To the last moment she bore it. “A 111 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 lass, 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 112 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!”