Part 15 (2/2)

Every word went to Ulfar's heart, and amid all the soft cries of delight he alone was silent. She was beaming with smiles; she was radiant as a G.o.ddess; the light seemed to vanish from the room when she went away. Her adieu was a general one, excepting to Ulfar. On him she turned her bright eyes, and courtesied low with one upward glance. It set his heart on fire. He knew that glance. They might say this or that, they might lie to him neck-deep, he knew it was Aspatria! He was cross with Sarah. He accused her of downright deception. He told her frankly that he believed nothing about the soldier and his sister.

She bade him come in the morning and talk to Ria; and he asked impetuously: ”How soon? Twelve, I suppose? How am I to pa.s.s the time until twelve to-morrow?”

”Why this haste?”

”Why this deception?”

”After seven years' indifference, are you suddenly gone mad?”

”I feel as if I was being very badly used.”

”How does the real Aspatria feel? Go at once to Ambar-Side.”

”The real Aspatria is here. I know it! I feel it!”

”In a court of law, what evidence would feeling be?”

”In a court of love--”

”Try it.”

”I will, to-morrow, at ten o'clock.”

His impetuosity pleased her. She was disposed to leave him to Aspatria now. And Aspatria was disposed on the following morning to make his confession very easy to him. She dressed herself in the simple black gown she had kept ready for this event. It had the short elbow sleeves, and the ruffle round the open throat, and the daffodil against her snowy breast, that distinguished the first costume he had ever seen her in. She loosened her hair and let it fall in two long braids behind her ears. She was, as far as dress could make her so, the Aspatria who had held the light to welcome him to Ambar-Side that stormy night ten years ago.

He was standing in the middle of the room, restless and expectant, when she opened the door. He called her by name, and went to meet her.

She trembled and was silent.

”Aspatria, it is you! My Life! My Soul! It is you!”

He took her hands; they were as cold as ice. He drew her close to his side; he stooped to see her eyes; he whispered word upon word of affection,--sweet-meaning nouns and adjectives that caught a real physical heat from the impatient heart and tongue that forged and uttered them.

”Forgive me, my dearest! Forgive me fully! Forgive me at once and altogether! Aspatria, I love you! I love none but you! I will adore you all my life! Speak one word to me, one word, my love, one word: say only 'Ulfar!'”

She forgot in a moment all that she had suffered. She forgot all she had promised Sarah, all her intents of coldness, all reproaches; she forgot even to forgive him. She just put her arms around his neck and kissed him. She blotted out the past forever in that one whispered word, ”Ulfar.”

And then he took her to his heart; he kissed her for very wonder; he kissed her for very joy; but most of all he kissed her for fervent love. Then once more life was an ”Interlude in Heaven.” Every hour held some sweet surprise, some accidental joy. It was Brune, it was Sarah, it was some eulogium of Ulfar in the great London weeklies. He had fought in the good fight for freedom; he had done great deeds of mercy as well as of valour; he had crossed primeval forests, and brought back wonderful medicines, and dyes, and many new specimens for the botanist and the naturalist. The papers were never weary in praising his pluck, his bravery, his generosity, and his endurance; the Geographical Society sent him its coveted blue ribbon. In his own way Ulfar had made himself a fit mate for the new Aspatria.

And she was a constant wonder to him. Nothing in all his strange experience touched his heart like the thought of his simple, patient wife, studying to please him, to be worthy of his love. Every day revealed her in some new and charming light. She was one hundred Aspatrias in a single, lovable, lovely woman. On what ever subject Ulfar spoke, she understood, supplemented, sympathized with, or a.s.sisted him. She could talk in French and Italian; she was not ignorant of botany and natural science, and she was delighted to be his pupil.

In a single month they became all the world to each other; and then they began to long for the lonely old castle fronting the wild North Sea, to plan for its restoration, and for a sweet home-life, which alone could satisfy the thirst of their hearts for each other's presence. At the end of June they went northward.

It was the month of the rose, and the hedges were pink, and the garden was a garden of roses. There were banks of roses, mazes of roses, walks and standards of roses, ma.s.ses of glorious colour, and breezes scented with roses. b.u.t.terflies were chasing one another among the flowers; nightingales, languid with love, were singing softly above them. And in the midst was a gray old castle, flying its old border flags, and looking as happy as if it were at a festival.

Aspatria was enraptured, spellbound with delight. With Ulfar she wandered from one beauty to another, until they finally reached a great standard of pale-pink roses. Their loveliness was beyond compare; their scent went to the brain like some divine essence. It was a glory,--a prayer,--a song of joy! Aspatria stood beside it, and seemed to Ulfar but its mortal manifestation. She was clothed in a gown of pale-pink brocade, with a little mantle of the same, trimmed with white lace, and a bonnet of white lace and pink roses. She was a perfect rose of womanhood. She was the glory of his life, his prayer, his song of joy!

”It is the loveliest place in the world!” he said, ”and you! you are the loveliest woman! My sweet Aspatria!”

She smiled divinely. ”And yet,” she answered, ”I remember, Ulfar, a song of yours that said something very different. Listen:--

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