A Rose of a Hundred Leaves: A Love Story

by Amelia E. Barr

  Produced by Katherine Ward and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive/American Libraries.)

  A ROSE OF A HUNDRED LEAVES

  A Love Story

  BY AMELIA E. BARR

  AUTHOR OF "FRIEND OLIVIA," "THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON,""JAN VEDDER'S WIFE," ETC.

  NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1891

  Copyright, 1891, By J. B. Lippincott Company.

  Copyright, 1891, By Dodd, Mead and Company.

  All rights reserved.

  University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER PAGE I. The Wild Rose is the Sweetest 9 II. Forgive me, Christ! 35 III. Only Brother Will 77 IV. For Mother's Sake 113 V. But they were Young 151 VI. "Love shall be Lord of Sandy-Side" 180 VII. "A Rose of a Hundred Leaves" 208

  CHAPTER I.

  THE WILD ROSE IS THE SWEETEST.

  I tell again the oldest and the newest story of all the world,--thestory of Invincible Love!

  This tale divine--ancient as the beginning of things, fresh and youngas the passing hour--has forms and names various as humanity. Thestory of Aspatria Anneys is but one of these,--one leaf from all theroses in the world, one note of all its myriad of songs.

  Aspatria was born at Seat-Ambar, an old house in Allerdale. It hadSkiddaw to shelter it on the northwest; and it looked boldly outacross the Solway, and into that sequestered valley in Furness knownas "the Vale of the Deadly Nightshade." The plant still grew thereabundantly, and the villagers still kept the knowledge of its medicalvalue taught them by the old monks of Furness. For these curious,patient herbalists had discovered the blessing hidden in the fair,poisonous amaryllis, long before modern physicians called it"belladonna."

  The plant, with all its lovely relations, had settled in the garden atSeat-Ambar. Aspatria's mother had loved them all: the girl could stillremember her thin white hands clasping the golden jonquils in hercoffin. This memory was in her heart, as she hastened through thelonely place one evening in spring. It ought to have been a pleasantspot, for it was full of snowdrops and daffodils, and many sweetold-fashioned shrubs and flowers; but it was a stormy night, and theblossoms were plashed and downcast, and all the birds in hiding fromthe fierce wind and driving rain.

  She was glad to get out of the gray, wet, shivery atmosphere, andto come into the large hall, ruddy and glowing with fire andcandle-light. Her brothers William and Brune sat at the table. Willwas counting money; it stood in small gold and silver pillarsbefore him. Brune was making fishing-flies. Both looked up at herentrance; they did not think words necessary for such a littlemaid. Yet both loved her; she was their only sister, and both gaveher the respect to which she was entitled as co-heir with them ofthe Ambar estate.

  She was just sixteen, and not yet beautiful. She was too young forbeauty. Her form was not developed; she would probably gain two orthree inches in height; and her face, though exquisitely modelled,wanted the refining which comes either from a multitude of complexemotions or is given at once by some great heart-sorrow. Yet she hadfascination for those capable of feeling her charm. Her large browneyes had their childlike clearness; they looked every one in the facewith its security of good-will. Her mouth was a tempting mouth; thelips had not lost their bow-shape; they were red and pouting, butwithal ever ready to part. She might have been born with a smile. Herhair, soft and dark, had that rarest quality of soft hair,--a tendencyto make itself into little curls and tendrils and stray down the whitethroat and over the white brow; yet it was carefully parted andconfined in two long braids, tied at the ends with a black ribbon.

  She wore a black dress. It was plainly made, and its broad rufflearound the open throat gave it an air of simplicity almost childlikein effect. Her arms below the elbows were uncovered, and her handswere small and finely formed, as patrician hands should be. There wasno ring upon them, and no bracelet above them. She wore neither broochnor locket, nor ornament of any kind about her person; only a daffodillaid against the snowy skin of her bosom. Even this effect was not theresult of coquetry; it was a holy and loving sentiment materialized.

  Altogether, she was a girl quite in keeping with the antique, homelikeair of the handsome room she entered; her look, her manner, and evenher speech had the local stamp; she was evidently a daughter of theland. Her brothers resembled her after their masculine fashion. Theywere big men, whom nature had built for the spaces of the moors andmountains and the wide entrances of these old Cumberland homes. Theywould have been pushed to pass through narrow city doorways. A fineopen-air colour was in their faces; they had that confident mannerwhich great physical strength imparts, and that air of conscious pridewhich is born in lords of the soil.

  Indeed, William and Brune Anneys made one understand how truthfullypopular nomenclature has called an Englishman "John Bull." For whoeverhas seen a bull in its native pastures--proud, obstinate, conscious ofhis strength, and withal a little surly--must understand that there isa taurine basis to the English character, finely expressed by thenational appellation.

  A great thing was to happen that hour, and all three were asunconscious of the approaching fate as if it was to be a part ofanother existence. Squire William finished his accounts, and played agame of chess with his brother. Aspatria walked up and down the hall,with her hands clasped behind her, or sat still in the Squire'shearth-chair, with her dress lifted a little in front, to let thepleasant heat fall upon her ankles. She did not think of reading or ofsewing, or of improving the time in any way. Perhaps she was not asdependent on books as the women of this generation. Aspatria's mindwas sensitive and observing; it lived very well on its own ideas.

  The storm increased in violence; the rain beat against the windows,and the wind howled at the nail-studded oak door, as if it intended toblow it down. A big ploughman entered the room, shyly pulled hisfront hair, and looked with stolid inquiry into his master's face.The Squire pushed aside the chess-board, rose, and went to thehearth-stone; for he was young in his authority, and he felt himselfon the hearth-stone to hold an impregnable position.

  "Well, Steve Bell, what is it?"

  "Be I to sow the high land next, sir?"

  "If you can have a face or back wind, it will be best; if you have anelbow-wind, you must give the land an extra half-bushel."

  "Be I to sow mother-of-corn[1] on the east holme?"

  [1] Clover.

  "It is matterless. Is it going to be a flashy spring?"

  "A right season, sir,--plenty of manger-meat."

  "How is the weather?"

  "The rain is near past; it will take up at midnight."

  As he spoke, Aspatria, who had been sitting with folded hands andhalf-shut eyes, straightened herself suddenly, and threw up her headto listen. There was certainly the tramp of a horse's feet, and in amoment the door was loudly and impatiently struck with the metalhandle of a riding-whip.

  Steve Bell went to answer the summons; Brune trailed slowly afterhim. Aspatria and the Squire heard nothing on the hearth but a humanvoice blown about and away by the wind. But Steve's reply was distinctenough,--

  "You be wanting Redware Hall, sir? Cush! it's unsensible to try forit. The hills are slape as ice; the becks are full; the moss will makea mouthful of you--horse and man--to-night."

  The Squire went forward, and Aspatria al
so. Aspatria lifted a candle,and carried it high in her hand. That was the first glimpse of herthat Sir Ulfar Fenwick had.

  "You must stay at Seat-Ambar to-night," said William Anneys. "Youcannot go farther and be sure of your life. You are welcome hereheartily, sir."

  The traveller dismounted, gave his horse to Steve, and with words ofgratitude came out of the rain and darkness into the light and comfortof the home opened to him. "I am Ulfar Fenwick," he said,--"Fenwick ofFenwick and Outerby; and I think you must be William Anneys ofAmbar-Side."

  "The same, sir. This is my brother Brune, and my sister Aspatria. Youare dreeping wet, sir. Come to my room and change your clothing."

  Sir Ulfar bowed and smiled assent; and the bow and the smile wereAspatria's. Her cheeks burned; a strange new life was in all herveins. She hurried the housekeeper and the servants, and she broughtout the silver and the damask, and the famous crystal cup in its standof gold, which was the lucky bowl of Ambar-Side. When Fenwick cameback to the hall, there was a feast spread for him; and he ate anddrank, and charmed every one with his fine manner and his wittyconversation.

  They sat until midnight,--an hour strange to Seat-Ambar. No onenative in that house had ever seen it before, no one ever felt itsmysterious influence. Sir Ulfar had been charming them with tales ofthe strange lands he had visited, and the strange peoples who dweltin them. He had not spoken much to Aspatria, but it was in her facehe had found inspiration and sympathy. For her young eyes lookedout with such eager interest, with glances so seeking, so withoutguile and misgiving, that their bright rays found a corner in hisheart into which no woman had ever before penetrated. And she wasequally subjugated by his more modern orbs,--orbs with that steelypoint of brilliant light, generated by large experience and variedemotion,--electric orbs, such as never shone in the elder world.

  When the clock struck twelve, Squire Anneys rose with amazement. "Why,it is strike of midnight!" he said. "It is past all, how the hourshave flown! But we mustn't put off sleeping-time any longer.Good-night heartily to you, sir. It will be many a long day till Iforget this night. What doings you have seen, sir!"

  He was talking thus to his guest, as he led him to the guest-room.Aspatria still stood by the dying fire. Brune rose silently,stretched his big arms, and said: "I'll be going likewise. You hadbest remember the time of night, Aspatria."

  "What do you think of him, Brune?"

  "Fenwick! I wouldn't think too high of him. One might have to comedown a peg or two. He sets a good deal of store by himself, I shouldsay."

  "You and I are of two ways of judging, Brune."

  "Never mind; time will let light into all our ways of judging."

  He went yawning upstairs and Aspatria slowly followed. She was not abit sleepy. She was wider awake than she had ever been before. Herhands quivered like a swallow's wings; her face was rosy and luminous.She removed her clothing, and unbraided her hair and shook it looseover her slim shoulders. There was a smile on her lips through allthese preparations for sleep,--a smile innocent and glad. Suddenly shelifted the candle and carried it to the mirror. She desired to look atherself, and she blushed deeply as she gratified the wish. Was shefair enough to please this wonderful stranger?

  It was the first time such a query had ever come to her heart. She wasinclined to answer it honestly. Holding the light slightly above herhead, she examined her claims to his regard. Her expressive face, herstarry eyes, her crimson, pouting lips, her long dark hair, herslight, virginal figure in its gown of white muslin scantily trimmedwith English thread-lace, her small, bare feet, her air of childlike,curious happiness,--all these things, taken together, pleased andsatisfied her desires, though she knew not how or why.

  Then she composed herself with intentional earnestness. She must "sayher prayers." As yet it was only saying prayers with Aspatria,--only aholy habit. A large Book of Common Prayer stood open against an oakenrest on a table; a cushion of black velvet was beneath it. Ere sheknelt, she reflected that it was very late, and that her Collect andLord's Prayer would be sufficient. Youth has such confidence in thesympathy of God. She dropped softly on her knees and said her portion.God would understand the rest. The little ceremony soothed her, as amother's kiss might have done; and with a happy sigh she put out thelight. The old house was dark and still, but her guardian angel sawher small hands loose lying on the snowy linen, and heard her whisper,"Dear God! how happy I am!" And this joyous orison was the acceptableprayer that left the smile of peace upon her sleeping face.

  In the guest-chamber Ulfar Fenwick was also holding a session withhimself. He had come to his room very wide awake; midnight was anearly hour to him. And the incidents he had been telling filled hismind with images of the past. He could not at once put them aside.Women he had loved and left visited his memory,--light loves of aseason, in which both had declared themselves broken-hearted atparting, and both had known that they would very soon forget. Neitherwas much to blame: the maid had long ceased to remember his vows andkisses; he, in some cases, had forgotten her name. Yet, sitting thereby the glowing oak logs, he had visions of fair faces in all kinds ofsurroundings,--in lighted halls, in moon-lit groves under the greatstars of the tropics, on the Shetland seas when the aurora made forlovers an enchanted atmosphere and a light in which beauty wasglorified. Well, they had passed as April passes, and now,--

  As a glimpse of a burnt-out ember Recalls a regret of the sun, He remembered, forgot, and remembered What love saw done and undone.

  Aspatria was different from all. He whispered her strange name on hislips, and he thought it must have wandered from some sunny southernclime into these northern solitudes. His eyes shone; his heart beat.He said to it: "Make room for this innocent little one! What a darlingshe is! How clear, how candid, how beautiful! Oh, to be loved by sucha woman! Oh, to kiss her!--to feel her kiss me!" He set his mouthtightly; the soft dreamy look in his face changed to one of purposeand pleasure.

  "I shall win her, or die for it," he said. "By Saint George! I wouldrather die than know that any other man had married her."

  Yet the thought of marriage somewhat sobered him. "I should have togive up my voyage to the Spanish Colonies,--and I am very muchinterested in their struggle. I could not take her to Mexico, Isuppose,--there is nothing but fighting there; and I could not--no, Icould not leave her. If she were mine, I should hate to have any oneelse breathe the same air with her. I could not endure that othersshould speak to her. I should want to strike any man who touched herhand. Perhaps I had better go away in the morning, and ride this roadno more. I have made my plans."

  And fate had made other plans. Who can fight against his destiny? Whenhe saw Aspatria in the morning, every plan that did not include herseemed unworthy of his consideration. She was ten times lovelier inthe daylight. She had that fresh invincible charm which women ofculture and intellect seldom have: she was inspired by her heart. Ittaught her a thousand delightful subjugating ways. She served hisbreakfast with her own fair hands; she offered him the first sweetflowers in the garden; she fluttered around his necessities, hisdesires, his intentions, with a grace and a kindness nothing but lovecould have taught her.

  He thanked her with marvellous glances, with smiles, with single wordsdropped only for her ears, with all the potent eloquence which passionand experience teach. And he had to pay the price, as all men must do.The lesson he taught he also learned. "Aspatria!" he said, in soft,penetrating accents; and when she answered his call and came to hisside, her dress trailing across his feet bewitched him. They were inthe garden, and he clasped her hand, and went down the budding alleyswith her, speechless, but gazing into her face until she dropped hertremulous, transparent lids before her eyes; they were too full oflight and love to show to any mortal.

  The sky was white and blue, the air fresh and sweet; the swallows hadjust come, and were chattering with the starlings; hundreds ofdaffodils "danced in the wind" and lighted the ground at theirfeet; troops of celandines starred the brook that babbled by thebee-skips; the souther
nwood, the wall-flower, the budding thyme andsweet-brier,--a thousand exhalations filled the air and intensifiedthat intoxication of heart and senses which makes the first stage oflove's fever delirious.

  Fenwick went away in the afternoon, and his adieus were mostly made tothe Squire. He had done his best to win his favour, and he had beensuccessful. He left Seat-Ambar under an engagement to return soon andtry his skill in wrestling and pole-leaping with Brune. Aspatria knewhe would return: a voice which Fenwick's voice only echoed told herso. She watched him from her own window across the meadows, and up themountain, until he was lost to her vision.

  She was doubtless very much in love, though as yet she had notadmitted the fact to herself. The experience had come with a reallyshocking swiftness. Her heart was half angry and half abashed by itsinstantaneous surrender. Two circumstances had promoted thiscondition. First, the singular charm of the man. Ulfar Fenwick wasunlike any one she had ever seen. The squires and gentlemen who cameto Seat-Ambar were physically the finest fellows in England, but noblewomen look for something more than mere bulk in a man. Sir UlfarFenwick had this something more. Culture, travel, great experiencewith women, had added to his heroic form a charm flesh and sinew alonecould never compass. And if he had lacked all other physicaladvantages, he possessed eyes which had been filled to the brim withexperiences of every kind,--gray eyes with pure, full lids thicklyfringed,--eyes always lustrous, sometimes piercingly bright. Secondly,Aspatria had no knowledge which helped her to ward off attack orprotract surrender. In a multitude of lovers there is safety; butFenwick was Aspatria's first lover.

  He rode hard, as if he would ride from fate. Perhaps he hoped at thisearly stage of feeling to do as he had often done before,--

  To love--and then ride away.

  He had also a fresh, pressing anxiety to see his sister, who was Ladyof Redware Manor. Seven years--and much besides years--had passedsince they met. She was his only sister, and ten years his senior. Sheloved him as mothers love, unquestioningly, with miraculous excusesfor all his shortcomings. She had been watching for his arrival manyhours before he appeared.

  "Ulfar! how welcome you are!" she cried, with tears in her eyes andher voice. "Oh, my dear! how happy I am to see you once more!"

  She might have been his only love, he kissed and embraced and kissedher again so fondly. Oh, wondrous tie of blood and kinship! At thatmoment there really seemed to Ulfar Fenwick no one in the whole worldhalf so dear as his sister Elizabeth.

  He told her he had lost his way in the storm and been detained bySquire Anneys; and she praised the Squire, and said that she wouldevermore love him for his kindness. "I met him once, at the ElectionBall in Kendal. He danced with me; 'we neighbour each other,' yousee; and they are a grand old family, I can tell you."

  "There is a younger brother, called Brune."

  "I never saw him."

  "A sister also,--a child yet, but very handsome. You ought to seeher."

  "Why?"

  "You would like her. I do."

  "Ulfar, there is a 'thus far' in everything. In your wooing andpursuing, the line lies south of Seat-Ambar. To wrong a woman of thathouse would be wicked and dangerous."

  "Why should I wrong her? I have no intention to do so. I say she is alovely lady, a great beauty, worthy of honest love and supremedevotion."

  "Such a rant about love and beauty! Nine tenths of the men who talk inthis way do but blaspheme Love by taking his name in vain."

  "However, Elizabeth, it is marriage or the Spanish colonies for me. Itis Miss Anneys, or Cuba, New Orleans, and Mexico. Santa Anna is asupreme villain; I have a fancy to see such a specimen."

  "You are then between the devil and the deep sea; and I should saythat the one-legged Spaniard was preferable to the deep sea ofmatrimony."

  "She is so fair! She has a virgin timidity that enchants me."

  "It will become matronly indecision, or mental weakness of will. Inthe future it will drive you frantic."

  "Her sweet sensibility--"

  "Will crystallize into passionate irritation or callous opposition.These childlike, tender, clinging maidens are often capable of suddenand dangerous action. Better go to Cuba, or even to Mexico, Ulfar."

  "I suppose she has wealth. You will admit that excellence?"

  "She is co-heir with her brothers. She may have two thousand pounds ayear. You cannot afford to marry a girl so poor."

  "I have not yet come to regard a large sum of money as a kind ofvirtue, or the want of it as a crime."

  "Your wife ought to represent you. How can this country-girl help youin the society to which you belong?"

  "Society! What is society? In its elemental verity it meanstoil, weariness, loss of rest and health, useless expense, envy,disappointment, heart-burnings,--all for the sake of exchangingentertainments with A and B, C and D. It means chaff instead ofwheat."

  "If you want to be happy, Ulfar, put this girl out of your mind. I amsure her brothers will oppose your suit. They will not let theirsister leave Allerdale. No Anneys has ever done so."

  "You have strengthened my fancy, Elizabeth. There is a deal ofhappiness in the idea of prevailing, of getting the mastery, ofputting hindrances out of the way."

  "Well, I have given you good advice."

  "There are many 'counsels of perfection' nobody dreams of following.To advise a man in love not to love, is one of them."

  "Love!" she cried scornfully. "Before you make such a fuss about theSpanish Colonies and their new-found freedom, free yourself, Ulfar!You have been a slave to some woman all your life. You are one ofthose men who are naturally not their own property. A child can turnyou hither and thither; a simple country girl can lead you."

  He laughed softly, and murmured,--

  "There is a rose of a hundred leaves, But the wild rose is the sweetest."