stranger in out of the storm!"
"Ay, it is a venturesome thing to do. How can any one tell what a stranger may bring in with him?"
CHAPTER IV.
FOR MOTHER"S SAKE.